Never Call Retreat

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

McCausland Farm

4:30 PM.

It had been a bloody nightmare; in fact, it still was. Ord slowly walked up the long slope from the ford to the burned-out ruins of the farm.

Never had he seen such carnage, and all joy of battle, all enthusiasm, was purged out of him. Barely a step could be taken without tripping over a body.

It started two hundred yards back from the ford, clusters of men dropped by rebel artillery, then lines of them down by the crossing itself. He had finally waded the stream on horseback and just below the crossing the slow-moving water was tinted pink from the dozens of bodies that had drifted down from the crossing and then snagged on rocks or broken tree limbs, cut down by the incessant fire.

At the first Confederate entrenchment the ground was churned up, muddy, from the deadly hand-to-hand fighting, bodies and wounded intermingled.

Slowly he moved up the long, deadly four-hundred-yard slope to the farmhouse. Over half the men of his First Division carpeted the ground. In places it looked as if they were a line of battle down on the ground, just resting, having been cut down by terrifying volleys that had dropped up to a hundred at a time.

He rode on, the air overhead a constant hum of mimes, spent canister, and shrieking shells fired high.

He stopped by the farmhouse, stunned by what was before him. He had missed Shiloh, but had often heard stories of the absolute destruction around the Hornets Nest. This, he realized, must far transcend it.

The ground for several dozen acres was nothing but churned up dirt and mud, the result of Hunt's morning barrage. Nearly thirty destroyed guns littered the slope, some collapsed down on one wheel, others overturned, others with entire crews and horses from the limber team dead.

But it was the infantry fight here that had been truly horrific. On the one side it had been men of Early's command, tough veterans; on his side were three divisions, and they had fought it out toe to toe. He actually had to dismount to weave his way through the carnage. Dozens of stretcher-bearer teams, some of them Confederates with white strips of cloth tied around their sleeves or hatbands, were gingerly picking their way through the chaos, pulling men out, rolling them over, making a quick judgment, picking some up, leaving others behind.

He had ordered up the corps ambulances, the few that had pressed ahead after the forced march of the infantry two days before. These were parked at the bottom of the slope, loading up, and then splashing across the ford to the hospital area.

The roar of battle ahead was a continual thunder. He pushed forward through a constant stream of men staggering to the rear. Most were walking wounded, men hobbling along, two comrades, one with a shattered left leg, another with a broken right leg, with arms wrapped around each other, moving slowly. A man, stripped to the waist, dirty, lank hair hanging to his shoulders, a bullet hole in his stomach, came back, waving a leafy branch, eyes glazed, hysterically chanting the refrain from the "Battle Hymn." "Glory, glory, hallelujah… glory, glory hallelujah…"

"Edward!"

He saw Grant riding up, cigar clenched firmly in his mouth, gingerly maneuvering Cincinnatus through the piled-up bodies and then corning forward..

Exhausted, Ord did not bother to salute.

"How goes it?"

"How goes it, sir?" Edward asked. His normally high-pitched voice was near to warbling. Unable to contain himself, he pointed across the slopes to McCausland Farm.

"That's my corps there," he said.

"What's ahead?"

"Not sure. I know we shattered a division, Jubal Early. Tore them apart once we gained the farm. Reports say that a reserve division ahead, not yet identified, but supposedly Beauregard's, is blocking our advance. Also, the guns not destroyed by Hunt are still over there."

Grant did not need to be told. He could hear their thunder, shot that missed the ranks ahead skimming overhead.

"General, there's no further purpose to this advance," Ord announced. "My corps is fought out."

"Tell your men to stop, to pull back to here, form a salient around the ford."

"Thank you, sir."

Ord saluted, bowed his head, and rode forward.

Near McCausland Farm 5:30 PM.

The gunfire beyond McCausland Farm was rippling down, slowing in volume and pace. Lee rode along the line, watching as Beauregard's men slowly pushed forward, the Yankees giving ground. What had once been a cornfield was now as flat as the one at Sharpsburg. Every stalk cut down, the ripening corn replaced by a grim harvest of blue and gray.

In a significant way, this fight had indeed been like Sharpsburg and the cornfield. Charge and countercharge had swept the field repeatedly until all semblance of order, of meaning too, perhaps even why they were fighting for this ground, was forgotten. It had simply devolved into a murder match by both sides.

Jubal Early was limping across the field toward him, and for once even this tough old fighter seemed shaken.

"My boys," Jubal said, coming to Lee's side and looking up. "Sir, my boys. That's my entire division out there." He gestured across the cornfield toward the farm.

Lee could not reply, leaned down, patted him on the shoulder, and turned back to ride to his headquarters.

If this was the way Grant intended to fight it out, it was time to turn the tables.

Sergeant Hazner slipped back down in his trench. In the last few minutes it just seemed that a terrible exhaustion had set in oh both sides. Almost all firing had ceased. Colonel Brown crept past, patting men on the shoulder, telling them to stand down, to clean their weapons, and watering parties would be formed. Hazner was not at all surprised when Brown called on him to form that detail.

He looked around at his men. The regiment had not taken too many casualties this day, twenty dead and wounded, more dead than wounded actually, mostly head shots, and one section of men knocked down when a shell detonated directly above their trench.

The blockhouse, just to their-right, had been a favorite target of sharpshooters all day, its front and flank absolutely shredded by hundreds of bullets.

"Man could take that thing down and open a blacksmith shop with what he found in that wood," someone quipped, but no one laughed; they were all too damn tired and thirsty.

Hazner pointed to a dozen men.

"Get canteens," he said, voice so hoarse he could barely speak.

The men spread out, bent double, moving down the entrenchment, picking up canteens as they moved. Hazner ventured to stand up, taking off his cap, peeking over the lip of the trench.

What a damned nightmare, he thought What little vegetation there had been in front of his position, clear down to the river, was beaten to pulp. The tops of trees along the riverbank were shredded. The Yankee entrenchments on the far side were again becoming visible, the smoke from the long day's fusillade starting to lift on a building westerly breeze. At the edge of the railroad cut, held by the Yankees, he saw stretcher teams, bent low, climbing out the back of the position and sprinting up the slope to the rear. The understanding that both sides had always held fire for stretcher details continued to hold; no shots were deliberately aimed at them, but random shots could still take them out, and more than one man carrying a stretcher suddenly collapsed.

The more aggressive on both sides began to resume fire now that the smoke was clearing enough to see the other side, and Hazner ducked down after one round zipped by a bit too closely.

The water detail gathered around him, men with ten, fifteen canteens slung around their necks.

"Let's go," Hazner said. He led the way down the trench. They passed through the next regiment to the left, the entrenchment curving back to the southwest, following the bend of the hill. Their dead were piled out on the far side of their stronghold, the bottom of the trench carpeted with tens of thousands of pieces of paper, torn cartridges. The men looked as if they had come from a minstrel show, faces blackened by smoke and powder, rivulets of sweat streaking their faces.

"Fired a hundred fifty rounds, I did," he heard one of them boasting wearily. "Know for sure I got three of 'em. Boy, what a shooting gallery we had today."

Even as he spoke the man rubbed his shoulder.

He passed through another regiment and then another and then finally the trench just ended. Directly below was the railroad track leading to the bridge, but they were now a good four hundred yards back from the front.

"Be careful there," said a sergeant posted at the end of the entrenchment. "They got a few real good shooters over there."

Hazner nodded his thanks, took a deep breath, and climbed out of the trench and slid down the slope to the railroad track. Men were scurrying back and forth, bent on the same duty, carrying canteens for Scales's Division posted up on the slope looking down on the center of the line.

Long-distance harassing fire was indeed coming from the railroad cut on the other side of the Monocacy, nothing accurate, but an unaimed ball at six hundred yards could kill just as quickly as an aimed one.

"Come on, boys," Hazner said, and he slid down off the track and into an open field. A mill was directly before him, at least what was left of it, the building having caught fire during the day. Behind the mill was a small pond, all but concealed in the drifted banks of smoke. In spite of his exhaustion he ran down to it. Scores of men were lying along the bank around the pond, and he slipped down between two of them, the man to his left a Yankee, but he didn't care.

Brushing the water back with his hand he stuck his head in, delighting in the tepid water, and drank deeply.

"Ah, thank God," he whispered. Splashing water up over his neck, he was half-tempted to just take off his cartridge box and jump in.

"Ah, Sergeant, maybe we better go someplace else," one of his men said softly, tugging him on the shoulder.

"Why?"

"Most of these boys is dead."

Hazner half-sat up, looked at the Yankee lying next to him, head buried in the water, and shook him.

The man's head turned slightly and Hazner recoiled with horror. He had no face, the jawbone and nose completely blown off. He had been drinking right next to him, only inches away.

Before he quite realized what he was doing, Hazner got to his knees, bent double, and vomited.

Gasping, he leaned over, ashamed of the fact that he had vomited on the dead soldier.

"It's all right there, Sergeant," one of his men said. He looked up. It was young Lieutenant Hurt, the boy he had braced up before the assault on Fort Stephens. Hurt put his hand out and pulled Hazner up to his feet.

"We thought you seen it," Hurt said, and he pointed to bodies around the small pond, not just on the banks but floating in the middle of it, one of the bodies having jammed in the millwheel. The water was actually tinted pink. Some of the men were still alive, but so weak that after having collapsed into the water they were now drowning.

Hurt ordered the detail to drop canteens and pull the poor wretches out. The men set to work, some of the wounded so badly injured that as they were pulled out they screamed with pain, one of them a man scorched black from the waist up.

Hazner, still in shock, said nothing.

The men, having finished their task of pulling the drowning back, were not sure what to do next. Hurt looked at Hazner, as if expecting the experienced sergeant major to resume control.

"Nothing we can do for these boys now," Hurt said. "I'll tell Colonel Brown when we get back and he can get Scales to send ambulances down."

He said it loud, as if offering an excuse to the injured and the dying around them.

"Come on, boys. Let's get above the pond."

Hazner picked up a dozen of the canteens and said nothing, following along woodenly. They reached the ground above the pond, and all along the banks of the stream hundreds of men were at work at the same task, so that by the time Hurt found a spot for the men to start filling, there was barely a trickle of water.

After twenty minutes the last of the canteens was filled, and Hurt motioned for them to start heading back. Hazner brought up the rear, the detachment crossing over the railroad tracks up the slope and tumbling into the trench. Moving down the line Hazner just walked along tall, while his comrades moved bent double until they reached their regiment Hazner leaned against the side of the trench, still standing, saying nothing as the men around him greedily took canteens, tilted their heads back, and drank deeply.

"Sergeant?"

He focused his gaze. It was Colonel Brown. "Yes, sir."

"Maybe you should get down, Sergeant."

"Sir." Hazner looked around, suddenly aware that he was still standing erect, his men gazing up at him. He slid down to the bottom of the trench.

"Lieutenant Hurt told me what happened back there, Sergeant. How are you?"

"Me, sir?" Hazner said, forcing a smile. "Just fine, sir. Just fine."

Brown patted him on the shoulder and crept off, calling for the men to save a little water to pour down their barrels so they could swab their guns clean.

Someone offered Hazner a canteen. He tried to drink the water, but to his utter shame, seconds later, he vomited it up.

No one spoke.

Can I ever drink a drop of water again without seeing him? he wondered.

Hauling Ferry

6:30 P.M.

Jim thought he knew what labor was, but the long years of life in the White House, the formal protocol, the softly spoken and ever-so-polite conversations, even between the servants, had never quite braced him for this.

For hours he had stood out in the sun, until someone, surprisingly, a young white officer, had brought over a chair and pointed out that an awning had been set up for him, complete with desk.

He had gladly taken this position, along with the offer of a half dozen colored men who were fairly well dressed, most of them clerks who said they could write with a good hand, and were now his staff.

The makeshift bedsheet banner WASHINGTON COLORED VOLUNTEERS hung limp from one side of the awning, now fluttering slightly with the evening breeze that carried with it the scent of rain.

Thus he had worked through the day, struggling to keep things organized. As ordered by the general, he had first assigned fifty men, largely chosen at random, to be captains, told them to pick ten sergeants each, and then for the sergeants to pick ten men as workers.

Within an hour that had all but threatened to fall apart as some men started coming in complaining, declaring their captain was drunk, or they would be damned if they would take orders from a dockyard roustabout while they had actually taught school or owned a barbershop.

At first he tried to reason with them, but within minutes was overwhelmed, until finally one of Winfield's staff officers settled the bombardment of complaints with a drawn pistol fired into the air. That had silenced the gathering crowd.

"Either take orders or get the hell out," the officer had said, pointing back to the towpath.

Several dozen, to Jim's shame, actually threw down their tools and walked off.

"Best to be rid of them anyhow," the officer had said. "Every unit has its whiners and malingerers."

Before leaving, the officer had hesitated, handed the revolver over to Jim, and told him to feel free to use it if need be, and no questions asked.

He actually had threatened to use it twice. Once on a "sergeant" who was dragged in after beating the hell out of his captain, the second time, on of all things, a white corporal, drunk, who came up and started taunting Jim and the men in the cookhouse, saying he'd be damned if he'd ever fight alongside of "goddamn niggers."

After so many years' experience in the White House, dealing with all kinds of guests, some of them downright hateful of the colored race, Jim at first tried to speak quietly and politely in reply, until the drunken corporal, with the. foulest of oaths, raised a foot, slapped it into Jim's lap, and ordered him to polish his shoe.

The startled corporal was greeted with the revolver, cocked and aimed straight into his face.

"You son of a bitch," Jim snapped, amazed at the words coming out of him, but no longer caring. "Now kindly remove your foot from my lap. President Lincoln would never have done anything like this, and I sure as hell will not take it from trash like you."

Jim shouted for a white officer, and then started to shake, not sure of the reaction that was about to unfold over a black man waving a pistol at a white man, as the officer came running up.

When Jim told the officer what happened, there were a nervous few seconds, the corporal swearing that "no nigger is gonna talk to me like that," even though the cocked revolver was still aimed at his face.

The officer, grinning, then drew his own revolver and suggested that the corporal "comply with Mr. Bartlett's orders," placing an emphasis on the word "mister."

The world was indeed changing this day, Jim realized.

The corporal and the black "sergeant" were "bucked and gagged," the object of ridicule by all who passed. That support from the white officer seemed to have settled things down significantly, and there was little backtalk to Jim as he checked off work schedules, reassigned some men who obviously were not working out as leaders, and detailed off new crews to work as men continued to swarm in throughout the day.

So many were now at work that Jim had assigned his six assistants to be "colonels," each responsible for fifteen work crews, and yet still more were coming in.

Surprisingly, in the last several hours, the chaos had given way to a fair semblance of order. Crews worked four hours on, then were given an hour off to go down to the makeshift cookhouse, where salt pork, hardtack, and coffee were being served out. There were few plates or cups available, the men passing around a bucket with the hot coffee, taking the hot slabs of salt pork, slapping them onto pieces of hardtack, and wolfing them down, then lying down in the shade until called back to work.

At mid-aftemoon he was offered a horse. A Yankee cavalry trooper came leading an old swaybacked nag.

"She ain't much, sir," the trooper said, "but me and the boys figure that with you in command it was only proper you should have a horse. We took her from a nearby farm."

Jim smiled with delight, especially over two facts. One that the young trooper had called him sir. The other was the fact that this was not some sad foolish prank to humiliate him; it was a dead-serious gesture of thanks and respect.

He gladly took the horse, though he would never admit it had been years since he had been astride one.

Now mounted, he rode along the line with his six colonels following along, several of them mounted now as well. It gave him the chance to see the progress, and with his makeshift staff he inspected the line. Major Siemens rode over to join him.

"Your men are a wonder, Mr. Barlett," Siemens said as they traveled the line. The preliminary trench had already been dug to shoulder depth and now the rectangular bastions, spaced at regular intervals so as to provide interlocking fields of fire, were going up, too. Men worked on the moats that would surround each, tossing up the dirt to form the fortress walls, which were reinforced with the woven baskets filled with dirt. Clear 'fields of fire were being opened up, entire woodlots disappearing to saws and axes, the lumber being dragged up to pile into the bastions. Smaller logs were being hammered into the ground at a forty-five-degree angle and then the exposed end sharpened. Brush was being stripped of leaves, tied into bundles, and then staked to the ground to provide barriers that would slow and even break up an advancing charge.

Other men were setting to work digging potholes, just eighteen inches deep and eighteen inches wide, a hundred yards or so out from the trench line. A few branches and then brush would be laid over each hole. A man stepping into one at the run, at best, would have a sprained ankle and perhaps even a broken leg. It only took fifteen minutes or so for a good man to dig one and then conceal it, but thousands of such holes could help to shatter a charge, and the men at such work chuckled about how many Johnny Rebs they were going to trip up. A few took the extra effort to drive a sharpened stake into the bottom of the hole, but others said that was unfair, a broken leg was injury enough.

The really hard labor was moving the giant hundred-pounder guns. Each tube weighed over twenty tons, the iron carriage another five tons. No wagons were capable of handling the weight, and the crews had resorted to something that looked like it was out of stories from the Bible. A hundred to two hundred men would be roped to each gun, a few mules added in, if available, greased logs were laid underneath the rough-cut lumber frame the gun rested on, the entire crew then straining to pull the dead weight up the slope and into the half-built bastions. Other crews labored at lugging up the heavy hundred-pound shells, one giant of a man making a display of his attempt to carry two at a time. At most places black laborers and white troops were mingled together, digging side by side.

That, too, thrilled Jim. There had been some hesitation at first by the soldiers to do menial labor next to black men, but Winfield had laid that to rest, hobbling up and down the line, shouting, "Boys, it's either dig or eat bullets, so I'm telling you, start digging! I tried eating one of those bullets, and by God they don't digest very well."

A day of labor, the way their black comrades worked on without complaint while many a white soldier was near to collapse, was making them one. Black laborers too tired to walk down to the kitchen areas suddenly found themselves handed a piece of hardtack and salt pork out of the haversack of a soldier who sat down beside him during a break and then offered a canteen to wash it down.

Jim had also organized watering crews, mostly young boys carrying a couple of buckets, moving up and down the line; when the buckets were empty, they'd run down to the river and refill them.

The dangerous job of moving up the bagged gunpowder Jim was more than happy to leave to the white gun crews. Too many of his men were fond of cigars and pipes.

The first of the thirty-pounder Parrotts had come up just after midday, but these arrived with full limbers and one horse-team for every three guns, so they could easily be moved into place.

They rode as far as Nolands Ferry, where the line finally curved back down to the river. A dozen barges were moving up the canal, heading toward the farthermost work site at the upper Point of Rocks.

"Once it gets dark," Siemens said, "have your men stand down, get some food and rest. They've put in one hell of a day."

"Thank you, sir."

"No, it is I thanking you," Jeremiah said with a smile, leaning over to offer his hand.

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia

7:00 P.M.

Lee slowly walked under the awning and sat down, taking off his hat and wiping his brow. Longstreet, Beauregard, Stuart, and Hood were all present, as were Jed Hotchkiss and Walter. Judah Benjamin, who had just arrived from Baltimore, sat slumped over in his chair, nursing a glass of wine.

"A hard day, gentlemen," Lee said, looking about at the gathering illuminated by the glow of coal oil lamps. No one spoke for a moment.

He knew he had to brace them up. They had anticipated a full-out frontal assault, as at Fredericksburg, and instead there had only been the one limited, but very bloody, attack on the left, while all across the day the rest of the line had been engaged in a long-distance firefight of an intensity they had never seen before.

"If only they had come on," Beauregard said, "we would've mowed them down and be in Frederick tonight."

"But they didn't," Lee retorted. "Grant, it seems, is no Burnside."

"They most certainly did on my front," Hood replied sharply. "Jubal Early's Division is a wreck and out of this fight."

"We lost well over eight thousand today," Lee said, "six thousand with Jubal, two thousand at least from the firing along the line, and, frankly, I do not see any permanent results from that loss."

"We tore Ord apart," Beauregard interjected. "That's two of his four corps wrecked so far. Grant has most likely lost upward of eighteen, perhaps twenty thousand men since this started." 'Twelve thousand, though, of ours across three days," Longstreet said. "We can't afford that rate of exchange much longer."

"I concur," Lee announced. 'The question before us now is our response."

He nodded toward Judah.

"You gentlemen all know we lost Baltimore this afternoon."

"Damn Pickett," Hood snapped. "If I was there, I'd have fought them street by street."

Lee looked over sharply at Hood and his breach of the rule against profanity at headquarters but said nothing.

Hood was right. Even though Pickett had only the equivalent of two brigades with him, surely he could have put up some kind of a fight, slowed them down for a day or two. His command, at last report, was at Relay Station, where George now claimed he'd put up a fight.

That was too little far too late. The precious reserve supplies, enough to have sustained him in a slugging match with Grant for weeks if need be, were now gone, sitting in Baltimore warehouses.

"Fire him," Longstreet said sadly, for he was speaking of an old friend.

"I already have," Lee replied. "I sent a telegram back informing General Pickett to report to me here, and for Lo Armistead to take command of the division."

He looked around at the gathering.

"And nothing more is to be said about him," he announced. "If Armistead can at least delay their advance, that should give us three days, perhaps as many as five before we face any real threat to our immediate rear."

He looked around at the gathering of commanders, who nodded in agreement.

"Then that means if Grant will not come to us, we must go to him," Lee replied.

No one spoke.

"Gentlemen, our situation is by no means lost. Do not give way to pessimism, for I most certainly have not. General Beauregard is right. We have bloodied him. Two of his four corps are fought out. Granted, though Early's Division is out, Scales's, though heavily fought, is still relatively intact, as are Robertson's men, who sat out the day's fight in reserve, as did two of Beauregard's divisions and McLaw's."

No one replied, waiting for what he would say next.

That gave Lee a reserve of four divisions, calculating in their losses across the last two weeks, about twenty-five thousand men, just about the same number Jackson had used at Chancellorsville.

"If we wait again tomorrow, gentlemen," Lee said, "I assume we shall see a repeat of today. A massive fusillade along the entire front, but one that will not decide anything. — Perhaps he will send Banks on his north wing to try our right flank, but I doubt that. I think he proposes to wait, to hold us in position until this secondary force comes up from the rear to reinforce him."

There was no disagreement to what he had just said.

"Then we must attack before Grant can be reinforced."

"Where, sir?" Longstreet asked, shifting uncomfortably.

"General Stuart, I asked you to do some scouting. What can you report?"

Stuart stood up and leaned over Hotchkiss's maps spread out on the table.

"I still have Chambliss's Brigade to our north and west," Jeb said. The mere mention of that troubled Lee. It was the old brigade of his son, Rooney.

"They are reporting increasing pressure from Grierson. His men have pushed down across a line from the Catoctins eastward to fifteen miles below Westminster. Nothing very aggressive, other than George Custer's dash. A few raiding forces did reach the railroad tracks but quickly fell back. But by tomorrow they might be astride the Baltimore and Ohio line."

"That is no longer a concern," Lee said sharply.

"Yes, sir, but I thought you should know."

"I have Jenkins moving down now to develop out the situation at the fords on the Potomac," Stuart continued.

"Sir; that does trouble me," Pete said. "The report that came back this afternoon, about their digging in at four points along the river. If, and I must emphasize if, we need one of those crossings, it will be a tough fight now."

"We will not need them," Lee said sharply. "If anything, that move might be to our advantage. As I said last night, we defeat Grant here, then have Mosby cut several of the locks on the canal. That will strand the bulk of their Washington garrison far outside the city. I was thinking at first of turning on them and defeating each in detail, but that is senseless and an additional waste of our few remaining men."

"What then, sir?"

"We defeat Grant, then march straight at Washington."

No one spoke, though Hood and Stuart did nod and smile.

"If Lincoln has emptied out the garrison of Washington, that is the first time he has done so since this war started. He has gambled, but we shall pick up the cards. We take Washington, and regardless of the price here in destroying Grant, we will truly win this war, once and for all."

He looked over at Judah.

"Would you not agree, Mr. Secretary?"

Judah stirred from his exhaustion and looked at Lee.

"Yes, sir," he replied softly. "It would end the war."

Lee nodded his thanks. He realized that now, at this moment, he had to imbue his men with renewed hope. They were all exhausted; so was he. They had fought a pitched battle just a week and a half ago and were now in another, this one against what was proving to be a far more wily foe. Defeat Grant, though, and then within days deliver the double blow of taking Washington, even if he had but twenty thousand men left, the war would be finished, once and for all. It would be a blow Lincoln could never recover from.

"The lower ford I was asking about on the Monocacy," Lee said, looking back at Stuart.

Stuart leaned over the map and looked to where Lee was pointing.

"Yes, sir, Buckeystown. Yes, sir, we scouted it out, have pickets now on the other side." "What's holding it?"

"Not much, sir. A light outpost, a company or two of infantry. Did not see any cavalry." "And the road down to it?"

"Starts back behind our headquarters, sir. One road does skirt fairly close to where Ord pushed in today, but a second road farther back is far enough behind the lines. The hills to the south of here, sir, are a good shield. High. We have pickets all along the crest. The only problem, though, is that at several points the road rises up high enough that it can be seen from the Catoctin ridge."

Lee nodded, studying the map intently, Hotchkiss up by his side.

"I surveyed some of this last year," Hotchkiss said, "when we passed through here before Sharpsburg. I rode it again today with General Stuart. He's right. It might be a potential flanking route, but at several points the road crosses up over hills, the tops of which are not concealed by the ridge running along the river."

"Distance."

"Just under three miles, sir, from the rail tracks down to the Buckeystown ford. A tough climb then of about two miles, I'd estimate, up to the plateau on the other side. From there I'd calculate six miles into Frederick. We've all seen the ground on the other side. It's a flat, wide-open plain, no real defensive positions on it. Fight on that, and it will be who is quicker and has more courage that will decide it."

Lee took in what Hotchkiss was saying. And again that magical moment began to form, of lines of march, distances to be covered, who would move when, how they would deploy out, the same as he had felt after the first night at Gettysburg and again in laying the trap at Gunpowder River.

"That will be it, gentlemen," Lee announced quietly, standing back from the table.

He looked over at Beauregard.

"Do you wish the honor of leading this, General?"

Beauregard smiled and nodded his head.

"Two of your divisions, along with Robertson and McLaw. Generals Longstreet and Hood, I hope you have no objections to these detachments of your divisions."

"It means no reserves," Longstreet said quietly.

"We had none at Chancellorsville and, gentlemen, this is beginning to feel a bit like Chancellorsville, though, in fact, our odds are better. Their secondary force is not literally at our back as it was at Chancellorsville; it is over forty miles away in Baltimore."

"It's not Hooker this time," Longstreet said. "Remember this is Grant."

Lee looked over at Beauregard.

"He does have tenacity," Beauregard said. "Any other general would have caved in after what we did the first day at Shiloh." 'Then let him stand, and thus, unlike Shiloh, we will indeed finish him."

Beauregard's features shifted ever so subtly.

"I meant no disrespect, General," Lee said, bowing slightly to Beauregard.

"None taken, sir," he replied softly.

"What about their observing it from the Catoctin Heights?" Stuart asked.

"We do it now, tonight," Lee said.

"Sir, that's a tall order," Hood said. "My old division, though not in the fight, stood to arms all day. They fought a pitched battle the day before."

"It has to be tonight," Lee said. "I want the attack to start just before dawn. Jeb, you will lead with a brigade of cavalry and post guides at regular intervals along the road. Take the ford a few hours before dawn. General Beauregard, your two divisions to follow, and you must gain the plateau by first light, followed by McLaw, then Robertson.

"Artillery?" Beauregard asked.

"Whatever is left of our old experienced crews will be in this as well. I'll have Alexander detail off a battalion to each of your two divisions, General, two batteries to each of the other divisions."

He pointed at the crossing point and then up to the plateau on which Buckeystown sat.

"Deploy out, then start sweeping north. Nothing piecemeal. I want a solid two-division front, with McLaw and Robertson behind you in support. Do not stop until you have rolled up his line. As you advance across our front, Scales, Johnson, the brigades of Rhodes and Anderson's old commands will come in on your right. A grand assault across the river at a right angle to your attack. Your primary goal then will be for your left flank to capture the National Road, but not too quickly."

"Sir?"

"I want panic to set in. If we bolt the escape hole shut, Grant just might be able to rally in his desperation and turn on us. I want them in a panic, running for that road. The ones first on it will, as always, be the ones we don't care about, the teamsters, the staffers, supply wagons, those who have already run. Finally, bolt it shut when their main forces are on the road and partway up it."

Beauregard took the orders in, taking a sheet of paper from Walter and jotting down notes, sketching a copy of the map as well.

"General, you have a lot to do," Lee said. "I will come down to see you off. Can you be ready to move by midnight?"

"Sir?" he hesitated. "Yes, sir, I can."

"Fine then," Lee said with a smile.

"Jeb, get your lead brigade ready to move as well. Go with him on this and once across, provide cover to his left flank."

Jeb grinned, saluted, and left, Beauregard by his side.

"I better go see to my old command," Hood said. "Sir, if any boys will take down Grant, it will be my old Texans."

Walter left, calling for Jed Hotchkiss to follow and start working on additional maps for the various commands.

Longstreet, however, remained, Judah sitting by his side.

"Anything else, General?" Lee asked.

"No, sir, not really, but one suggestion."

"And that is?"

"Start moving the pontoon train south by road. You have a good screen with Jenkins. Moving those pontoons is a nightmare once off a main pike."

"Why the caution?" Lee asked.

"Why not, sir?"

Lee nodded and Longstreet stood up and left. Lee finally sat back down and looked over at Judah, who was gazing down into his glass of wine. "Hard day for you, sir?" Lee asked. "Not as hard as yours," Judah said quietly. "You look exhausted." Judah smiled. "Just sad, that's all." "Why so?"

"Three days ago I was sitting in Baltimore, just waiting for that dispatch ship flying a French flag to come in with word that the emperor, that mad emperor, had thrown in with us. Baltimore would have, after the war, quickly rivaled New York as a place of industry and commerce, which we desperately need. Chances are Washington would have wound up as our new capital."

"It will still happen," Lee said with a smile. "As my boys say, 'We ain't licked yet, not by a long shot.'"

"I wish I carried your confidence," Judah replied.

"You have to think back on our history, sir. Perhaps because you were not born here, and no offense intended, you don't fully sense that."

"How so?"

"My father fought with Washington. Many in our ranks had sat at the knee of a grandfather and heard tales of Valley Forge, that terrible retreat across New Jersey the year before, the bitter fighting in the Carolinas. Half a dozen times our cause seemed all but lost, and yet each time a kindly Providence saw fit to save us. Our situation at this moment is no different. We endured then, we shall endure now. Of that I am still confident."

Judah held up his hand.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

Lee sighed and nodded.

"Not your fault. I am tired, just so very tired as well."

"General, I think you need to get some rest."

"Yes, sir, I do," Lee replied. "Again, no offense taken by your comments."

Judah stood up, bowed slightly, and left.

Lee looked over to his tent, the flap open. He went in, his servant having set a candle and his Bible on a table by the cot. Lee sat down, struggled to take his boots off, and then picked up his Bible and thumbed through it, turning to the One Hundred Forty-fourth Psalm.

"Blessed be the Lord, my strength, which teacheth my hands to war…"

Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna 9:00 P.M.

A hard day for Edward," Phil Sheridan said, pouring another cup of coffee and offering it to Grant. Grant watched Ord walk over to his horse, mount, and ride off.

"Yes, a hard day," Grant replied, sipping at the coffee, then setting it down to pick up a stick and resume the whittling that had taken it from a couple of feet in length to a last few inches. Shavings piled up around his feet.

"How's the headache, sir?"

Grant raised his gaze and stared at Phil without responding, at that moment teaching Sheridan one of the taboos of this headquarters: when the general had a migraine, no one, except for Ely, should ever dare ask about it.

Grant resumed whittling and Phil was silent, staring into the campfire. A mild breeze stirred. To the south, there were lightning flashes but it looked as if the storm would skirt by them, perhaps soaking the boys down along the Potomac.

'Tomorrow, I want you to shift one of your divisions down in support of Ord. He has no reserve left."

"Which one."

"The colored one. That's your reserve, isn't it?" "Yes, sir."

"And they sat the day out, so they're fresh." "Yes, sir, but they've never seen battle." "Time they did."

He finished whittling, tossing the fragment of stick into the fire, hesitated, then drew out another cigar and lit it, offering the case over to Phil, who gladly took one of the fine Havanas.

Grant offered him his half-burned match, and Phil leaned over, puffing his cigar to life.

Grant studied him intently as Phil lit his cigar, sat back, and exhaled.

He missed Sherman. There was a man he did indeed confide in. Many was the night the two sat up and talked. Talk of plans, talk of what had been and what they still intended to do.

McPherson had filled a bit of that role since coming east, but poor James was dead. An hour ago, under flag of truce so that wounded from both sides could be pulled back from the riverbank, a message had come through the lines informing him of that fate, and also that before he died James had married his beloved Emily.

"Wish I'd given him that furlough back in the spring," Grant sighed. "Perhaps now there might at least be a child on the way."

"What, sir?"

"Nothing. Nothing, Phil."

He was silent again and grateful that Phil understood the need. When he was silent, he was in no mood to-talk, and idle chatter to fill the dead air was an annoyance.

The stars were not out as brightly tonight, a thin high haze moving in. Rain in a day or so, he sensed, perhaps a lot. Can't change that, though, so don't worry about it.

The day had been a hard one. Phil was right, especially for Ord.

His entire corps was a hollowed-out wreck. He had lost more men in this one assault than during the entire siege of Vicksburg. Where an entire corps had been this morning, barely a division could be mustered now, and those men were beat to hell, disorganized, brigades down to regiments, and regiments to companies. It had been the bloodiest assault he had ever launched.

And he did not regret it, though Ord was all but shattered by the experience.

He had seen it himself when he rode across the river late in the afternoon to watch the fight up close. Yes, he had lost ten thousand or more, but Lee had been forced to match him, and from all accounts the dreaded Jubal Early Division was smashed beyond any hope of repair, along with a couple of brigades from one of one of Beauregard's divisions.

He had presented to Lee a different kind of fight today, one of sustained firepower on the rest of the front. No mad charges, no standing out in the open in volley lines while Lee's own men were dug in, as at Fredericksburg. Instead, just a continual grinding down of fire.

Lee's men had most likely fired off nearly as much ammunition as they had at Union Mills, but with only one-tenth the impact along the rest of the line. His own supply officers were already sending in reports that two million more rounds of small-arms ammunition would have to be sent up during the night, and the wagons crossing over the pass were indeed hauling that and more.

How many millions did Lee have?

Hunt reported firing nearly eleven thousand rounds of bolt and case shot. One of his staff, earlier in the day, had laughed while reporting to Grant that he had overheard Hunt shouting, "Make every shot count, boys; it's costing the taxpayers two dollars and sixty-seven cents a round."

He stirred, looking back at the fire.

"Yes, the colored division," Grant said, and Phil did not respond, still puffing on his cigar.

"Move them down to support on this side of the Monocacy before dawn. I think our General Lee over there will counterstrike us, and it will come straight in at Ord, to try and push him back across the river and then break our right flank."

"Yes, sir."

"I want your blackbirds to be ready to go in. They claim they have something to prove. Now's their chance." "I'll see to it personally." "Phil." "Yes, sir?"

"I spotted you today down in the railroad cut, right in the middle of it. I thought I told you to avoid recklessly exposing yourself."

Phil smiled, but then shook his head.

"Sir, I'm sorry. Three days ago those boys were under Burnside, and they still are fiercely loyal to him. I needed them to see I was different somehow, and that meant getting up into the thick of it. I figured the risk was worth it."

"I know, we all do it at times. But I lost James. Ord, well, I think poor Edward is a bit shattered at the moment. Banks, he's an amateur, the same as Sickles, a political appointee I find myself saddled with, and come a crisis I'll personally see to the running of his corps. So I need to count on one of my corps commanders, and it seems that's falling on your shoulders. Don't do the same tomorrow. Keep back a bit."

Phil smiled.

"Of course not, sir."

Three Miles East of Monocacy function

11:45 P.M.

God damn it, I can't believe these damn things are still here," Cruickshank groaned. He walked the length of three trains still loaded with the pontoon bridges, cursing and swearing every inch of the way, his staff and old teamster crews following behind.

Their train from Baltimore had indeed made good time, as McDougal had promised, until it stalled ten miles from the front line. A locomotive had run out of fuel on the single-track line and ground to a halt ahead of them, and then three more had stalled. Judah Benjamin had left him there, finding a horse to go forward to report to Lee.

A scattering of men, most of them skulkers from the rear, plus a few squadrons of cavalry troopers who had rounded the skulkers up, were busy scavenging the countryside for enough wood to get the boilers going again, the troopers driven to distraction because every time they turned their backs the skulkers dropped their loads and attempted to disappear into the surrounding woods.

"Find some teams. God damn it, where are the teams of mules we sent up with these trains?"

The men stood around silent. The boxcars which had been carrying the mules were open, all the mules gone, most likely commandeered by some other unit.

"Find some damn teams!" Cruickshank roared.

"Major Cruickshank?"

A courier approached out of the dark, riding, of all things, a mule.

Cruickshank glared up at him, the courier lit up by a railroad lantern he was carrying.

"It's General Cruickshank now!" he roared.

The courier stood his ground.

"General Longstreet sent me out here hours ago to look for you." He paused. "Sir. May I inquire where you have been? I was told you would be with these pontoon bridges."

"No, damn you, you may not inquire. Now what the hell do you want?"

"Sir, I carry orders from General Longstreet to you, informing you of his wish that you begin to move these bridges south toward either Nolands or Hauling Ferry."

"Where the hell is that?"

"Sir, I don't know. I assume, sir, you being a general, you would know."

That was too much. Cruickshank walked up to the man, grabbed him by the leg, and lifting, tipped him right off his mount.

The lantern went flying, shattering on the adjoining track, spreading flame, which gradually winked out.

"Damn you, sir. I demand satisfaction," the courier cried.

"Look me up after the war is over," Cruickshank snapped.

"I shall inform General Longstreet of this affront."

"And he'll laugh in your face, sonny. Now go tell good old Pete that when he can find me two hundred and fifty mules, I'll start moving these bridges."

"I'll tell him that and more."

"You do that."

The humiliated officer went to grab the reins of his mule. "Don't touch him! That mule belongs to me now."

"The hell you say."

Cruickshank reached for his revolver, half drawing it. "He's mine, so start walking."

The officer glared at him angrily, the men around Cruickshank laughing. He turned on his heels and strode off.

Cruickshank handed the mule off to one of his men.

"Now go find two hundred and forty-nine more," he said.

He leaned back against one of the flatcars bearing a pontoon bridge, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the bottle given to him by McDougal. He had not dared to drink it in front of a secretary of state, and, for that matter, he was in no mood to share it with any of his men, so he waited till they wandered off, most of them chuckling about the fight.

Once alone, he uncorked it and drained it down neat, crawled up under a pontoon, and was soon asleep, oblivious to the column of troops that began to pass by, swarming over the railroad tracks, falling in along a road on the opposite side, and heading south.