Never Call Retreat

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Buckeystown Ford

August 28 3:00 A.M.

That's it, sir." Jeb Stuart reined in, the forward scout by his side gesturing straight ahead. He dismounted, and followed the scout. The two of them walked slowly, almost as if they were actors tiptoeing across the stage.

The gesture struck Jeb as a bit absurd, but he followed the scout's lead, not sure how far off they were from the river. Sound was drowned out by cascading water. An overcast was beginning to set in, stars dimming, and it was hard to see much, but he could see glimpses of what he assumed was a dam, the white sparkle of water flowing over it. "Mill on the other side," the scout whispered. They walked thus for another hundred yards, and then Jeb saw some of his men, lying to either side of the road, as if resting, but they were spread out into a skirmish line. The scout crouched down, Jeb joining him. "Can you make out the ford?"

Yes, he could, low flowing water, again sparkles of white, they were almost at the edge of the creek. Enough starlight still shone through, and he thought he caught a glimpse of someone on the other side.

"Hey, who's over there?"

It was a Yank on the other side, and Jeb froze.

"I'll shoot. Now who is over there?" The scout stood up.

"Don't get riled up, Yank, we're just sitting over here, same as you on your side." There was a pause. "What you doing, reb?"

"Sent down to picket this place, make sure you don't try and sneak across here. And you?" "The same." "Got any coffee, Yank?" Again a pause.

"Yup. Trade you a pound of coffee mixed with real sugar for a pound of tobacco."

"Sounds good to me, Yank. Let me ask my boys for their tobacco. I'll be right over."

Jeb grinned. This scout knew his business. Now standing in the open he walked down the skirmish line.

"Come on, boys, give it up," the scout whispered.

Some of the men cursed softly, one of them complaining they already had plenty of coffee, but the scout took their pouches.

'Take that hat off, sir," the scout whispered as he strolled past Jeb. "You stick out like a sore thumb with it on. And crawl down a bit closer so you can listen."

The scout went down to the water's edge and held his hands up.

"Meet you halfway, Yank, and no foolery now." "Promise, reb."

The scout splashed into the creek and Jeb watched him carefully. It wasn't more than knee-deep. The scout slowed, luring the Yank closer to their side.

"How are you, Yank?" the scout asked.

"Fine, and you?"

"Damn glad to be down here rather than up in the thick of all that fightin' today."

"Damn right," the Yank said. "Where you from, Yank?"

"Name's Michael Greene. I'm from Illinois. And you?" "Luke Snyder. I'm from Virginia." The two shook hands.

"Got that tobacco? Ain't had a smoke in days."

"Sure enough. Same for me with coffee. Would you boys mind if we lit a little fire to boil some up?"

"Naw, we won't shoot, but keep it back a ways from the creek."

There was an exchange of packages, and then the flare of a match, which startled Jeb, causing him to crouch down lower. The two were lighting their pipes while standing right in the middle of the creek.

"Glad when this is over," Snyder said. "Just want to go home. My wife just had another baby."

"How's.that?" the Yank chuckled.

"Oh, a furlough about nine months ago, right after we whipped you at Fredericksburg."

The two laughed softly.

"We weren't at Fredericksburg. You sure wouldn't have whipped us. We was busy taking Vicksburg. I'm with Ord." Jeb smiled. This scout was damn good. "I heard you boys are tough."

"Damn right we are. Sorry to tell you this, reb, but we're gonna whip you for sure this time, and then we can go home. Our boys ain't never lost a battle."

"We'll see about that, Yank."

"Grant is gonna just grab your Bobbie Lee by the nose. You'll see."

"Again, we'll see. Don't count your chickens before they hatch, Yank."

"Seemed like a hell of a lot of fighrin' further up the creek today," Greene said. "Bunch of bodies came floating down right around dark."

"Yeah, there was."

"You in it?"

"A bit," Snyder replied.

"We win?"

"You got across the creek. Kind of figure that's where the fighting will be again, come morning."

"I sure as hell hope so. And I'll just sit tight right here. Been in five battles, reb, wounded once. I've seen the elephant enough."

"Same here," Snyder said. "You sit on one side, and I'll sit on the other. I got about fifty men with me, and we were told just to sit tight but spread the word if something was up."

"About the same for us here. Reb, tell your boys we won't shoot if they won't, and let's outlive this one."

"Agreed. Come dawn we'll do some more tradin'."

Again there was the shaking of hands.

"Yeah, guess you're right, reb. Just wish the hell it was over with. Not married yet. My girl Lucy said she'd wait. Sure would love to have a baby with her the way you did with yours."

"Better yet helping her to make one," Snyder said, and they both chuckled.

"Well, I better get back," the Yank said. "My captain can be a stickler. Take care, reb."

"You, too, Yank."

"Go ahead and make your fire now, but keep it back a couple of hundred yards. Like I said, the captain is a stickler, he'd tell us to shoot at you, and frankly, that's murder to me, especially when I know a fella's name."

They shook hands, parted, and the scout waded back to shore and walked past Jeb as if he didn't exist. Jeb waited a few minutes, crawled back, and then joined Snyder.

Snyder was silent, looking over at him.

"You hear it?" Snyder asked.

"Every word. Good work."

"Damn, sir, I hated it."

"Why?"

"Lying to him like that. He was for fair play, same as me. I hated to do it."

"Duty, son," Jeb said softly, patting him on the shoulder. "We pull this day off and you can say you led the patrol that led to the march that won the war."

Jeb walked back to his horse, mounted up, and started back up the road. Just around the bend and out of sight of the creek lanterns were set every couple of hundred feet by the side of the road. The head of Beauregard's column was coming down.

Beauregard was at the fore.

Jeb rode up, and the two saluted each other.

"The way ahead is clear, General. Not more than a company garrisoning the ford. You have clear ground just around this bend, then two hundred yards to the ford. I would not suggest forming a battle line. When ready, just have your men come on at the double, hit the water, and get across. I really couldn't see the road on the far side, but am assured it leads straight up to Buckeystown and the plateau."

"Thank you, General Stuart."

Beauregard took out his pocket watch and Jeb struck a match. It was three in the morning.

"An hour and fifteen minutes to first twilight," Beauregard said. "My Second Division is two miles behind this one. That should give them time to come up. We'll start the assault at four."

"I'll take the lead if you don't mind," Jeb said. "My boys can be up to Buckeystown in fifteen minutes and then hold it if there's any additional Yankees up there."

"Sounds fine with me, General."

The two shook hands.

Beauregard passed the word back for his column to halt marching, the men to ground arms and sit down in place. No fires, no talking. The men were more than happy to comply, most, at least those with strong nerves, asleep in minutes.

Near McCausland's Ford 3:45 A.M.

Keep moving but keep it quiet, damn it," Sergeant Bartlett hissed, The column of his regiment moved silently across the open fields, the lead in a formation that stretched back nearly a mile. Shortly after midnight Phil Sheridan himself had come into their camp. There was a hurried officers' meeting and minutes later word was passed, without drum-rolls or bugles, for the men to fall in, leaving packs behind. As each regiment formed, men were handed an additional forty rounds of ammunition and then told to form in column by company front.

Company A was in the lead, in fact, in the lead of the entire division as they set off across the fields.

Bartlett, moving at the side of the column, looked back and thrilled at the sight, limited as it was by the darkness. An endless column, moving across fields, through torn-down fencerows, skirting the edge of the artillery batteries whose crews were awake, silently watching them pass. For a half mile or so they tramped along a road, then turned off, heading downslope, and as soon as they were off the road, the going became difficult.

The ground ahead was strewn with dark forms. At first just one or two bodies here or there, and then dozens, and, finally, in one horrid place, scores of corpses in a line. The men started to whisper, some recoiling as their booted foot stepped on the back or the severed limb of a man, and the white officers repeatedly hissed to the men, "Keep quiet, damn you!"

They reached the stream and it was a nightmare. Wounded by the hundreds were still on the ground. Sheridan had ordered the ambulance crews to douse their lights while the division passed, but even in the darkness Sergeant Bartlett could see the work, men being loaded up, crying softly, some screaming.

He braced himself and kept going forward, beginning to chant soothing words to his men. "It's alright, boys, it's alright. Keep your courage boys, keep your courage."

They hit the creek and began to wade across. On the opposite bank there were a few lanterns lit, and by their light be could see dozens of men staggering back, or just collapse along the riverbank.

An officer raced ahead, splashing through the water, and kicked over the lanterns.

"Come on lads, almost there. Come on," the officer hissed.

The column of Third Division, Ninth Corps, crossed over the Monocacy, heading east into the salient, even while, but four miles to the south, four divisions of Confederate troops prepared to strike in the other direction.

Buckeystown Ford

4:50 AM.

Stuart looked around. Minutes ago he could barely discern the clump of trees behind which many of his men waited. Now it was barely beginning to stand out. He remembered at the Point how one of the professors had talked about the old Mohammedan tradition that first light was the moment when one could distinguish a black thread from a white one. That always struck him as foolish. Many a night, if the stars were out, he could tell the difference.

But here, now, at this moment, he knew first light was breaking, in spite of the increasing overcast.

"Let's go," Stuart said, drawing out his heavy LaMat revolver.

Men came out from the trees behind him, already mounted, forming up on the road, most with pistols drawn, a few with sabers. They started to walk down to the Monocacy.

"General, sir?"

It was his scout, Snyder. "Yes?"

"A favor, sir?"

"Be quick about it," Stuart said as he continued to ride forward.

"Sir, that Yank was a fair fellow, and it's stuck in my craw that I lied to him. Please let me give him a warning. Just one minute to get the hell out of the way."

Jeb hesitated but his old sense of chivalry took hold.

"You got a minute."

The scout, still on foot, ran ahead, straight down the road to the creek.

"Hey, Greene. Private Greene!" he shouted.

"Snyder, that you? What are you yelling for? My captain will be god-awful mad!"

"Get out now! We're coming across, a whole bunch of us. Skedaddle! Greene, listen here, get home, marry that girl, and have a dozen babies! Name one after me!"

A pause.

"Thanks, Snyder!"

There was shouting now on the other side, Private Greene running off, and unfortunately spreading the alarm. "Let's go, boys!" Jeb shouted.

He spurred up to a near gallop, pistol raised. Just before hitting the edge of the creek he saw Snyder, who was preparing to mount, the scout offering a salute.

His mount jumped into the creek, spray of water going up, and in seconds he was across.

A few shots whizzed by. No one was hit. Up out of the creek he turned to the right, following the road. It rose up a steep slope and he took it at the gallop. At the mill some men were tumbling out, most half-naked, and as he galloped past he fired a few shots in their direction, the startled Yanks ducking back inside.

Laughing, he rode on. In the early light the road ahead was barely visible. To his right he could see the mill dam, some shadowy figures down by it running about. And then just a climbing road, no one on it, him in the lead.

He burst out laughing, filled with joy. Riding at a full gallop, he pressed on, the road twisting and weaving, his staff and the mounted first regiment of Virginia boys behind him, struggling to keep up, all the boys hooting and hollering.

After a mile his mount began to slow and he eased back slightly, staff catching up.

"Damn it all, sir. You're gonna get killed someday doing that," one of them shouted as he pushed past Jeb to lead the charge.

"Damned if you'll lead it, Captain!" Jeb shouted, and now it was a race between the two.

They pressed up the road, neck to neck, both horses stretched out, pounding hard. The exuberance of the moment was overwhelming. Behind him were four divisions of infantry, two full battalions of guns, and his own brigade. Near on to thirty thousand men. They had the Yankee flank wide open; it was going to be one hell of a day.

Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna 5:30 A.M.

General Grant, sir, I think you better get up." It was Ely Parker inside his tent. "What is it?" Grant asked, opening his eyes. "Sir, it looks like Lee is flanking us." Grant sat up with a start while Ely adjusted the mantle on the coal oil lamp on the desk, the inside of the tent brightening, Grant squinting for a moment, inwardly groaning, for the light was like a bolt shot into his brain. The damn headache was still with him.

"Sir, a rather frightened lieutenant is outside. He's part of an Illinois regiment, Ord's Corps. They were assigned to picket our right flank."

"Coffee," Grant whispered.

Ely already had a cup, not too hot, so he was able to gulp it down. He stood up, still in his stocking feet, pulling up his suspenders over his shoulders, not bothering to put on his jacket, and stepped out.

His staff was up, milling about, some gathered round the lieutenant who was on a lathered horse. Several of the enlisted men, old vets, were simply sitting by a campfire, frying up salt pork as if this were just the start of another day. One of them tried to catch Grant's eyes, as if to inquire whether he would care for some.

Dawn was approaching. The sky overhead was gray, the east glowing brighter, but the approaching sun would be concealed. The air was still, but smoke from fires rose up a couple of hundred feet then flattened out to form a haze over the entire area. On the opposite bank, nothing stirred, the smoke of campfires concealing the hills.

Grant walked up to the lieutenant, who was breathing hard.

"What's your report?" Grant asked sharply.

"Sir. My company was detailed down south, to Buckeystown ford to guard it. About an hour ago, reb cavalry stormed it."

"Did you see anything else? Infantry, artillery? What was their strength?"

"No, sir. Figured I should report in."

"Who's in command down there?"

"Sir, we were just a company, a few more companies stationed back at Buckeystown above the ford. The rebs, they just came out of nowhere, shooting, hollering, killing everyone. I thought I should get back here to report. I seen Jeb Stuart myself leading the charge."

"How did you know it was him? An hour ago it was near total darkness."

"I knew it was him. He had on that funny hat and was out front, sir. I know it was him."

"Did anyone send you?"

"No, sir, came on my own."

Grant looked at him. The boy was obviously frightened and had experienced a hard ride, his mount blown.

Grant said nothing and turned away, Ely following him.

"Boy's in a panic," Grant said. "Could just be a raid?" Ely offered. "Or more," Grant replied.

He had long ago memorized the maps and knew every detail.

"About six miles down to there. One of several things. It just might be a raid, perhaps to secure the road south, make us nervous. Second, it might really be Jeb, though I won't take that boy's word for it. Third…"

He paused and looked back to the east, where all was still.

"Lee is flanking us."

He whispered the last words, but with so many at headquarters, several overheard, and within seconds the entire headquarters area was buzzing.

Angrily, Grant turned.

"Silence!"

All the men turned toward him, some coming to rigid attention.

He gazed at his staff, ice glittering from his eyes.

"No panic, no running about like chickens with your heads cut off. We know Lee is a good foe, better than Pemberton or old Joe Johnston. If he's flanked us, he's flanked us. But that also means he is where I want him, out in the open. Now go about your business. And not a word to anyone outside of this headquarters. If but one of you starts spreading a panic, by heavens I'll have you court-martialed."

He was a bit embarrassed by the outburst but knew it had to be done. In spite of their confidence, the boasting of so many of his men about what would happen, how they would show Easterners how men from the West could tame Lee, he knew that down deep for many that was a lot of bluster. Lee was indeed a legend. Lee was famous for the surprise flank march, and now he was testing Grant with one.

Inwardly, he cursed himself for a moment. He should have detached a brigade to the ford, but he wanted every man available into this fight.

Too late now to change that. I have to find out more.

Directly to his front a scattering of distant rifle fire began to open up, — and within minutes started to build. This time it was Lee who had opened the day's match. Up and down the length of the creek his men began to blaze away. His own boys, many of whom but minutes before were out behind their trenches, cooking breakfast or relieving themselves, dashed back into the trenches and began to return fire, the volume building.

Henry Hunt began to open up, this time engaging in a measured and very long distance duel with Confederate guns in the center of their position.

Was this a mask in itself? Grant wondered. Of course Lee would open up, threaten perhaps a local attack to keep me focused as long as possible on this place.

"Ely, get a couple of men, our best mounts. Men with good eyes and brains who won't get carried away or exaggerate. Send them down toward Buckeystown to scout things out, then have them report back here."

Ely nodded.

"Sir, any other orders."

Grant looked back to the east.

I will not dance to his tune, he thought. Not based on the report of one frightened lieutenant. Besides, if he is flanking me, it'll be several hours before he really hits.

"No," Grant said. "Everyone is to stay in place until I say different."

He turned and walked over to the fire where the enlisted cook looked up and grinned, offering up a plate of fried salt pork, mixed in with crumbs of smashed-up hardtack.

Stoically, Grant tried to eat the meal, if only to set an example, but knew that within minutes he would be down by the latrine, bringing it up again, his head still throbbing.

Buckeystown 6:00 A.M.

Come on boys, move it, keep it moving!" General Beauregard was at the crossroads leading up from the ford that intersected the road that headed up to Frederick.

Regiment after regiment marched by at the quick step. Some were beginning to flag after the sharp two-mile climb up from the river bottom. They'd been up all night but there was definitely a fire in their eyes, more than one shouting good-natured gibes to their general as they flowed past.

These were tough men and he was proud of them. Men who had defended Charleston for over a year in boiling heat, clouds of mosquitoes day and night, many ridden with ague and living on bad rations.

Up here in the North they had lived off the fat of a rich land, had seen victory against the vaunted Army of the Potomac at Union Mills, having delivered the crucial flanking blow, and it looked like they were about to do it again.

Staff officers at the intersection were directing each regiment as it approached. First Division was to file off to the left of the road and form line of battle. Second Division, which was a half mile down the ford road but coming on fast, would break out and form to the right. Behind them was the battalion of artillery, twenty-two guns, and they would form up in the center, still mounted and ready to move forward.

Beauregard pulled out his watch. Six in the morning. At this rate, on this road, it'd be at least three more hours before every last man was up. Too long.

Anxiously, he looked to the north. Jeb's mounted skirmishers were already forward by a half mile, occasional pops indicating that the Yankees were out there and by now had to know what was up.

"Keep moving, boys! Keep moving! In one hour we go in!"

Buckeystown Ford

6:20 A.M.

Sgt. Lee Robinson waded across the stream, marching with his Texans at the head of Robertson's Division, the general just ahead of him on horseback.

The going had been frustratingly slow throughout the night. Move a few hundred yards, halt for ten minutes, double-time for a minute, back to marching pace, then halt again.

It was typical of a night march and had left him and his men exhausted. The road they had been on was open, and some of the regiments had actually departed the road and simply moved across the fields, paralleling it until stopped to wait until first light.

First, though, Beauregard's two divisions had to cross, followed by the battalion of artillery, which clogged the road ahead.

On the far side of the creek he could see the narrow lane that all of them were trying to funnel into. Artillery clogging the road.

Robertson looked at them in frustration. "It'll take hours," he hissed. He turned to his staff.

"Go straight up this slope. To hell with the road," Robertson exclaimed. "Find farm lanes, anything. If need be, just cut across open fields. I want my boys into this fight!"

Minutes later Lee Robinson was given the word.

"First Texans! Right up the hill, now move it!"

They'd done this before. It meant hard marching and climbing, but if it got them in quicker, then that was part of war.

Without complaint, he led his men forward, through the yard of the mill, and then straight up a narrow farm lane and into the woods above.

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 6:50 A.M.

Lee paced back and forth, unable to contain his nervousness. Pete sat silent by the morning campfire, sipping a cup of coffee. Down below the entire valley was again cloaked in the fog of battle. The day was very still, the air heavy, damp, which held the smoke in place, so that it was impossible to see more than three or four hundred yards. Lee went over to the campfire and sat down. "It should be starting by now," Longstreet offered, breaking the silence.

"Yes, it should be," Lee replied, trying not to sound cross. If Jackson was in charge, as he was at Chancellorsville, he would not be worried, as he was not worried then.

He knew the crossing had started before dawn. A courier had come in an hour and a half ago confirming that.

It was now just a matter of waiting, and waiting was hard this morning.

Grant had outfoxed him on several points. Baltimore was gone, the river was blocked, but in doing these things Grant had left Washington open.

Beat him now, today. Beat him fully, and send him and his men running, and then the promise of that first night at Gettysburg will be fulfilled. All things will still be possible… and the war won.

One Half Mile North of Buckeystown 7:00 A.M.

Men of the South! Men of the Carolinas, of Georgia, of Alabama and Mississippi. Men of Florida and Virginia. Today is our day!"

Beauregard, standing in his stirrups, trotted down the long double-ranked battle line,' sword held high. The moment was transcendent, his eyes clouding with tears. Never had he seen such as this, an open field, two divisions deployed across a front nearly a mile long, battle flags held high.

"Let history one day record that it was we, we here, who on this day won our independence!"

A wild cheer went up, the rebel yell. Though only those within a few hundred yards could hear his words, that did not matter. All could see him, the cheer racing up and down the battle line, resounding, swelling, deafening!

"Forward to victory!"

Drummers massed behind the center of the line started the beat, a steady roll. Buglers picked up the call, echoing the advance. Beauregard turned to face forward, sword resting on his right shoulder, horse rearing up, and then stepping forward with a noble prance.

Behind the line were arrayed twenty-two field pieces, elevated to maximum. As soon as he turned and started off, they fired in unison, the signal to the assaulting force, and to Lee, that the attack had begun.

The mile-wide battle line began to sweep forward.

Behind them, the exhausted troops of Robertson were just beginning to emerge on the main road, McLaw's men not yet up in place. But he could wait no longer. They had to go in now while surprise was still on their side… and victory was ahead.

Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna

7.10A.M.

All were turned, facing south.

They had heard the distant report of the massed volley of artillery in the south. Distant, but distinct above the general fusillade roaring along the river bottom. One of the scouts Ely had sent out was coming up the hill to headquarters, urging his mount on. He reined in before Grant and saluted.

"At least two divisions, sir," he announced. "Sorry I took so long, but I wanted a good look at them, try to count their flags and such."

"Where's Lieutenant Moore?" Ely asked.

"He got hit. Killed, sir, some of them reb skirmishers are damn good shots."

His horse was bleeding from two wounds, testament to the accuracy of fire he had faced while scouting.

"Continue with your report," Grant said quietly.

"Sir. I counted enough flags for at least two divisions. It's Beauregard. I remember seeing him at Shiloh, sir. It's definitely him."

"Just two divisions?"

"No, sir. They were deployed out into a front of two divisions, behind them about twenty, maybe twenty-five guns. But I could see more men coming up from the road, also moving through fields. I'd reckon at least one more division, maybe two. I caught sight of a Texas flag with those men."

"Robertson perhaps," Grant said softly.

"Could not say, sir. Did you hear those guns fire off?"

"Yes, we did," Ely interjected.

"That was a signal. They're advancing. Like I said, two divisions wide, right flank on the river, coming straight up the road from Buckeystown."

The man fell silent and Ely offered him a canteen, which he gladly took and drained half.

"Good report, soldier," Grant said. 'Take care of your horse and get something to eat."

Grant walked away from the scout, Ely following.

"Ely," he said quietly, "send for Ord and Sheridan now. No hurrying about, no panic, but I want them up here quickly."

Grant turned about and walked to the campfire, knowing all eyes were upon him. Everyone at headquarters had heard the report.

He sat down by the cookfire. He was hungry again, and after losing his first attempt at breakfast he was tempted to try again. This time he'd have to keep it down. Everyone was watching, and if he threw up, all would think it was nervousness and not just the headache. Besides, he'd need food; it was going to be a long day. He sat down, took a piece of hardtack offered by the cook, and chewed on it in silence.