Never Call Retreat

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

McCausIand's Ford

8:15 A.M.

Up, men, up!" Sgt. Maj. Washington Bartlett knew something was happening long before the order was given. The division had deployed just behind the crest of a ridge, a ruined brick farmhouse above, obviously the site of yesterday's terrible battle. Just beyond the ridge a steady fusillade was resounding, the men of Ord's surviving troops engaged just on the other side of the rise. Since deploying, the men had been busy scratching at the ground with bayonets, tin cups, anything to dig out a little protection from the long-distance artillery bombardment coming down out of the hill to the left.

A few dozen had been hit, the first blooding of the division, but the men had held steady.

Minutes earlier he had seen Sheridan galloping up from the ford, and the way he rode, flat out, told Bartlett that something big was about to take place.

He quietly worked up his nerve, at one point looking over at John Miller, who returned his gaze, tight-lipped.

"Think we're going in?" Miller asked.

"Well, that general didn't ride over just to ask us how we were doing."

And now the command. "Up, men, up!"

Within seconds, like a giant dark wave, the ten regiments of the United States Colored Troops were up, preparing to dress into line of battle.

"By column of regiments, starting from the left!" 'That's us," Bartlett shouted, and he started to move to the left of the line, the position the colonel said he should assume when they went into a fight.

"By column of companies, to the left wheel, march!"

Surprised, the men looked at each other, not responding at first. They were being ordered to turn about and head back to the ford, away from the fight.

Bartlett looked back. The other regiments were repeating their maneuver, stepping away from what they thought would be their assault position, shifting from battlefront into columns by company front.

Sheridan came back from the front line, still riding hard, one of the white officers of Bartlett's regiment trotting over to meet him.

"Sir, I thought we were going to fight?" the officer cried. "My boys are ready."

"You will fight, damn it!" Sheridan cried. "We're being flanked to the right and rear on the other side of the creek. You are going to have to meet Lee's flank attack head-on. Now get your boys moving!"

Sheridan galloped off toward the ford several hundred yards away.

That stopped the grumbling and a few even offered a cheer as Sheridan rode off.

The officer turned, grim-faced.

"Move it! Back to the ford! Move it!"

From the lip of the crest Bartlett could see small formations of white troops coming as well, running fast.

8:30 A.M.

Beauregard was still out front, now riding with Jeb's troopers, who were deployed in a forward battle line, a quarter mile ahead of the infantry. He turned to look back, the divisions moving steadily, but slowly. It was the old problem of any advance in line versus column. Units were weaving their way through farmyards, woodlots, fields high with corn, open pastures, knocking down fencerows before pressing into the next field.

He regretted now not keeping them in column formation, to shake out into line when the Yankees were in sight, but that could be a problem as well. It could take up to a half hour to shift a divisional column into line of battle, and if they were caught by surprise, especially while trying to change formations, a debacle could ensue.

Also, he did want impact. The sight of a mile-wide battlefront advancing could be overwhelming to an enemy force if they were still in column and marching rapidly up to meet them.

Besides, he could not help but marvel at the sight. It was grand beyond anything he had ever witnessed before, a fulfillment of all old dreams of glory to be found in war. He knew it was inspiring to the men as well, occasional cheers still rippled up and down the lines, battle flags to the fore, drummers keeping the beat.

The ground ahead was opening up, broadening out into a vast open plateau. The Catoctin Range was clearly visible, straight ahead, the church spires still standing in Frederick and the town itself becoming visible as well.

A gentle rise in ground was almost directly ahead and to the right of that the creek was bending to the left, the ground leading down to the Monocacy, a long open slope.

'That's the ford over to the McCausland Farm," Jeb announced, "just behind that low rise. We take that and if Ord is on the other side, he'll be bottled up. But it don't look that way now."

As he spoke Jeb pointed ahead, straight up the road. They were still a mile off, but he could see a dark column, concealed in dust, moving at a right angle to his own advance, heading to the west No, they were stopping, shaking out from column into line.

Beauregard grinned. It was about to begin.

Jeb shouted an order, a regiment of troops, spurring their mounts, pushing forward.

"Maybe we can still catch them while they're moving," Jeb announced.

'Form here, form here!" Sergeant Bartlett ran down the front of the regiment, following his white officers, as the regiment, soaking wet after having double-timed across the ford, began to swing back out into line of battle. Men were breathing hard, some pointing south, exclaiming. "Here they come. God, look at 'em!" "Silence!" Bartlett screamed. "Damn all of you. Come to attention and remain silent!"

The men looked at him, braced themselves. Bartlett caught the eye of the colonel, who nodded his approval.

They had been the first across the creek and were immediately pivoting. Their left was nearly at the stream, the right just about up to the railroad tracks; the next regiment was falling in beside them, and then another and another.

Bartlett stepped a dozen feet forward, first glaring at his men, then curiosity got the better of him and he looked up the line.

It was a grand sight, three regiments already in place, a fourth falling in, extending their front now to a quarter mile. The last of the black regiments from the Second Brigade ran by behind them, and right behind them, the first of Ord's men were crossing the stream.

They were a grim-looking lot. Their uniforms were filthy, some not much better than tattered rags. Their faces were blackened, some with uniform jackets off, others with hats missing. They moved slower, obviously numbed and exhausted, some helping along wounded comrades.

And from the direction they had come, distant gunfire erupted.

An occasional round whizzing by overhead, Bartlett's men involuntarily looking up as if they could see the passage of the ball.

"To the front!"

Bartlett turned.

A cornfield was directly in front of them but the ground sloped up enough that he could see mounted men, about six hundred yards away, coming toward them.

The colonel was studying them intently with his field glasses. He lowered them and looked over at Bartlett.

"Those are rebel cavalry. Forward screen. They'll start opening with a harassing fire, Sergeant. The men are to kneel down, not return fire, until their infantry comes up. I want the first volley to hit them like a sledgehammer."

"Yes, sir."

"Scared, Bartlett?." the colonel asked. "No, sir."

The colonel winked at him.

"I am. Any sane man would be at a moment like this. Remember, Sergeant, courage is being afraid but then doing your duty anyhow. Just remember that and you will do fine."

"Yes, sir."

The colonel slapped him on the shoulder.

"When it starts, I want you close to me. We'll be behind the volley line, directly in the center, same way we drilled it a hundred times back in Philadelphia."

"Yes, sir."

"If I should fall," the colonel said, "Major Wallace will take command. If he falls, then it's up to the company officers and especially you sergeants to keep the men fighting."

"You won't get hurt," Bartlett said.

The colonel smiled.

"I was in every fight with the Army of the Potomac from Gaines Mill to Fredericksburg, where I got wounded. Believe me, Sergeant, officers fall."

He gave a tight-lipped smile.

"Prove something today, Bartlett."

"Sir?"

A minie ball hummed overhead, a puff of smoke erupting from the middle of the cornfield, the shooter invisible. Dozens of more shots ignited, a man in the ranks cursing, dropping his rifle, staggering back, clutching his arm. Men to either side looked at him nervously.

"Kneel down, boys, kneel down," the colonel shouted. The men quickly did as ordered, down on one knee, rifles still poised to the front.

The colonel looked back at Bartlett, who realized at that instant the colonel was playacting. He remained standing, talking with the regimental sergeant major as if the two were just standing about, having a friendly conversation, with not a care in the world.

From the opposite bank, a quarter mile up the slope, puffs of smoke were visible, more rounds coming their way, minie balls whining overhead, another man going down, this one silently, the man next to him beginning to scream, frantically wiping blood and brains from his face.

"We're going to be enfiladed from that crest," the colonel said, nodding back to the opposite bank. "Hope Ord at least left a good skirmish line out there to keep them back."

Behind the USCT battle line, the rest of Ord's men were still trudging across the creek, some running, some limping, some barely able to move. Farther down the line at the end of the right flank of the Colored Division, the first of Ord's men were falling into place to extend the line.

"I was saying, Sergeant Major, today is a day to prove something."

"And that is, sir?"

"You and your men stand this fight, and for the rest of your lives you will be able to look any other man in the face and say you are his equal."

"Some might not see it that way, sir," Bartlett replied quietly.

The colonel laughed, then shook his head. He slowly began to pace, a dozen yards in front of their line, and Bartlett knew this was the continuation of the act. And he was now part of that act, to play at being totally unconcerned, and by their example, brace up the men about to face their first action. A quick look to the flank showed him other officers doing the same. A few were extolling their men, others were just quiet, pacing back and forth. One had a Bible out and was reading aloud from it.

"You know, I'm from Ireland," the colonel continued. As he spoke, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar, lit it, and then looked at Bartlett. He pulled out a second cigar. Though Washington Bartlett had never smoked, he took it now, the colonel holding the match while he puffed it to light. He made the mistake of inhaling and started to cough.

Several of the men in the ranks chuckled, as did the colonel.

"I was born in Ireland," the colonel continued, while slowly walking in front of the men, Bartlett by his side. "Came over in 'forty-seven, fleeing the potato famine, a starving lad, nothing but skin and bones and rags when I got off the boat."

Another scattered volley from the cornfield, another man went down, hit in the knee. One of the officers in the next regiment on the line collapsed, and an angry shout went up, the line actually beginning to surge forward, their officers shouting for the men to stand back in place.

For a second Bartlett looked back behind his own men and saw his son, with the other drummer boys. They were down on their stomachs, clustered near the regimental surgeon.

"I first worked as a navvy," the colonel continued, "digging for the railroads at four bits a day plus keep. Became a section boss finally. War comes and I'm a sergeant. My Alice was my salvation; she kept telling me to get some book learning while I was in the army. Had a good company officer, used to teach us reading, history, literature, and such in the evenings to pass the time in winter quarters. Found I liked the learning and began studying. Lot of things, history of our country, biographies of the Founding Fathers, and, of course, Hardee's drill manual.

"While I was in the hospital after Fredericksburg, word came around they were forming up colored regiments and looking for good men with combat experience to volunteer as officers."

He smiled.

"And now here I am a colonel."

Bartlett noticed a change in tone as the colonel talked on. He had fallen into a bit of a brogue when talking of his life, different from the studied attempt at sounding like he was educated, a professional man.

"I heard about that letter the president sent to you. Can I see it?"

Washington proudly unbuttoned his jacket, reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out a pocket Bible, the letter folded inside. He opened it up and handed it to the colonel.

Men in the ranks nodded. 'The letter, he's reading the letter," some of them said.

The colonel held it reverently, read the contents, then handed it back.

"God bless old Abe," the colonel said, this time loud enough for the men of the regiment to hear.

Several repeated his words.

"I understand your father works in the White House."

"Yes, sir," Washington replied proudly. "Been there near on to fifty years. My middle name is Quincy, named after the president who gave me a silver cup when I was baptized. I'm mighty proud of my father."

"And that's your son back there?" the colonel motioned toward the surgeon, where the drummer boys were mingled in with the stretcher bearers.

"Yes, sir."

"Make sure you keep him back today," the colonel said quietly.

'Thank you, sir. I will."

"Sergeant Major, you know there was no love lost between us Irish and you colored." "I know that, sir."

"Both fighting for the same jobs, both treated as trash. This war is changing that forever." "I hope so, sir."

"I know so. Today is your day to win what we Irish won at Fredericksburg."

Bartlett's back was to the south as the two talked. The colonel paused, looking past him.

"They're coming," the colonel whispered.

Bartlett turned and for several seconds he was frozen in place.

Bayonet tips showed just beyond the opposite slope six hundred yards away. Rising above the bayonets, at regular hundred-yard intervals, were the banners of the Confederacy. Within seconds the bayonet tips were rifle muzzles, then a wall, a wall of gray and butternut, cresting up over the apex of the low rise. Onward they came, not slowing, reaching the edge of the cornfield and then disappearing again, except for the rifle muzzles and bayonets projecting above the stalks.

In the silence he could actually hear them coming, the tramping of feet, cornstalks snapping, wavering, and collapsing. It was wave, a tidal wave, an ocean of armed men, relentless, coming forward, the silence broken by cheers from their side now that their enemy was in sight.

'To our duty, Sergeant Major," the colonel said. He turned and casually walked back to the middle of the regimental line. He paused, looked up at the flags, the distinctive yellow regimental flag of the USCTs, beside it the national colors. He formally came to attention and saluted both.

"Fight like hell, boys!" the colonel shouted. "Keep ah eye on your glorious flags! If they go forward, you go forward!"

He stepped back through the ranks, the men still kneeling except for the color guard, and took position directly behind them, Bartlett by his side.

Three hundred yards out and the rebels were still advancing. Bartlett looked at them in astonishment. Their advance was a solid wall, some officers mounted and out front. Drummers beat out a continual roll. Another cheer that sent chills down his spine, the legendary rebel yell. He had heard it often enough yesterday, from a distance, now it was truly real, coming straight toward him.

More than one in the ranks was looking back at him, eyes wide with fear.

Suddenly John Miller stood up.

"Damn rebels!" he roared, shaking his fist. "Come on, you sons of bitches."

With that a loud shout erupted from the regiment, some of the men began to stand up, officers shouting for them to remain kneeling.

"Check your caps, boys!" The cry went up and down the line, and men half-cocked their muskets, looking down to make sure their percussion caps were in place. A few fumbled in cap boxes to replace a lost or forgotten cap.

Two hundred yards.

Again another defiant rebel yell. An increase in the drum-roll beat. It was hard to see the men through the corn but their rifle tips and bayonets stood out clearly, the tidal wave coming forward, not slowing.

"Up, boys, up!"

The regiment stood up, the regiments down the line doing the same.

The colonel drew his sword and tilted his head back. "Set your sights for one hundred yards!" he roared. Men looked down at their Enfield rifles, some adjusting the rear sight.

"Volley fire on my command!"

They waited, rifles at the shoulder. The rebs kept on coming; they were not going to stop; they were coming straight in. Some of the rifle points disappeared, the men carrying them leveling their weapons for a straight-in bayonet charge.

'Take aim!"

The cry was picked up, each man shouting out the words, "Take aim!"

Across the regimental front six hundred rifles were lowered.

"Pick your targets, boys!" the colonel shouted.

Barrels shifted slightly, men searching for targets, hard to find in the cornfield, many therefore aiming straight in to where the enemy colors floated above the advancing line.

Bartlett felt as if he wanted to scream out the order himself. They were close. A hundred yards, yes, but it seemed as if within seconds those glistening bayonets would be right in his face.

The seconds dragged out, as slow as eternity itself. "Fire!"

The volley let loose as if delivered on the drill field. Six hundred rifles firing as one. Jim stood silent, awed. Before, they had always fired across an empty field. The corn directly in front of them just flattened, or flew up into the air. For a few seconds he wondered if any round had even been able to reach the rebs, but then through the smoke he saw rifles tips pitching backward, a regimental flag going down.

"Reload!" Bartlett roared, no longer able to hold himself back. "Hurry, boys! Reload!"

And then he heard it… a Southern voice yelling, "Charge, boys, charge 'em!"

It came from the cornfield.

A yell resounded, a high-pitched yipping like that of a pack of mad dogs on the scent of blood.

"Load, load, load!" A white officer was pacing in front of their volley line, gesturing wildly, urging the men on. Bits of cartridge paper flew into the air as men tore them open with their teeth, poured powder down barrels, squeezed bullet into barrel, and threw the paper aside. Ramrods were out, hundreds of arms rising up, pushing charges down the barrels.

All of it was combining together… "Charge!.. Load, boys, load."… the maddening rebel yell almost on top of them… "Load, boys, load!"

"Volley fire, present!"

The colonel had remained absolutely still throughout, not budging an inch, not saying a single word, and Bartlett, looking at him, drew inspiration. Yelling would change nothing; it was calmness now that counted, calmness and nerves of steel.

"Take aim!"

He looked straight ahead. Cornstalks collapsing, flashes of bayonets, faces of men, distorted with battle fever and rage, rushing toward them.

Some of the men were not yet loaded, but most were, rifles leveled.

"Fire!"

A shattering roar. Then nothing but clouds of smoke. Men started to reload. Those who had not loaded quickly enough for the volley lowered their guns, aimed into the smoke, and fired.

And then a few men came out of the smoke, still at the run, bayonets lowered… and smashed into the line.

Wild oaths, screams, men slashing out, rebs lowering rifles in the last few seconds and firing at waist level into the solid ranks. More men going down, the line bowing back just to the flank of the colors, the national flag bobbing down for a moment.

Bartlett looked left and right. The battle line almost broke open where a couple of dozen rebs had waded in, slashing, jabbing, a rebel officer with revolver drawn dropping several men before being clubbed down.

At the center the national flag was half down, its holder bayoneted in the stomach, a reb reaching out grabbing the flagpole, wrestling to pull it out of the grip of the dying man.

Bartlett leapt forward, bayonet poised, and dived into the melee, bayoneting the reb who had hold of the flag, and was hoisting it up, shouting with glee. The man collapsed, flag going back down.

"Volley fire, present!"

It was the colonel, still motionless, oblivious, it seemed, to the near breakthrough. 'Take aim!"

Less than half the men complied; the rest were fighting hand to hand or were so rattled by the onset that they moved as if trapped in mud. More than one had thrown his rifle down and was already running.

Bartlett pulled the colors back from the dying reb, using the staff as a club, waving it back and forth, several rebs trying to close in on him.

"Fire!"

Another volley and the few rebs directly in front dropped, some riddled by half a dozen or more rounds.

Washington stepped back into the line, panting for breath, his rifle gone, the flagstaff clutched with both hands.

Someone slapped him on the back and he half turned, ready to fight. It was John Miller.

"Sergeant Major, I'll take that, sir. You got other jobs to do."

He was reluctant to give it up, looking up at the banner, red stripes, part of the flag torn by a bayonet, blood on the white stars.

"Sergeant Major, if you don't mind, please."

It was the colonel.

He nodded, handed the flagstaff to Miller, picked up a rifle lying on the ground, and stepped back through the line. "Volley fire on my command!"

The line had held, half a hundred were down, but it still held. A glimpse through the smoke showed him a second rebel line was up, in the cornfield, about a hundred yards back, the corn in between already shredded down to the ground. Beyond them, up on the low rise, artillery pieces were wheeling into place.

He stepped back beside his colonel.

'Take aim!" the colonel roared.

Rifles were aimed downrange.

"Fire!"

"Reload!"

Bartlett, panting for breath, looked over at his colonel, who smiled. And to his horror he saw that the man was clutching his midsection, blood trickling out. Washington reached out to grab him, but the colonel waved him off.

"Just a scratch," the colonel said with a smile.

"Surgeon!" Bartlett shouted, but his voice was drowned out by men yelling, explosions, the steady tearing zip of minies coming into their lines.

"Leave off of it," the colonel snapped. "I'm still fine."

He looked at Bartlett and grinned.

"No one will ever take that flag away from you ever again, Sergeant Major."

The colonel turned back to face the rebel line.

"Take aim!"

"Fire!"

9. I5 A.M.

Tell Robertson and McLaw they must come up now and we have them!" Beauregard snouted. A staff officer saluted, turned, and galloped back down the road.

Across his mile-wide front the battle had opened, volleys rattling, the air above and around him alive with bullets. He rode behind his regiments, the reserve brigades, one to each division advancing, already going in to strengthen the assault. Directly to the front of his First Division more than one man had gone into a near frenzy with the realization they were fighting colored troops.

He thought those would break with the first charge. The lead regiments had leapt forward without even firing, figuring to panic and bowl them over with the sight of the bayonet.

Those regiments had been shredded, and now a vicious firefight raged across the cornfield.

The first of his guns, a battery of Napoleons, were already in play but the shooting was tight for them. There was no good prominence to deploy on that would enable the gunners to fire safely over the heads of the infantry in front. The range was short at six hundred yards, and missing in elevation by even a few feet would send case shot plowing into the backs of comrades, so most of the shells were going high, bursting far behind the enemy line.

He sent another courier over to the gunners, telling them to shift target, to bombard the crossing where Yankee infantry were drawn up defending the far side of the ford from increasing pressure by Jubal Early's battered survivors.

He looked back down the road-dust. It had to be Robertson; it had to be.

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 9:20 A.M.

He had not gone in as one solid blow, Lee thought, high enough above the smoke that he could clearly see the spreading battle on the other side of the creek.

Two divisions were in, trading blow for blow with what looked to be two divisions of Yankees. One division was far stronger than the other, and close examination had revealed them to be the colored troops. Most likely fresh from training fields, numbers not yet depleted, perhaps five thousand or more.

They had just sustained a mad frontal charge and held, his own men forced to give back, and now it was a stand-up firefight. Beauregard was right to try that tactic; if the blacks had broken in panic, that panic could easily have infected the rest of the army and sent them running, the way the German Eleventh Corps had at Chancellorsville.

The Yankees had taken a bad position to try to hold. Their left flank, on the far side of the creek, was at a right, angle to the ford. They should have conceded that point, pulled back several hundred yards to the north, but if they had done so, the Yankees still on the east side of the creek would have been completely surrounded.

There was a great opportunity now.

"Tell General Alexander to return his guns on our left back to their position of yesterday, to open a general bombardment on the Yankees below them. Also, tell Jubal he must push forward and retake that ford. That could begin to roll up their entire right flank."

An orderly saluted and galloped off.

Hood and Longstreet were by his side, both silent, glasses raised, watching the spreading fight.

"I should go down, help Jubal," Hood said. "I can bring up what's left of Rodes's old division as well.

Lee nodded in agreement, not saying a word.

"We're losing a lot of men down there," Pete said.

"So are they," Lee replied.

Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna 9:40 A.M.

He could sense the growing anxiety of his staff. Men were moving about hurriedly, couriers setting off a bit too quickly, spurring their mounts hard.

There was so much smoke now it was hard to see, the air absolutely still, filled with dampness, the kind of conditions that could cause battle smoke to become a thick, impenetrable fog.

Banks came in. Dapper-looking, fifteen years older than Grant, he saluted in a perfunctory manner. "You sent for me, sir?"

"I want you to prepare to shift your reserve division back into the center of Frederick, then move south of town to cover the Catoctin Road."

"Is this the beginning of a pullout?" Banks asked quietly.

"No, it is not!" Grant snapped, loud enough for everyone to hear. "We stand here, we fight here, we win here. We are not pulling out."

"Sir, may I be so bold," Banks said with almost a lecturing tone. "You have been flanked, sir, and that is Lee down there. He is already preparing to come in from across the river. I suggest we consider evacuation of this plain and pull back to the high ground."

"You are being bold and completely out of line, General Banks," Grant said icily. "I have given you an order. Now see that it is carried out. Keep your division in town. When I pass the order, they are to come out on to the plains south of town."

He paused, stepping closer to Banks.

'Those are my orders."

"Yes, sir," Banks said calmly. He saluted crisply, and without a look back, rode off.

The roar of battle continued to intensify. Hunt's batteries were fully engaged, half the pieces sending shot into Beauregard's guns, the other pieces pounding the ground on the other side of the ford, where increasing numbers of rebel infantry were pushing down toward the river.

"More rebs going in!" someone exclaimed.

Grant shifted his field glasses back to Beauregard's advance, but could see nothing, the smoke too thick. He lowered the glasses. It was hard to discern, but watching closely he could see a dark tide moving through the smoke, coming up to merge with the enemy's forward battle line:

"Bet that's the Texans," Ely Parker said softly.

First Texas 9:50 AM.

Men panting, bent double, the battle line of Hood's old Texas brigade surged forward. Behind them the rest of Robertson's Division was filing in behind Beauregard's right-flank division, having broken column from the road to swing into line.

They crossed over a railroad track, gray-clad bodies scattered along the right-of-way. A shell screamed in, bursting directly on the track, showering them with case shot and fragments of ballast, five men going down.

"Keep moving, boys!" Lee Robinson shouted. "Keep moving."

Men were cursing, a few falling out from exhaustion. Directly ahead he could see Monocacy Creek, and at the sight of it some men cried out that there was water.

At the head of the column was a staffer from Robertson's headquarters, mounted on a bloody horse, sword drawn, now pointing to their left.

'Turn and form line!" he screamed.

The men around Robinson cursed, one of the corporals snatching canteens from half a dozen of his comrades and ignoring the orders, dashing the last few yards down to the creek.

Lee let him go. Those who were still with this column were the solid hard core of the old First. No skulkers. They had been driven out long ago. Every man was a veteran, a veteran of the cornfield at Antietam, Fredericksburg, Union Mills, the debacle before Washington, the slaughter last week at Gunpowder River. An officer shouted for the corporal to come back, but the man ignored him, jumping into the creek, forcing the canteens down, then but a few seconds later coming back up the slope, muddy, water dripping, passing the canteens back to his comrades, who drank greedily and then passed the precious liquid to friends forming line around them.

"Forward at the double!"

The First Texas set off, a ragged line, but then again they were never noted for parade-ground performance, but when it came to a fight, they were the ones called upon.

"I heard it's niggers up there," someone cried.

"They can kill the same as a white man," someone shouted back, and from more than one there were dark oaths about what would happen to prisoners.

"None of that," Robinson shouted. "General Lee said prisoners will be taken and treated properly. I'll shoot the first man that disobeys."

No one spoke in reply; all were now too exhausted, too focused on what was ahead.

They swept past a battery of Napoleons, gun crews busy at work, pieces kicking back, gunners rolling their pieces forward while swabbers ran sponges down the bores to kill sparks and keep the barrels cool.

As the men passed in front of the guns the crews stopped work for a moment, a few cheering "old Texas!" on.

They hit the edge of the cornfield, or what had been the cornfield. It was mowed flat, barely a stalk standing, bringing to Lee's mind dark memories of Antietam, where the brigade had lost nearly eighty percent of its men in twenty minutes.

Hundreds of bodies littered the ground, the wounded who were unable to walk trying to crawl to the rear. Walking wounded staggered about, seeing Texas coming on, a few of them cheering, others just standing silent.

The roar of battle ahead swelled. Nothing could yet be seen,only smoke, a shell bursting overhead, more men going down, a riderless horse dragging a body, the foot of a dead man caught in the stirrups, the litter of battle, drums, cartridge papers, smashed and twisted rifles, and bodies and more bodies.

Finally he saw it, a shadowy line, men no longer standing, most down on their knees or lying flat as they fought. "Forward, Texas!"

Sergeant Major Bartlett remained by the side of his colonel, whose features were pale, graying, lifeblood seeping out between the fingers of his right hand clasped to his stomach. But the man was still on his feet.

They had long ago gone to independent fire at will. Most of the men had fired off the forty rounds in their cartridge boxes and were now reaching into haversacks and pants pockets or scavenging in the cartridge boxes of the dead and wounded.

Bartlett had left his colonel a few times to pace down the line, detailing off parts of companies to stand back from the fight for a few minutes, to upend canteens into barrels to loosen the gummy powder and swab their barrels clean.

Those without water he ordered to pee down the barrels, a few of the men, in spite of the horror around them, laughing about getting shot in the wrong place while they did as ordered.

Guns were so hot that to touch them with bare skin would blister the flesh off, and men actually laughed as one soldier, following Bartlett's orders, suddenly dropped his gun and began to hop about in agony.

As he reached the right flank of the line he looked for Major Wallace, to report that the colonel was badly wounded and would not last much longer, but Wallace was dead, shot through the forehead.

The line was still holding, but over half the men were down. In sections they were stretched out in nearly a straight row, a gap of a dozen feet in the front, and Bartlett ordered men in to fill the gap, calmly telling them to close the line, center on the flag, and keep firing.

Fifty yards back, down in a shallow depression he saw the surgeon at work, and in spite of the call of duty he ran back, looking around frantically. The surgeon looked up at him, pausing while he bandaged off the arm of a corporal and caught Bartlett's eye, nodding over to his right. His son was helping to drag in a man shot in the face. He nodded and ran over to his son.

"Daddy." The boy looked up at him wide-eyed and then smiled.

"Not afraid now," his son gasped. 'Too much to do, but wish I could play the drum."

He patted his son on the shoulder then bent low and sprinted back to the colonel's side.

Just as he reached the colonel the intensity of fire from the enemy side redoubled, swelled, a shattering volley taking down half the men of the color guard. Miller was still standing, though, keeping the national flag aloft.

Washington looked over at the colonel.

"Reinforcements on their side, another wave. Make sure the boys stay low and keep pouring it back."

"For God's sake, sir,"- Bartlett shouted, "then you get down, too."

"Can't," the colonel gasped. "Once I lie down, won't get up."

He was using his sword now as a cane to keep himself up.

The enemy fire sweeping in was deadly. After the first volley from the reinforcements, it was now aimed independent fire, bullets whistling in low.

Cursing, Miller went down, clutching his arm, another man snatching the colors from him, that man then getting hit, and then another took his place.

"They'll come in hard, all at once," the colonel said. "If the flank breaks, we have to pull back. Keep the men together, rally them round the colors and keep them together. Try to get them up on the road to town, if not, then back along the railroad track."

Bartlett nodded, unable to speak.

10:15 A.M.

Move your battery out to the right," Hunt shouted. The captain in charge of a battery of Illinois gunners saluted, shouted for his men to hook up their pieces and pull them out of the lunettes. He was changing front now with nearly all his guns, shifting from fire across the river to the pounding of the rebel flanking attack. There was little they could actually shoot at, the smoke was too thick, but the sound of battle to their right was swelling, punctuated now by more rebel yells. Anyone with experience knew a breakthrough was coming, and would roll straight toward them.

He looked back toward town. The reserve limbers, loaded with canister, had yet to appear. He needed that canister, and he sent the last of his couriers off to urge the limbers on.

'They're starting to break," someone shouted, pointing. On the road below, hundreds of men were emerging out of the smoke, Union troops, white and black mixed together, some running, some giving ground defiantly, clustered around a flag, falling back thirty or forty yards, turning to fire, then falling back again.

In ten minutes the rebs would be on him.

"Texas!"

The men of the Texas Brigade were up on their feet, pushing through Beauregard's men and starting forward. It was not a mad, impetuous charge. They came on low, crouching, standing up to fire, going down low to reload, weaving forward a few dozen feet, standing to fire again. The range was so close that now, at last, Lee Robinson could see his enemies, maybe thirty yards off, shadowy dark figures, down low, firing back. No solid volley line, they were shredded, but the survivors were hanging on, refusing to budge.

It was going to take the bayonet.

10:20 A.M.

A courier came up on foot, crouched over, clutching a hand that had taken a bullet. "Colonel!" "Over here!" Bartlett cried.

The courier came up and at the sight of the colonel, still standing erect, he forced himself to rise up and then salute.

"General's compliments, sir. Our right has collapsed. You are ordered to pull back."

The colonel nodded, oblivious to the rebel infantry, shadowy and yet clearly visible not a hundred feet off, flashes of light winking up and down their line.

"Sir, try and get over the railroad and back toward town. But frankly, sir, I think that way is cut off by rebel troops." 'To where then?"

"Along the river and the railroad track. There's a railroad cut 'bout half a mile back-"

He collapsed, shot through the head. The colonel looked around.

"Hardest maneuver," he said trying not to bend over from the pain.

"I'll take care of it, sir." The colonel nodded.

Bartlett went up to the colors, stood up, and looked around. "Men, listen to me! We're pulling back. No panic. No panic. I'll shoot the first man that turns and runs." Men looked over at him. "Load for volley but don't fire!"

Men began to stand up and the sight of it was pitiful. He did not realize until that moment just how many men were down for good. Of the six hundred who had opened fire, barely two hundred and fifty now stood, clustering in close to their flag.

He could hear the rebel yell resounding to his right and now heading toward the rear.

John Miller was down on his knees, and Washington reached down, pulling him up, John wincing.

"Don't stay behind," Bartlett shouted.

John nodded.

"Fall back! Keep your formation, men. Don't run, fall back at the walk!"

He grabbed the colonel, who gasped and went double. "Leave me, Sergeant." "Like hell."

"I'm dying. Now leave me. If you don't, they'll get you, too!"

Washington tried to pull him along. "Damn it, soldier. An order. Leave me!" The colonel straightened up, looked at him, and then actually smiled.

"Good work, soldier," he gasped. "Just take me over to the surgeon. I'll see you later when you come back."

Tears in his eyes, Bartlett realized he could not lead these men out while burdened with a wounded man who could not walk on his own.

He picked the colonel up and carried him over to the makeshift hospital area down in a gently sloping ravine. A hundred or more were on the ground, the surgeon frantically at work. At the sight of his approach the surgeon came to his feet and ran over.

"I'll take him."

Together they helped the colonel to lie down. "Where's my son?" Bartlett asked. "I don't know."

Frightened, Washington stood and looked about. He saw several drummer boys dragging a man with a leg shot off, two more struggling with a stretcher, but his son… he could not see him.

"William!"

His voice was drowned out by the roar of battle, the rebel yell as the enemy before them, sensing the pullback, began to surge forward.

"William!"

Someone shoved him. It was Miller, his left arm dangling but his right still strong.

"They're on us!" Miller cried.

Washington looked up. The rebs were already over the position they had held but a few minutes before.

"Sergeant Major Bartlett, act your role," the colonel gasped. "I'm proud of you. Now take command like a soldier."

Washington, fighting back tears, saluted, looked once more for his son and then as the colors passed him, he fell in by their side, then got behind the men, racing back and forth, up and down the line, ordering the men to fire, reload, pull back, fire, reload, pull back.

The rebs swarmed over the hospital area.

10:40 A.M.

Sheridan came up the slope to army headquarters, hat gone, his uniform torn where a ball had plucked his shoulder, barely breaking the skin but now marked by a trickle of blood.

Grant stood silent, cigar clenched firmly in his mouth. 'The line is breaking," Sheridan announced. "I know, I can see that."

"They've split the front. Ord's boys to the north of the road, my division of blacks to the south." He paused.

"General, they fought like tigers. Held them back for an hour and a half."

Grant said nothing, just nodding.

"Sir, my entire corps is about to be flanked, pinned down by the river. Some of Ord's men mixed in. The rest were up on the right of my black division but have given way. Robertson is swinging on to my flank now. Early is crossing the ford and I think Scales is preparing to come down from the heights."

"Hold exactly where you are."

"Sir? They'll have three divisions coming up this road. They're coming up even now. Shouldn't I pull back to block?"

He pointed down the road toward Buckeystown and he was indeed right. What was left of Ord's command had broken, was coming back across the plateau. In a matter of minutes Hunt's batteries, unsupported yet by infantry, would be in the thick of that attack.

"Shouldn't I pull back, support Hunt?"

Grant shook his head.

"That railroad track, the ground around it, turn it into the Hornets Nest like at Shiloh. It will stop Lee cold for hours and he'll bleed out if he turns on it. You take command down there. Let me worry about here."

"It means I'll be cut off."

"Yes, it does," Grant said quietly. "At least for a while. You start moving back, though, and those boys will just keep moving and then start running. That's happened too many times in the past. They are to stand and hold their ground. That is your job. Let me deal with the rest."

"Yes, sir," Sheridan replied.

"You will hold throughout the day. Let him bleed out on you. Do you have extra ammunition?"

"Yes, sir. Twenty wagonloads during the night, about three hundred boxes of a thousand rounds each."

"You got a battery down there as well. Use them to fire down the tracks in both directions. Now go!"

Sheridan forced a grin, turned, and rode off.

Directly ahead, on the road toward Buckeystown he saw a division deploying out, coming forward, a staff officer shouting that it was McLaw.

"Let him come," Grant replied sharply, sat back down, tossed aside his cigar, and lit another one..

10:45 A.M.

Robert E. Lee turned to his old warhorse, Pete Longstreet.

"Attack all along the line, General Longstreet."

"Sir? Beauregard is nowhere near Frederick yet. In fact sir, I think he bungled it. He should have waited for Robertson and McLaw to fully deploy out, hit them with four divisions at once."

Yes, Pete was right on that point Beauregard went in too soon, he should have waited the extra hour. But then again, that had always been a curse to them, to any army in the past attempting to flank a foe by a back road. It could take hours to deploy out into battle formation, and in the interval an opponent could either draw back or prepare. What did surprise him was that Beauregard going into battle formation four miles back, before engaging. He should have gone forward in columns and covered the ground in half the time.

Chancellorsville, in one sense, had played out that way. The first of Jackson's divisions had completed the march shortly after noon, but it was another four hours before he went in. Though the victory was overwhelming at the start, darkness had intervened, and thereby saved the Army of the Potomac.

Nothing of that could be changed now. But Grant's right flank was indeed crumbling. He could see a clear breakthrough opening a breach between the two divisions first sent out to stop him. Up by the National Road, a division of Union troops that had been in reserve position yesterday was now filing back toward the town.

That left but two of Banks's divisions to cover several miles of front. What was left of Sheridan in the center, and Ord on the right, was collapsing.

His original plan, for Beauregard to sweep up the west bank of the Monocacy, literally to have the sleeve of the man at the right of the line brushing the water, apparently was not happening. The position from just back of McCausland's Ford, up to the depot was acting as a breakwater, while Beauregard seemed to be pivoting more to the west with his assault, following the road up to Frederick.

"General Longstreet, push-your men down to the ford just south of the National Bridge. Drive across, open a wedge there. Put every man in. We are not to hold back now. I want every man in."

"Sir," he said and hesitated.

He had rarely seen Lee this agitated, this focused on the moment at hand.

"General Longstreet, did you hear me, sir?"

"Yes, General Lee. It is just that I suspect General Beauregard's assault will stall when he reaches Frederick. The Yankees right down by the stream below us are hanging on. Our original plan was for the divisions on this side to link up with Beauregard as he swept past, thus reinforcing his attack, and our assault would go in on the enfilade against them. What you are ordering now instead is a frontal assault."

Lee turned away from the fight, eyes fixed on Pete.

"We must venture that. I think they are ready to break."

"Sir, that is not the Army of the Potomac over there. That is something different, men used to victory. We must factor that in."

"Then we shall teach them that they can indeed lose."

"Sir," again he hesitated, "I beg you to reconsider. We have lost our base of supply, an enemy force is advancing on our rear even if it is still a few days off. We fight a full-scale battle here, even if we win, we just might lose. We have no reserves; we'll have ten, maybe fifteen thousand additional wounded, and Grant most likely will slip back over that pass and still be a threat."

Lee was silent, gazing at him, and for a few seconds he hoped that indeed he was reaching through, penetrating the fury of battle that was now upon him.

"Order Beauregard to halt. He did not do a good job, but at least he finished what was left of Ord and part of Sheridan. Grant is down to but one corps capable of an offensive. We hold, let him then try to hit back."

"No, sir," Lee snapped angrily. "I want this finished, now, today. This is our chance to defeat them once and for all. Now see to your duty, General Longstreet." 'We hold here!"

Sergeant Major Bartiett looked up as Phil Sheridan rode among their ranks. Most of the men of the Third Division had given ground in fairly good order, but to his shame several of the regiments had broken entirely and run.

Of white officers he saw precious few. Three captains from his own regiment, one of them clutching a head wound, one whom he knew to be a drunkard and obviously drunk now, the third of decent caliber who had kept his company together and in good order but seemed lost in shock.

The rebs had not pursued hotly; their fire had slackened as the Third pulled back. Sheridan was pointing up toward the railroad track, to where it edged along the side of a low ridge for several hundred yards, with several cuts through the low ridge for the grade. There was a thick cloying scent in the air; the ground about the cut had a scattering of bodies that had been out in the heat for two days. They all looked as if they had on uniforms two sizes too small, bodies swollen, knees drawn up, one with both hands clenched and raised.

To his right he saw the piers of a bridge about a hundred yards upstream, smoke curling from collapsed timbers still protruding above the water.

"Rally along the railroad track, boys," Sheridan cried. "You hold the west end, the rest of the corps the east end. And you've got to hold!"

Bartlett led his men as they scrambled up onto the track and looked around. There was a shallow railroad cut. Good protection if hit from the river or from the north, but if the rebs came straight in from the west, it was bad ground.

'Track and ties, boys!" someone shouted. He wasn't sure who said it, but within seconds a couple of hundred men were at work. There were no tools, though, men prying at the spikes with bayonets.

Some of the black soldiers waded in, shouting they knew what to do. The Baltimore and Ohio's rails were bolted together, and on the outside of the track, at the joint, a wooden block was wedged in to keep the joint tight. A heavy sergeant took the butt of a musket and started to hammer on the side of the wooden wedge. It began to move. Several more joined in, working in unison. The wedge popped out. Up and down the line men were popping the wedges. The sergeant ran along the track, grabbing men, shouting for Bartlett to get his boys, three or four to each tie on one side.

Seconds later, with more than two hundred men lifting and pushing, the track with ties still attached rose slowly, the rail bending. Bolts popped and the long section of track rose up and crashed over. Men swarmed over the torn-up section, prying loose the six-foot-long ties, tearing them free, running them up, and stacking them across the open end of the cut; others came up with twisted pieces of rail, tossing them on.

A company of white soldiers from farther up the line came to them, carrying pry bars and wrenches, a shout of joy going up among the men around the sergeant directing the operation.

"You boys need help?" one of the white soldiers shouted, holding up a wrench.

"I was a Reading Railroad man," the black sergeant shouted, and the white soldier slapped him on the shoulder.

"Could see you knew your work. Erie Railroad here."

The few precious tools were passed around, easing the job, the sergeant directing men to unbolt sections of track. The barricade, though low, had to span over thirty feet. Gradually, it was beginning to build up. Men scooped up ballast with their bare hands and threw it over the barricade. Others started to drag ties to the top of the cut, to give a little more protection and to make them the perfect height for a rifle rest when lying down.

"They're coming!"

The few men who had the stomach to remain behind as skirmishers came running down the track. Their approach was announced as well by a rebel volley that tore straight down the ravine, dropping half a dozen men.

"My men over here!" Bartlett screamed. "Rally to the colors, men.

A white officer came up. He didn't recognize the man, a colonel.

"Sergeant, where're your officers?" He looked around and recognized no one in the confusion, the bustle of men working to tear up the track. "I don't know, sir."

"Take your colors. Plant them on that barricade and hold it!"

Even as he spoke there was a loud clattering, a shouting to clear the way. A field piece, a bronze twelve-pound Napoleon, was being moved up the track, crew shouting for the men to clear back.

The ravine was so narrow that the crew stopped at the eastern entryway, unhooked their piece, and swung it around, beginning to drag it forward by hand. Bartlett could see where it was going to be positioned, and he shouted for his men to pitch in, even as he approached the barricade with the color guard. Sergeant Miller, arm in a rough sling, was still with them, features gray, but he was hanging on.

With men pushing from all sides the Napoleon was run up to the barricade. The team that had pulled it up were backing up to open ground where they turned their horses around. Men unhooked the limber box, nearly half a ton of weight, and manhandled it down, dragging it the length of the ravine and depositing it ten yards back from the gun. The team took off.

Bartlett's men fell in on either side of the gun crew.

"What are we facing?" a gunner asked.

"Texans I heard," Bartlett replied.

"Oh, lordy," the gunner sighed. "You boys, stick to us like ticks on a dog."

"We will."

"They're coming!"

He could hear them now, the high-pitched yelping. The smoke had cleared just enough that they were visible, a couple of hundred yards off, a line astride the railroad track, spread a couple of hundred yards to either flank, red banners to the fore.

He looked back. Up and down the railroad cut for as far as he could see men were up against the embankments; a roar was thundering back from the east end, down by the river. From what little he had learned so far in the army, he knew their position was a bad one. They were like a long thin line, men almost literally back-to-back along the railroad line. The rebs coming at them had them at a right angle. Other rebs were swarming around to either side; from the far river-bank long-range shot and shells were beginning to rain in.

They were cut off, surrounded.

Someone slapped him on the shoulder, and he turned. A young white soldier pushed two packs of cartridges, ten rounds in each, into his hand. Behind him half a dozen other white soldiers had laid down two wooden cases of ammunition. One had already pried it open with a bayonet, torn off the tin waterproof cover, and was piling out ten packs of cartridges, men coming over to scoop them.

We're going to need every round, Sergeant Major Bartlett realized.

"Case shot, one-second fuse!"

The gunners were well practiced, a young boy running up bearing the shell, which was rammed home.

"You colored boys, stand back!" a gunnery sergeant yelled, even as he stepped back from the piece, his lanyard taut.

He jerked the lanyard-an explosive roar, the Napoleon kicking back several feet. The shell detonated directly ahead of the advancing line, dropping several. A man was screaming on the other side of the gun, clutching a crushed foot, the gun having gone over it.

"I told you to stand back!" the sergeant screamed.

"Case shot, one-second fuse!"

The rebel advance stopped. He could see them raising their pieces up, then bringing them level. "Down! Get down!"

A second later the volley swept the front of the barricade, minie balls striking iron railing, railroad ties, snapping through the flag, and striking men as well.

"Aimed fire, boys!" Bartlett shouted. "Careful aiming. Now give it to them."

The fight was on again. Seconds later the Napoleon fired, the shell disappearing into the smoke. To his horror, Washington Bartlett realized at that moment that his son, if still alive, was somewhere over there, in the direction they were shooting. Any round going high was most likely plowing into the hospital area.

He raised his own rifle, aimed very low, and fired.

10:55 A.M.

Oh, this is beautiful, just beautiful," Henry Hunt exclaimed as he paced behind the new line he had just set up, facing south. He ignored the enfilading artillery fire coming from across the river, which had already dismounted or struck down two of his guns.

It was the target before him that counted.

The last of Ord's broken men had streamed past his position, and now, four hundred yards out, an entire division of rebel infantry was coming straight at him. He had over sixty guns lined up. Not as many as Malvern Hill, but more than Gettysburg.

He had full faith in his gunners. They had proven themselves yesterday in the bombardment of the McCausland Farm. And now they had infantry before them, a beautiful wide target spread out over a half mile. Three brigades in the lead, two more a hundred yards behind. And behind them another division four hundred yards farther back, struggling to reform after their initial clash earlier in the morning.

"Fire!"

This was not a single salvo. He had ordered his battery commanders to carefully check aim and elevation and make every shot count.

The guns directly in front of him went off. Seconds later more opened up, the last firing maybe thirty seconds later. Commands were being shouted, "Case shot, two-second fuse!" "Roll 'em up, boys." "Sergeant, check that elevation screw. Raise it half a turn!"

Field glasses were useless in the smoke. He squatted down, trying to see under the billowing clouds created by the guns just fired, and was delighted. Shells were bursting right in front of the advancing line, puffs of dirt geysering from the shells with percussion fuses, some of the shots going high, but some of the high ones hitting the second line.

Excellent shooting.

He knew when to fall silent, to step back, which he now did. And his men went to work. ll: OOA.M.

'I want my divisions back in!" Beauregard shouted. Robertson's and McLaw's divisions had taken the lead in the assault, passing through and beyond his own two divisions, which had delivered a savage beating to the Yankees but in turn had been torn apart.

He regretted now, more than ever, not waiting for them to come up, to have sent all four in at once. They could have gone through like a battering ram, but then again, the delay might have allowed the Yankees to do what they were now doing, shifting guns about, bringing up more men.

Johnston had not listened to him at Shiloh about his deployment before the attack, packing the men in too close so that all command and control had been lost, and he had been saddled with the blame.

Now Lee would blame him for the loss of momentum. Damn it, well, let Lee try to maneuver twenty-five thousand men on one narrow road, then go into a fight.

To his right the Yankees were digging in along the railroad track. Already the position reminded him of the infamous Hornets Nest of Shiloh.

Turn on it, wipe it out completely, or push toward Frederick and leave Robertson behind, or order Robertson to echelon to the left and avoid it as well?

But battle was already joined. Robertson was sending his men straight in. He would have to leave him behind.

Beauregard pointed up the road toward Frederick, shouting for his own men to form and get back into the attack.

"Come on, boys, come on! We can still take them! Come on, move it!"

His two divisions started forward, not with the beautiful formation and elan of dawn. They had marched over six miles since they began and fought one pitched battle already, but nevertheless they went forward, heading toward the sound of the guns.

Relay Station

Ten Miles West of Baltimore

11:15 A.M.

Gen. George Sykes leaned out of the railroad car that served as his headquarters. On the parallel track an engine inched forward, railroad workers jumping off the flatcars they had been riding on, a team handing down several rails, eight men shouldering the rail and running forward. 'Two more breaks in the line, General, sir." The yard boss, some Irishman by his brogue, gave a bit of an impertinent salute and ran forward with his men.

George stepped down from the car and walked forward. Behind him another train was easing to a stop, in front of the engine was a massive flatcar converted into a rolling fortress, an armored car they called it, the barrel of a thirty-pounder protruding from the iron-plated front.

A similar car was at the front of his own train and the one on the parallel track.

Ahead there was the rattle of skirmishing, some rebs visible on the track perhaps six hundred yards away, a marine detachment pushing them back.

Strange, all this, George thought as he leaned against the armored car to watch the laborers at work.

After surviving the debacle at Gunpowder River, he had assumed the few battered survivors of the Army of the Potomac would be disbanded and sent to other units, the name 1 of that famed command stricken from the records forever. Then had come the hand-delivered dispatch from the War Office, countersigned by Grant, specifically laying out a detailed plan that had stunned him.

He was to reorganize the survivors into a single corps, out of deference to him, the Fifth Corps. Units were to be banded together by the states they came from. The men would be resupplied, which they were, then told to rest and wait, which they did for five days.

And then word had come to prepare to move. The men had marched up to the Northeast River, ten miles back from the Susquehanna, to Charlestown. That night a flotilla of transport ships arrived, and the next morning they had steamed out, racing south.

Off the mouth of the Patapsco River at the entrance to Baltimore they had joined a second flotilla, this one actually commanded by Farragut himself, many of the ships having come up from the siege of Charleston. There were deepwater ships: transports crammed with marines and sailors converted to infantry, ironclads, and long flat barges carrying the trains he and some of his command now rode in.

Baltimore, contrary to expectations, had fallen with barely a shot being fired, except by the garrison at McHenry.

There had been some rioting, which the sailors were assigned to put down while he and his valiant few, his Army of the Potomac, reinforced by the marines, set off.

His first concern was that the rebs might blow up the huge stone viaduct at Relay Station. Thus once the armored cars and their locomotives were rolled off the trains at the dockyard and switched onto the Baltimore and Ohio's main line, he had set off. The charge by rail worked. Their arrival at dark sent the rebs scurrying back across the bridge, and dawn revealed that their commander, who he now learned was Lo Armistead, had indeed been trying to find enough powder to stuff up under one of the arches of the bridge to bring it down. Armistead had failed, and so they had been able to continue pushing west.

Today, though, had been frustratingly slow work. The rebs kept tearing up the track ahead, smashing switches. An armored car would be raced forward, firing its massive gun, and they'd scatter, pull back, and then resume their desperate work.

And yet they were moving forward, mile by mile. He knew his nickname, whispered behind his back, 'Tardy George."

The hell with them. His tardiness, as some called it, was being methodical and, by God, he certainly was not tardy at Taneytown. If only Sickles had listened to him at Gunpowder River and gone a bit more slowly, this whole operation would be different now.

The yard boss stood up, waved his hand, indicating the rail was fixed. The engine vented steam and George walked back to the command car behind the locomotive, climbing aboard. During their stop a telegrapher had hooked into the line and handed George the latest news.

"Heavy fighting all along the line at Frederick. Grant."

There was no need to be told that. Whenever the train stopped all could hear the rumble in the distance.

The yard boss ran back aboard his own train on the parallel track, saw George, saluted again, then turned to one of his men, who reluctantly offered up a bottle out of his pocket.

"How much we paying that man?" George asked of one of his staff.

"Sixty a day."

"Damn, I don't even make that much. I don't even think the president himself makes that much."

"Well, sir, he said that's what the rebels paid him, and he did his utmost to play hell with them. He was the only one around, and he does good work. Almost everybody with the Military Railroad command are still up in Harrisburg or repairing the Cumberland line."

"More than the president," George mumbled.

The train moved forward, gaining a little speed. Through the window he could see where the rebels had torn off several rails, heated them, and then bent them around a telegraph pole. The train shifted slightly as it crossed over the patched section, rolled forward another half mile, then slowed again.

Another break, damn it.

It was slow, he knew, but it was relentless. On the road parallel to the track, infantry was marching forward, the shot-torn standard of the old Fifth Corps at the fore.

The Army of the Potomac was marching toward the battle. Slow as ever, perhaps, but it was in the field again-and looking for a fight.

Hunt's batteries were lost in clouds of smoke. It was impossible to see them other than by the flash of their guns. Grant looked back toward Frederick. McPherson's boys were up, forming at the edge of town, four thousand of them, but ready to refight a battle the way they had done two days ago, street by street.

Around Grant his staff was hurrying about, packing up map cases and field desks and piling equipment into the single wagon that served as his headquarters, now harnessed to a team, back end open. Several enlisted men started to drop his tent.

"Leave that be," Grant shouted. "It's not important now. Get mounted and ready to move."

The rebel charge was still coming forward, picking up momentum. Hunt was already flanked but still holding on. He was tempted to ride down to him, but decided against it.

I am not a corps commander. He had to force himself to remember it. Nor even in command of a mere army. The telegraph connection that was being taken down even now was his link to an elaborate operation on three fronts in Maryland as well as to Sherman down in Georgia; the battle directly before him was not his only concern.

And besides, if I go dashing about, that will infect everyone. It always does. Stay calm, stay calm.

The last of the headquarters gear was packed up. The telegraphy wagon, was already on the move toward town.

He motioned for the headquarters wagon to set off, the driver looking back anxiously toward the rebs swarming up the road less than a quarter mile away now.

Ely led over Grant's horse and he mounted, making it a point to do nothing for a moment, taking the time to light a cigar.

He could see Ely was agitated. Minies were zipping by. He puffed on the cigar for a moment, watching them. Nodded and turned Cincinnatus.

Without a word he rode toward the town.