Never Call Retreat

CHAPTER EIGHT

Near Sykesville, Maryland

August 25

3:00 A.M.

"Stop the train, stop the damn train!" Jeb Stuart leaned over the side of the car. Mules in the boxcar up ahead were kicking, screaming in panic. Flames shot out from under the wheels of the boxcar, streaming back.

The train whistle was shrieking, a couple of brakemen running aft, leaping from car to car, clamping down the brakes as the train skidded to a halt. As the train slowed, flames that had been trailing in the wind started to lick upward.

Jeb jumped off the car he was riding on, nearly tripping, regaining his footing and running alongside the train. The mules inside the burning car were terrified. A brakeman was by his side, helping to fling the door open, and the animals leapt out, disappearing into the darkness.

The front left journal box of the car was glowing red hot, flames licking out. The engineer of the train and the fireman came back, lugging canvas buckets which they threw on the box, steam hissing. More buckets were hauled by several soldiers, dousing the side of the railcar.

"What in hell is going on here?" Jeb roared.

"Happens all the time, General," a brakeman announced. "That's a journal box. Filled with grease to lubricate the axle of the wheel. Sometimes it just catches fire."

Another bucket was upended on the box, the water hissing.

"Open the damn thing up."

"Once it cools, we'll repack it," the engineer said.

"How long?"

"Once it cools."

"Just open the damn thing."

A brakeman with a crowbar flipped the lid of the journal box open, the engineer holding a lantern and peering in at the steaming mess.

"I'll be damned," he whispered.

"What is it?" Jeb asked.

"Packed with wood shavings and scrap metal."

"What?"

"Sorry, sir. Someone sabotaged this car. It should have caught fire twenty miles back. Was most likely smoldering and we didn't even notice it in the dark."

"You mean someone deliberately wrecked it?"

The engineer said nothing, finally nodding his head when Jeb gave him a sharp look.

"Where?"

"Don't know, sir. Most likely back in Baltimore. Should have burned miles back down the track. Lucky we got this far. We're going to have to check every single box on this train now."

"Damn all," Jeb hissed, turned away, slapping his thigh angrily.

Looking down the track he saw the headlight of the following train, hauling ten more cars loaded with the pontoon bridging. One of the brakemen was already running down the track, waving a lantern.

"How long?"

"In the dark like this?" the engineer said. "An hour or two to check all the boxes. Better check the ones on the following trains as well. Sorry, sir, but we're stopped for now."

Exasperated, Stuart looked around at his staff, who had climbed off the cattle car to witness the show.

"Mount our horses up. How far to Frederick?" he asked.

"Follow the track, another twenty miles or so to Frederick, sir."

"You wait to dawn, sir, we'll have things ready." "I have no time, Custer isn't waiting for some train to get fixed," Stuart snapped. "Mount up. We ride to Frederick."

Two Miles North of Frederick, Maryland

August 25

5.30A.M.

Morning mist clung to the fields flanking the road. To his right George Armstrong Custer could catch occasional glimpses of the Catoctin range, rising up nearly a thousand feet, the ridge-line golden with the glow of dawn.

It was a beautiful morning after an exhausting night. Turning in his saddle, he looked back, the column of his troopers, led by the First Michigan, were quiet, many slumped over in their saddles, nodding. Ever since they gained the pike at Emmitsburg the ride had been an easy one, a broad, open, well-paved road, and not a rebel in sight as they swept southward through the night, taking four hours for men and horses to rest before remounting two hours ago.

He could see the church spires of Frederick just ahead, rising up out of the mist, which was starting to burn off the fields, but still clung thick to the winding course of the Monocacy on his left. ^ A scout, a young lieutenant, came out of the mist, riding fast, reining up and grinning.

"Was just in the center of the town, sir. Not a reb in sight. Talked with some civilians. They said a reb patrol rode through about an hour or so ahead of us and turned east to head down to the Monocacy."

"How many, Schultz?"

"About a hundred or so. There was some commotion at the telegraph station there. The rebs had that occupied, and then all of them pulled out heading east."

Most likely Phil, he thought with a grin. The wounded prisoner taken at Carlisle had told him who he was facing: his old roommate from the Point. Usually I could beat Phil in a race and that's what it is now. He had hoped to spring on him during the night but Phil had always stayed a jump ahead.

Well, my friend, now I got you against the river. Will you turn and fight?

And part of him hoped he would not. That he would just get the hell out of the way.

"You know the way to the bridge?" Custer asked Schultz.

"Easy enough, sir. Get to the center of town and turn east. Few blocks, you'll be at the depot for the town. We can follow the track for the spur line that runs up to the center of town. If you just keep heading south through town it turns into a toll road that heads straight down to the river, a covered bridge crossing the Monocacy just south of the railroad bridge. I think that'd be the quicker path. Civilians said that's the route the rebs took."

Custer nodded, trying to picture it. He had come through here the year before with McClellan.

"I'll take the lead with the First. You go back up the line, tell Colonel Alger to take his Fifth. Once he's in the center of town, he's to pick up the tracks and come down that way to the river. Tell Colonel Gray. I remember the National Road crosses the Monocacy via a stone bridge. Have Gray send a company down to take that bridge, rest of his command to stay in reserve. Mann with the Seventh to stay in town as reserve also. I can be found at the railroad bridge."

Lieutenant Schultz set off at a gallop.

"Let's move it!" Custer shouted.

He set the pace at a quick trot, buglers passing the signal back up the column.

Out front, as always, he thrilled to the thunder behind him as his troopers picked up the pace. Guidons were fluttering as he looked back. Colonel Town, commander of the First, spurred his mount to come up by Custer's side.

"George, bit impetuous just riding straight in like this, ain't it?" Town shouted.

"No time to feel things out, Charles. Schultz is a good scout. His boys have the center of town already. But it's the bridge we want."

Cresting a low rise, they passed the last farm flanking the pike. The town was directly ahead. It was so typical of this region, the houses built close together, facing right onto the street. A scattering of civilians were out, a few were unfurling Union flags from their windows.

He thought of the story of Barbara Frietchie. Most said it was all made up, others said it was the truth, how she had hung a Union flag out the year before, when the rebels marched through on their way to Antietam. Some troops threatened to fire on the old lady and her flag until Stonewall himself came up and supposedly exclaimed, "Who touches a hair of your gray head, dies like a dog, march or…" He'd have to look her up afterward and find out if the old lady really did confront Stonewall.

As they approached the center of town the thunder of their arrival echoed in the canyonlike street, more and more civilians leaning out of windows, some cheering and waving, others staring in silence.

He saw Schultz's boys at the main crossroads, still mounted, carbines drawn. He slowed and shouted for the toll road. The men pointed south.

"The Fifth will follow the railroad track! I'm taking the First in on this road!"

"The rebs are down at the main junction," a sergeant shouted. "Saw them not ten minutes ago."

"Guide the Fifth, Sergeant, and Seventh. Tell them to set up at that columned building that looks like a school and await my orders."

He knew that, according to the book, he should stop here with his reserve and let his lead regiments go forward and, as his professors would say, "develop the situation." Only then should he go forward.

To hell with the book! He was in the lead and would always be in the lead.

The men of the First, coming on fast, were almost up to him. He spurred his mount hard and took off, heading straight through the town. Several blocks farther south and he was again back into open fields, the road just ahead forking, and for a second he slowed.

Schultz hadn't told him about this. Which was the main pike?

The road to the left was broader, partially macadamized, and not waiting, he followed it Less than a minute later he saw the toll station, a small shack, the gate up. The ground ahead started to slope down. It was obviously the way to the river, which was still cloaked with morning mist.

Hills on the far side were clear of fog. They were less than a mile away. Broad open fields greeted him, the usual patchwork of ripening corn, rich green shoots of winter wheat coming up, orchards, pastures, and squared-off woodlots.

No cattle or cows were out grazing. This area had been well picked over last fall and again two months ago as the armies recrossed this ground heading toward Gettysburg. Here and there.fences were missing, passing troops from the previous two campaigns using them as firewood. He reined in, coming to a stop. He turned, pointing toward a farm lane to the west, shouting for the men to form into line. Troopers turned, urging their mounts on, chickens scattering and squawking as the boys galloped to either side of a farmhouse and barn.

The owner of the farm was out on the porch, red-faced and shouting something, but Custer ignored him.

"Colonel Town, you command the right flank. I'll be in the middle. Have four of your companies follow me."

He judged the fence on the east side of the road, ready to jump it, but several troopers were already dismounted, tearing down the stacked-up split rails. The owner was down by the road, shouting curses about having just rebuilt the fence. Custer just looked over at him, grinned, saluted cheerfully, and then rode through the opening, cutting around the edge of a cornfield and into an orchard.- Looking back toward Frederick he saw where the men of the Fifth were coming out, riding to either side of the railroad track, going a bit slower. It'd take another ten minutes before they'd be up and deployed into line.

Turning, he gauged the distance to the river. He could see his goal now, a wooden trestle. The road he had just been on headed down to a covered bridge a few hundred yards south of the railroad crossing.

Dismount and go in carefully or rush it? He pulled out his field glasses and scanned the river bottom and could see nothing. All was cloaked in mist.

If it's only Phil down there, he most likely has only a hundred or so. But give them a little time and they could work some mischief and prepare a defense, or worse, perhaps some reinforcements are coming up.

Rush him on horseback before he has time to get ready. He cased his field glasses and drew his saber.

The men of the First were lined up, covering a front of a couple of hundred yards, pistols or carbines out of holsters, officers with sabers drawn.

He could feel that their blood was up. There was nothing like the anticipation of a mounted charge to do that to a man. The tension was building, horses sensing it as well, snorting, a few rearing up, men grasping reins tighter. Men were looking over at him wide-eyed, some grinning.

He hesitated for a second. Go straight in, or wait for the Fifth to come in on my flank? I've got nearly three hundred men with the First. Five to ten minutes is often the difference between victory and defeat. No, this is the moment!

"First Michigan! Forward at the trot!" He pointed toward the railroad bridge.

Monocacy Junction

August 25

6:10 A.M.

Typical George Custer," Captain Duvall announced, snaking his head. With field glasses focused on George, he watched as his old friend drew his saber, pointed, and then set off, moving to the front of the advancing line.

A thousand yards, three or four minutes, and they'll be on us. He scanned the ground, so far only one regiment. What looked to be a second was just becoming visible, along the bed of the spur line leading into Frederick. Why didn't George wait for them?

Phil lowered his glasses. Perched on the roof of the depot, he had a clear view, except for the mist still gently rolling up from the river directly behind him.

He had deployed half his men to the left, about a hundred yards over, where the toll road came down to the covered bridge. There was a nice little cut there made by the railroad, about fifteen feet deep, with steep, sloping sides, a perfect entrenchment and place of concealment for his mounts. The rest of his men were in the depot, toolsheds, and outbuildings.

The depot was inside a triangle of rail track formed by the main line of the Baltimore and Ohio right after it crossed the river, the main track running west. The other two sides of the triangle were formed by the spur line that came down from the town of Frederick, branching to either side of the depot so that trains from the city could head west or east.

There were two blockhouses as well. Rude affairs, abandoned. If only he'd had a few field guns he could have held this place against anything George threw at him. One blockhouse, on the far side of the river, looked straight down on the bridge. A single Napoleon twelve-pounder in there could have swept the bridge. The other blockhouse, inside the western edge of the triangle, commanded the railroad cut and the spur line. He had placed a half dozen of his best shooters in there.

George's advancing line was down to less than a quarter mile. He could hear their bugle calls floating across the morning stillness, a beautiful sound. They were picking up speed, George a good twenty yards in front. Phil focused for a few seconds on the distant figure, hat off, golden shoulder-length hair waving in the breeze, a match for the crazy-quilt patchwork of braid on his uniform.

Phil smiled. George always did like those things, a true seeker of glory. And in his heart he prayed that none of his men now singled him out. His own boys knew they'd been friends at the Point, but still, George was a target that just begged to be shot.

Phil slid down from the roof, knocking off a few shingles, jumped to the solid awning that protected passengers waiting for a train, then climbed through an open window to the second floor. His men were hunkered down by the windows, carbines raised, waiting. Many had the new Sharps breechloading carbines, captured during the Gettysburg-Union Mills campaign, cartridges laid out on the windowsills. More than a few were grinning. George was coming straight on, mounted, in the open.

Three hundred yards, now two hundred.

The Yankee bugle call echoed the charge!

The men over in the railroad embankment to his left waited, maintaining good discipline. Let them get close.

A hundred yards. Damn, they were coming on fast, yelling like demons.

A solid volley rang out from his forty men. Good shots all of them, a dozen saddles emptied. The men around him in the depot opened up, enfilading fire pouring into the flank of Custer's charge.

Monocacy Junction

6:20 A.M.

"Charge!" The bugles picked up the command, echoing across the valley, the sound all but overwhelmed by the pounding of hoofs, the high-pitched cries of men loosed from all restraint, caught up in the mad, magnificent splendor of a full-out cavalry charge. He looked back for a second at these good troopers, up off their saddles, knees braced in tight, leaning forward, holding reins with one hand, weapon in the other, crouched low over the necks of their mounts.

The first volley caught him by surprise. He felt a bullet wing past, puffs of smoke ahead.

He looked back. Several troopers had dropped, tumbling from saddles; four or five horses were down, men pitching off their mounts, tumbling end over end. And yet the momentum of the charge was now unstoppable, men and horses weaving around the fallen, riding full out, the first blow not slowing them, instead now driving them forward, weapons raised high. "Come on, Wolverines! Common!" The charge swept down through open pasture and fields. What appeared to be a ravine, perhaps a railroad cut, was straight ahead, marked by puffs of smoke. "Come on, boys!"

He urged his mount onward, the horse moving uncomfortably, favoring its right side. He spared a quick glance down and saw where a shot had sliced its right leg, blood streaming out.

Fifty yards, now twenty-five.

Rebs stood up-from the edge of the ravine, carbines lowered. He hunched down low in the saddle. Another volley. His horse just collapsed, throwing him, knocking his wind out. Troopers of the First Michigan were reining in around him, as he struggled to stand up, their pistols drawn, firing blindly at the puffs of smoke, cursing, yelling.

He judged the moment. Not too many over there, maybe not more than fifty or sixty. He stood up, feeling dizzy, looking for his saber. A trooper leaned far over from his saddle, picked it up from the ground, and tossed it to him.

"Come on! Keep pushing!'

Men, yelling wildly, rode up to the edge of the ravine, pistols out, firing left and right. Men pitched out of saddles. Some rebs were up out of the ravine, pistols drawn, emptying cylinders, tossing revolvers away and drawing sabers, swinging wildly. A mad melee erupted.

A volley erupted from his left. The railroad depot. Puffs of smoke swirling from windows, mingling with the early morning fog. A blockhouse caught his attention. Aperture for a field piece.

My God, did they have artillery here?

Saddles were emptying around him from the enfilading fire. A trooper came up to his side, leading a riderless mount.

"General, sir, might I suggest we get the hell outta here?" the sergeant shouted. Custer remounted.

He scanned the action. The ravine was full of horses; it was hard to count them in all the confusion. A reb came up out of the ravine, raised a carbine, pointing straight at him. The sergeant next to him dropped the man with three shots from his revolver.

"General, sir!"

Custer nodded.

"Sound recall. We'll wait for the Fifth."

The bugle call sounded, the well-disciplined men of his command turned about, many glad to do so, and broke into a ragged gallop back across the field they had traversed minutes before with such confidence.

A few hundred yards out Custer looked back. More than a few rebs were up out of the ravine, shouting defiance.

He looked off to the north. The men of the Fifth were deploying from column into line.

"Let the bastards cheer," Custer announced. "We'll bag them before the hour is out, boys."

Three Miles East ofMonocacy Junction 6:30 A.M.

"General, is that gunfire?" Jeb Stuart reined in, stopping, the aide by his side, head cocked, listening. Yes, it was. Distant, a soft, muffled popping, almost drowned out by the clatter of hooves behind him, men of Jenkins's Brigade riding to either side of the track in a sinuous column that stretched back for over a mile.

Damn all. What the hell was going on? If not for the damn train he'd have been in Monocacy a couple of hours ago. Looking back down the track, which after the tunnel they had ridden through was again a double line, he saw nothing but his men on horseback. "Pick up the pace!" Stuart shouted. Leaving the column behind he broke into a gallop, heading toward the sound of distant battle.

Monocacy Junction

6.40 A.M.

"Dismount!" George Custer, himself, remained mounted, ignoring the snapping whine of.52 Sharps carbine rounds whistling over his head. The troopers of the First, their blood up after the initial repulse, gladly followed orders, drawing carbines from saddle holsters, levering breechings open, inserting rounds, deploying out into heavy skirmish line, every fifth man detailed off to hold the reins of the four who dismounted.

He wished now for just a few guns, even a section of three-inch ordnance rifles to sweep the edge of the ravine with canister before going in. But he had traveled fast, leaving his one battery of light guns behind.

"Boys, forward at the double!" Custer shouted, 'Take that damn depot!"

The men started forward on foot, running flat out. A few tumbled over before reaching a shallow ravine, pausing, hunching down, a ragged volley ringing out as they began to return fire. The more venturesome then stood up, racing forward, closing the range to a hundred yards.

The rebs, though, were in an excellent position. Phil had picked his ground well. The railroad cut was a trench offering protection, the depot, especially the log blockhouse, an impregnable position. To his Jeft the troopers of the Fifth were doing the same, advancing dismounted, shooting, pushing up a few dozen yards, sprawling out on the ground, firing again. Scanning the depot building with field glasses he saw shards of wood explode from the side, windows shattering, a reb out in the open for a second, sprinting from a shed back to the depot, collapsing on the track from a well-aimed shot.

George pushed up, ignoring the danger, furious that his charge had been repulsed.

"Here comes Gray!" someone shouted.

George looked back. He had sent word for Gray to come up in support, and the column was coming out of the town, riding hard.

"Keep pushing them, keep pushing!"

Phil Duvall raised his field glasses and saw the distant column coming out of Frederick. This time, damn it, George was doing it right. A regiment, dismounted, was coming down on his right. Custer's lead regiment, dismounted as well, was pressing on the left. The third regiment meant that well over a thousand men would be pushing in on him in a matter of minutes. At better than ten-to-one odds he would simply be pushed back from the bridge. It was just a matter of time.

Several of the men by the windows were already down, one dead, another cursing, holding his shoulder, a third man crying, a spray of shattered glass having torn into his face.

He walked to the far side of the room and looked over at the ravine. His men were up at the lip, firing away, but he knew it was useless now to try to hold longer.

Damn all, where was Stuart? He gazed back at the railroad bridge, hoping against hope that he'd see a column crossing it even now, reinforcements coming up to hold this crucial junction.

"They're starting to deploy out, sir."

He looked back to the north. The column coming out of the town was swinging out into line, preparing to charge. They'd ride through the dismounted skirmishers and this time overrun him.

"Time to get out, boys," Phil shouted. "No bugle calls, just mount up. I'll see you on the far side of the bridge. Sergeant Lucas, get up to the ravine, tell them to bring down our horses!"

Lucas raced down the stairs.

He lingered a few seconds longer, again shifting his field glasses to George. He could tell his old friend was loving the moment. Mounted again, riding along the skirmish line, urging his men to get up, to press forward.

He certainly led a charmed life. He had seen George go down, and for a second feared he was dead, but then the man had stood up, brushed himself off, remounted, and was back in the fight.

"Your day, George," he said.

Phil ran down the stairs and out under the awning of the depot.

The men over at the ravine were disengaging, sliding down the slope, running to their horses, mounting up. It was going to be a tight race. As soon as his boys stopped shooting, George would press in.

The first of them came galloping down the track, more following, troopers leading the empty mounts of the men who had been holding the depot. The telegraphy crew from Frederick were already riding for the bridge.

Lucas brought up Phil's horse, and he climbed into the saddle. He didn't need to give any orders now, the boys knew where to go and just wanted to skedaddle before the Yankees closed in. They raced for the bridge. Fortunately, the wooden structure, wide enough for two tracks, had planking laid to either side between the crossties, otherwise they'd have had to cross dismounted, leading nervous mounts.

His men galloped across, Phil slowing as he reached the bridge. Bullets whined about him. Yankees were up to the ravine, tumbling down its side; others were running toward the depot. He caught a glimpse of George, raised a hand in salute, and, turning, urged his mount across the bridge at a gallop.

Was that Phil? George wondered, quickly uncasing his field glasses and focusing them on the bridge. It was hard to tell with the smoke and the mist still rising off the river.

The way he kept his saddle, the wave-it did indeed look like his old friend.

He edged his mount around the ravine, leaning back in his saddle as he finally went down the slope and out onto the track. His men, breathing hard, grinning, faces besmirched with powder, sweating, were down into the ravine, running toward the depot.

Half a dozen rebs lay along the lip of the railroad cut, dead. A dozen more, wounded, were down by the track, several of his men already there helping them. "What regiment are you?" Custer asked. "Third Virginia," one of them announced, looking up at him defiantly.

"Captain Duvall?"

"That's our man. What of it?" the reb said. George nodded and then saluted. "My compliments, boys. You put up a good fight." So it was Phil.

"Any trains come through here since yesterday?" "How the hell would I know. We just got here ahead of you Yankees."

George rode up to the depot, looking around. If the rebs had moved trains up here, there would have been more men defending this place than an outpost patrol he'd been dogging since yesterday. By damn, we got here ahead of 'em.

The depot itself was pockmarked with bullet holes. He studied the bridge that Phil had just ridden across, the far end obscured by smoke and fog. The bridge, a rough affair, looked like something military railroad crews would have thrown up after an earlier bridge was destroyed. He drew closer, and saw down in the river twisted lengths of cable, iron girders. Obviously the wreckage of what had been here, most likely before the Antietam campaign.

Already his mind was working. Hold it or destroy it?

His gaze swept back over the depot. Blockhouse, a turntable, the triangle of track. If the rebs get hold of this they can easily turn trains around. With a double-track system, in a matter of hours they can bring up a hundred trains or more out of Baltimore, move an entire army.

He had no idea where Grant was at this moment. Maybe ten miles off, maybe fifty. Destroy the bridge, perhaps it will get Grant's dander up, but then again, we can replace it in a day or two. No, I came here to block the rebs from moving their pontoon bridge and by God that's what I'll do.

"General, sir."

He looked over his shoulder. Lieutenant Schultz was riding up.

"Sir, Colonel Gray's compliments. His boys are deployed, but he is shifting two companies over to the stone bridge, the one for the National Road. Says that reb skirmishers are on the other side. Colonel Mann is in place as reserves."

George nodded, saying nothing.

Skirmishers on the main road heading back to Baltimore. "Infantry or cavalry?" "Sir, he didn't say."

Most likely cavalry, George thought. I've got a thousand men with me. It has to be cavalry coming up. It is surprising they're not already here.

That decided it.

"Lieutenant Schultz, do we have any ammunition reserves, raw powder?"

"Sir?"

"Just that, barrels of powder?"

He already knew the answer, but felt he had to think out loud at this moment.

"Sir, just what our men our carrying with us. We left the supply wagons behind."

"Get back up to Frederick, see if any shops have blasting powder. Check the depot here as well."

"Sir, I doubt that we'll find any. Both armies have been through here twice in the last year."

George nodded in agreement. Four or five barrels under a main trestle would do the trick, but to find that many now might take hours.

"We've got to destroy that bridge, Lieutenant."

Trying to burn it might sound easy but he knew it wouldn't be. He'd have to get at least a couple of cords of kindling wood. There was enough of that in a wood rick next to the depot, but hauling it out there, placing it under a trestle, with Phil's boys popping away from the other side at less than a hundred yards would be damn difficult.

Schultz looked over at the bridge and seemed lost in thought.

The lieutenant suddenly grinned.

"Sir, there are two locomotives in the depot up in Frederick, both with passenger cars and boxcars. Maybe we could use those."

Custer grinned, too.

"I always enjoyed the sight of a good train wreck. Get on it, Lieutenant."

East Bank, Monocacy Creek

7:00 A.M.

Jeb Stuart reined in, an exhausted, begrimed captain coming up to him on foot and saluting. "Capt. Phil Duvall, sir, Third Virginia." "What is going on here?" Stuart asked. "Sir, didn't you get the telegraph message we sent out an hour ago?"

"I've been riding up here, Captain," Jeb said, exasperated. "No, I did not get the telegraph message."

"Sir, we've been withdrawing in front of Custer's Brigade since yesterday, from Hanover down to here. We tried to hold the depot on the other side of the river, but he pushed us back about twenty minutes ago. He has at least three regiments over there."

Jeb looked toward the bridge, the far side obscured by fog.

"How many men over there?"

"Like I said, sir, a brigade. I'd guess at a thousand or so." "You couldn't hold?"

Phil pointed to the exhausted men, still mounted, who were gathered behind him.

"Sir, we put up a fight, kept them back for a half hour or so, but if we'd stayed five minutes longer, sir," he sighed, "well, we'd either be dead or prisoners now."

Jeb contained his exasperation. It was obvious that Du-vall's men had put up a fight: At least a quarter of them were nursing wounds, while a score of horses without riders was testimony to those left behind.

"Where can I maneuver here?" Jeb asked.

"Sir, down there to the south, about two hundred yards downstream you got a covered bridge, double wide. To the north about two miles or so, I'm told there's a stone bridge. I suspect there's a number of fords here as well." Stuart nodded.

"Jenkins will be up within the half hour. Jones is right behind him. Duvall, you keep your men posted here." Phil wearily nodded and saluted. "Yes, sir."

Stuart, realizing this man had done all that was possible, drew a deep breath then leaned over, offering his hand.

"You did good, Captain, real good. You did all you could. Now it's our turn. Give me an hour and we'll have that bridge back!"