Never Call Retreat cw-3, page 18
part #3 of Civil War Series
"Get all wagons off the road, just infantry. The wagons can fall in behind them after the corps has passed. Ambulances, tell the surgeons to pack what they can on a horse and then fall in riding with the column. Pull ammunition out of the wagons, get the extra rounds passed out to the men as they march by, eighty, a hundred rounds to each man if possible. Send word back to General Grant describing everything you've just heard here. I don't have time to write it out. Tell him I'm going ahead to Frederick."
He pointed at one of his young, eager lieutenants.
"You, get back up the road to Burnside. Inform him of what you've heard here and my decision to force-march on Frederick. Tell him I hope he will press forward with all possible speed to my assistance."
The two couriers from Custer were off their mounts, one of them patting the animal's neck with affection, pouring water into his hat, emptying his canteen, the horse eagerly gulping down the few drops.
Troopers from the headquarters company came up, a lieutenant detailing two men off to trade horses. The cavalryman from Custer's Brigade was reluctant to leave his mount, handing over the reins.
"Her name is Ginger. She's a good horse, carried me through three charges. I'll come back for her after this is over."
The trooper receiving the horse nodded, the two understanding each other and their love for their mounts. There was a pause and they shook hands.
"William Bradley, I'll take good care of her. Mine is Sarah, she's got a tender mouth and hates spurs, so go easy on her."
Bradley gently led the horse over to the side of the road where it could crop some grass while he took its saddle off.
McPherson saw the exchange and could not help but smile. The two men trading horses were actually not much more than boys, their mounts beloved pets, companions.
He looked to the mountains ahead. So close and yet so far, he thought, but it was not of the fight ahead he was thinking. Who he thought of now was beyond the imposing range, little more than fifty miles away, in Baltimore.
If not for this rebel invasion of Maryland I'd be married now. Grant had promised him, once Vicksburg fell, he could have a furlough to go to Baltimore to marry Miss Emily Hoffman. And then the rebels took Baltimore, and not a word from her since.
Ironically, he knew her parents were delighted. They were devout secessionists and at the start of the war had forbidden their marriage.
So close, he thought. Perhaps we can end this war as Grant said we would, and then I'll ride into Baltimore and, parents or not, Emily and I will marry.
Custer's troopers finished their exchange of mounts and saddled up, coming over to his side, disrupting his thoughts.
McPherson motioned to one of his staff, who pulled out a flask, handing it to the two troopers.
The one gladly took it, draining it half off, the second shook his head.
"I'm a temperance man," he said.
"Good for you, son," McPherson replied. "Now let's go see what your General Custer has started."
Monocacy function
11:00 A.M.
The depot was burning, the pounding of the last hour from the four guns arrayed on the opposite bank having torn it to shreds and then finally ignited it. The last of the troopers within poured out of the building, running and dodging as another shell screamed in, detonating on the track of the main line, ballast and shrapnel spraying.
George Custer sat behind the blockhouse just west of the depot, feeling light-headed, his anxious staff gathered round.
Mann was still holding the National Road bridge but had just reported that a second rebel battery was deploying on the far side, and could expect to engage at any moment. Also, it appeared that more rebs were coming up and already across the ford between him and the railroad bridge. Word had just come back from Town that several companies of rebs were across the river to the south as well, at a place called McCausland's Ford. Town already had a picket line out and, for the moment, was holding them, but more troopers, a regiment or more, could be seen on the opposite bank, heading in that direction.
"Gray, you detach half your men, send them to back up to Town," George said.
Gray nodded to one of his staff, who galloped off. Seconds later a shell nicked the side of the blockhouse, bounded off, then exploded on the far side of the track, the group hunkering down.
"Sir, maybe it's time we get out of here," Gray offered. "We're being flanked on both sides. They got two batteries. I just had a rider come down from Frederick. He was up in a church steeple and said he saw plumes of smoke, from trains approaching. My God, if they have infantry on those trains, they'll force the bridge regardless of loss. By then we'll be cut off from retreat as well."
"We hold," Custer said coolly.
"Sir, we did our best," Gray countered. We can still get out, pull back to the top of the Catoctins behind us."
He pointed to the mountain range now standing out boldly under a late morning sun. "There's only one road. We can block it all day. We get cut off and wiped out here, the rebs will have the bridge and the pass, too."
"What good is holding the pass if Lee keeps this bridge, gets his pontoons across, and then escapes?"
"Escape, sir? It's time we thought about escaping. Besides, the men are damn near out of ammunition. If infantry are coming up, what are we supposed to do, throw rocks at them?"
Custer shook his head, feeling so weak he couldn't respond. He looked up at Gray.
"May I suggest, sir, you're seriously injured, perhaps you should get back to the surgeon."
"And have you take command and order a withdrawal?" Custer snapped angrily.
Another shell slammed into the blockhouse, the building shaking from the impact, the men still inside cursing.
Their argument was cut short by the distant cry of a steam whistle and Custer looked up expectantly. For a few seconds he wasn't sure of the direction the sound came from. Could the rebel reinforcements already be coming up? A second whistle sounded and he struggled to his feet.
"We are going to blow this bridge, then we'll get out," Custer announced. "Get my horse!" ' eb Stuart shifted his field glasses. It was hard to see with the smoke that billowed up in the still summer air, but then he saw it, two trains, coming out of Frederick. What is going on? He watched them intently, and then the realization hit. "Tell Captain Jackson with the battery, I want his guns to hit those trains before they reach the bridge. Order the Fourteenth onto the bridge now."
His staff looked at him, confused by the suicidal order. Only minutes before, Jeb had been exuberant, the river had been forded at two locations, he was funneling men across even now, and in another hour they'd have the depot.
'Those trains!" Jeb shouted. "They'll blow them on the bridge. Move it!"
Every step of his horse was agony to him, but George kept his saddle, galloping up the length of track toward Frederick. There was a sharp curve ahead, a small white clapboard schoolhouse to one side. He saw the smoke of the lead locomotive; it wasn't moving fast but it was coming on, rounding the curve, the locomotive not pulling anything other than its tender.
George slowed. He saw Lieutenant Schultz on the cowcatcher, the excited lieutenant leaping off as the train skidded to a stop.
The smoke of the second locomotive was several hundred yards back.
"We got a plan, sir!" Schultz cried. "Where's the cars loaded with coal oil?" "That's the second train, sir." "Where's Tyler?"
"He's piloting the second train. He sent me ahead, but we got to talk quick, sir." "The third train?"
"Another ten minutes or so before its steam is up." "I don't understand," Custer said, again feeling lightheaded.
Schultz quickly outlined the details, the idea registering with George, who in spite of his pain grinned. "Do it!"
Schultz ran up to the cab of the locomotive waving his arms.
The venting of steam stopped, pressure built up, smoke billowed from the smokestack, and, finally, the engine began to inch forward. As it slipped past Custer the engineer and two firemen on board leapt out.
The locomotive continued, unpiloted, down the track, and for a second George was hit with a deep fear. He had never thought to pass the order to make sure the switches had been set properly. He could only pray that someone down at the burning depot knew what to do.
He turned about and started to ride back down the track. To his left he saw puffs of smoke. Men, his men, on horseback, pulling back along a road, reb skirmishers pressing them.
The next engine came around the bend, pulling a passenger car and boxcar. It was picking up speed as it thundered past him. Sergeant-hopefully soon-to-be lieutenant-Tyler leaned out and waved.
George loosened his reins, spurring his mount. The pain forgotten for the moment, he galloped down the track toward the depot, riding just behind the train.
Phil Duvall looked around anxiously at his men. Over half his command was down after five long hours of fighting. Men were tearing open the cartridge boxes of the dead and wounded, trying to load back up. Wide-eyed, he gazed over at the colonel of the Fourteenth, who was breathing hard, gulping.
The man was scared. Hell, who wouldn't be? "Alright boys," the colonel cried. "Let's go!" The colonel stood up and then stepped out right to the middle of the bridge, standing between the two tracks, saber out, pointing.
There was a hesitation and he looked back. "Come on, you bastards!" he shouted. "Don't let it be said that the Fourteenth is filled with cowards!"
Men stood up and began to run forward, hunched low, hugging the sides of the bridge, dashing from one support beam to the next.
Phil looked around at his own small command that the colonel of the Fourteenth had "volunteered" into this mad charge. He caught Sergeant Lucas's eyes, the man looking at him as if to say, "Do we really have to do this?"
"Come on, boys," Phil said, swallowing hard. "Let's go."
He stood up and ran forward. There was no rebel yell this time. The situation was too grim for that. It would be a mad dash into a blaze of fire erupting from the other side.
They reached the middle of the bridge, several men already down, one tumbling off the side of the bridge into the stream. Others were dropping, crumpling; some were slowing, returning fire.
There was the discordant hum of an artillery shell, followed by three more soaring overhead, but he could not see where they landed.
And then he heard it coming. Looking up, he saw a locomotive, near to derailing it seemed, coming through the switch from the spur line to Frederick and on to the main track. It was thundering straight toward him on the east-bound side.
He jumped back, flattening himself against a trestle beam, the engine roaring by. He caught a quick glimpse of the cab. No one was on board.
What the hell is going on?
The engine raced across the bridge, the temporary structure shaking and rattling with its passage. All the men in the charge stopped for a second, looking back as the train cleared the bridge and then disappeared around the bend.
"Here comes another!" someone shouted.
Phil looked back to the west, the smoke of the passing train making it difficult to see.
Another locomotive was coming off the spur line on to the main track, this one beginning to slow down. Sparks were shooting out from the wheels as it began to brake.
"Get it!" someone screamed.
And instantly dozens of shots rang out, sparks flying off the brass and iron siding of the locomotive. To his absolute amazement he saw three Yankees aboard the locomotive, one of them now swinging a heavy sledgehammer, as if smashing something. Phil raised his revolver and fired it, emptying all six rounds. The man staggered but swung again. From out of the passenger car several Yankees emerged, jumping down. One of them made a dash for the side of the bridge as if to jump off, but he was shot before reaching the railing.
From inside the passenger car he could see flames erupting, blowing out the windows, a popping sound, like muffled explosions within, each pop setting off more flames.
Phil stepped up to the side of the locomotive and pointed his empty revolver at the man with the sledgehammer.
"Make a move and I'll blow your damn head off," he threatened.
The man looked at him, grinned, and dropped the sledgehammer, putting one hand up in the air, his other arm hanging limp.
"Get down!"
"You're damn right I'm getting down," the Yankee said, reaching for the railing by the steps and then leaping off. He hit the bridge flooring and cursed, going over on his side.
"Reb, give me a hand up."
"Why?"
Already carbine fire from the far side of the bridge had resumed. Torn, Phil felt he should go forward and still try to capture the other side.
"I'll tell you a secret, reb."
"And that is?"
"This son of a bitch is going to blow up in a few minutes, and there isn't a damn thing you can do now to stop it. I've smashed up the works good and proper, and that boiler is getting set to let go."
Phil looked around at his men. The way ahead was already almost impossible to traverse; the passenger car was burning fiercely, flames like blowtorches blasting out of the windows, which were shattering from the heat.
The Yankee was half up to his feet, looking at him wide-eyed, his features pale.
"You want to live, reb, get off this bridge now.r Phil reached down and pulled the man roughly to his feet. "Pull back!" he roared. "Get off the bridge!" His men needed no urging. They had had enough of this fight.
Shoving his prisoner along, Phil broke into a run, the two crossing the final feet back off the bridge and tumbling down into a culvert.
The Yankee grunted as he hit the ground next to Phil and then, to Phil's amazement, the Yankee reached into his pocket, pulled out a bottle, and uncorked it.
"You first, reb."
Phil nodded and took the drink. A minute ago he figured he was a dead man, and for the moment was damn grateful to still be alive. He realized that if this damn fool had not come along with his train, he'd have been forced to continue in that bloody charge. Many of the men of the Fourteenth were now cut off by the burning passenger car, some daring the flames, crouched down low, running back, others just giving up and jumping off the bridge.
"What's going to happen?" Phil asked.
"You just watch," the Yankee said, taking the bottle back and gulping down at least half a pint in three or four hard swallows. "But stay down low."
Peeking up over the side of the culvert Phil now saw a third locomotive appear, a small switch engine. It looked like an antique from twenty years ago, but it was moving fast, men jumping off as it rounded through the switch on the spur line. It thundered on to the bridge, artillery shells detonating to either side of it.
The switch engine came onto the bridge, still building speed, and plowed into the train ahead of it. The boxcar at the rear of the second train collapsed, and an instant later exploded into a fireball of flame as hundreds of gallons of coal oil sprayed out. The boxcar then telescoped into the passenger car, the burning car bursting asunder, spilling out rivers of flaming oil on to the bridge. The switching engine upended, tipping over, crashing through a trestle railing, careening off the bridge with a roar. It plunged into the river below, tearing out the side of the bridge, ripping up track, an explosion of steam and smoke erupting as it hit the river.
"I'll be damned," Phil whispered, standing up.
"Get down, reb!" the Yankee shouted, reaching out with his good arm to pull him down.
The second locomotive had lurched forward half a dozen feet from the impact, breaking the rail, tipping over slightly.
"About ready," the Yankee said. "Now stay down!"
There was a thunderclap and Phil could not resist peeking over the edge of the culvert. He felt a wash of heat and steam, the boiler of the locomotive erupting. Debris soared heavenward: part of a drive wheel, the smokestack, nearly intact, hunks of metal, flaming coals that looked like meteors or mortar shells fired at night.
He could feel the ground shudder. The bridge itself seemed to lurch, almost as if it had jumped from its foundation, and then settled back down. Wooden beams collapsed, spraying fire across most of the structure.
On both sides, everyone stopped shooting. Like schoolboys they stood up to watch the destruction, — some even shouting excitedly.
"Down, reb!"
The Yankee pulled him back into the culvert, curling up as he did so. A hunk of red-hot metal, part of the boiler, hit the side of the culvert and then bounced over them, spraying Phil with a shower of boiling hot water so that he cursed and slapped at his face.
The echo of the explosion rumbled across the valley.
George Armstrong Custer, still mounted, watched, mesmerized by the spreading cloud of debris. He could barely keep his saddle now, and perhaps, if not already injured, he would have been more alert and seen it coming, the expanding explosion, shards of iron, wood, part of a train axle spinning end over end, the axle killing his mount and tearing him out of the saddle.
A Mile East of Monocacy
11:10 A.M.
The train lurched even as a fireman leapt atop the tender and down to the door of the passenger car "Out, get out!" he screamed. Lee, half dozing, opened his eyes, men looking up at the wide-eyed fireman.
"We're gonna wreck. Jump for it!" Their train was slowing, skidding, the locomotive brakes shrieking as if they were about to be torn apart.
Walter leaned out the window to look and then turned on Lee, grabbing him by the shoulder, hauling him physically out of his seat and pushing him back to the rear door, the rest of the staff now following him. The train was still moving at ten miles an hour or more. Lee reached the last step and hesitated. "Jump, sir! Jump!"
Lee leapt off, hitting the ground hard, rolling, Walter coming down by his side. Seconds later Hotchkiss was on the ground twenty feet away. More men piled out.
Lee sat up, confused, actually feeling a bit humiliated, and undignified by this sudden action. Then he saw it Coming down the track, straight at them, was a locomotive, moving frightfully fast.
