Gettysburg, page 27
“I guess most soldiers wonder that,” George offered. “Even them fellas that marched with Pharoah against Moses, as you read about in the Bible. Just before they got to the Red Sea, I bet one of them asked the man next to him, “‘Hey, think we’ll get home for dinner tonight after killing that Moses?’”
George laughed softly at his own joke. “Worrying ain’t gonna change it.”
John said nothing, but he could not help but wonder, were they indeed like Pharoah’s army? Was God, and dare he think it, if there is a God, does He stand against us or with us. John stuffed the book back into his haversack and slid down, resting his head against a root of the oak tree.
“Something changed today. I could’ve sworn we’d go straight into that town,” John whispered. “I wonder about that. How a general looks at a map, ponders on it, then says, ‘No, let us go here rather than there.’ You could sense that from Walter Taylor. I wonder if that means that you and I will now live, or…” His question trailed off.
“We’re here, John. Just let it go at that. You did good yesterday. I heard the men talking about it.”
“About what?”
“How you led that charge. They believe in you.”
“Do you?”
George chuckled. “Course I do; otherwise I wouldn’t scrounge up coffee and borrow money from you. Of course I do. Just that you think too much at times.”
John was silent for a moment. “George, if something does happen to me.”
“I know,” George whispered, “but it won’t. I got a feeling for these things. You’ll go home when this is done. Be a judge like your poppa, maybe even a congressman someday, and have lots of children.”
John looked at the cold, uncaring heavens. To think of that dream was too painful to bear, and he pushed it away. He wanted to say more, but a moment later he heard Hazner snoring. His friend had drifted back off.
Alone, John looked at the low-hanging moon as it crossed the midnight sky.
Chapter Twelve
4:15 AM,
July 3, 1863 The Antrim, Taneytown
“General Longstreet.” A hand was on his shoulder, shaking him awake. He opened his eyes, disoriented for a moment. It was Alexander, his artillery chief.
“General Lee is awake. He wants you, sir.”
Pete sat up on the blanket that he had spread out on the floor and stood up, stockinged feet hitting the cool, polished wood. All was quiet in the house, the pale glow of moonlight shining in through the high windows, casting soft blue shadows across the room.
Alexander motioned toward the parlor, across the hallway, where the gentle glow of a coal-oil lamp flickered. Whispered voices echoed. Leaving his corner of the dining room, where he had fallen asleep on the floor, Longstreet stepped out into the main corridor that ran down the length of the house. A dozen or more men were sprawled out, several snoring loudly. A private quietly tiptoed down the hallway, carrying an empty coffeepot, heading to the kitchen.
The old man had a firm and fast rule. If they occupied a house, try not to intrude too much. The upstairs was off-limits, the fine feathered beds being used even now by the owner and his family. It was amazing the number of men in the house, the hundred or more camped outside, and how quiet it was. The sleep of exhaustion, Pete realized. How the old man had the energy to be up now was beyond him. He pulled out his pocket watch and flipped it open. By the reflected moonlight, he saw it was a little after four. Lee had grabbed only three or four hours at most.
He ran a hand through his hair and half buttoned his uniform jacket. His mouth felt gummy, sour tasting. How long since I bathed? He couldn’t remember. A cool stream, a bar of soap, how nice that would be right now. And fresh clothes, a white boiled shirt, clean socks. God, how I must smell. He had left his boots back in the room, thought about putting them on, and then decided not to.
He crossed over to the parlor.
Lee, jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled up, was leaning over a table, map spread out. Walter Taylor was with him and several staff. They looked up at Pete, and he could see the exhaustion in their eyes.
“You sent for me, General?” Pete asked. “What is it? Problems with Ewell?” and he looked over at Taylor. The young man was obviously on the point of collapse, and Pete sensed he had just come in from Gettysburg.
“No, sir,” Taylor replied. “I left Gettysburg a little after ten at night. The last of Ewell’s divisions, Johnson’s, was starting to file onto the road. Stuart was demonstrating hard, and the Yankees still seemed to be in place.”
“Then what is it?”
“A courier just came in from McLaws,” Lee announced. “They’ve yet to take Westminster. He’s stopped on the outskirts.”
Pete said nothing.
“I understand you ordered him to take the town by dawn.”
“Yes, sir, I did. If he stopped, there must be a reason.”
“The courier from McLaws reports that a civilian came into McLaws’s lines from Union Mills.” As he spoke, he pointed to the map, and Pete leaned over to study the position.
“This civilian’s report, we have to give it the most serious consideration,” Lee reported. “He claimed Stuart slept in his house on June thirtieth and agreed to stay in our camp, under guard, until Stuart would verify his veracity. He claims Sedgwick’s entire corps force-marched through, heading to Gettysburg on the morning of the second.”
“That’s good news at least,” Pete offered. “It means Sedgwick must have marched twenty, maybe even thirty miles yesterday. His men are exhausted and now in Gettysburg. That accounts for all their corps.”
“But Hancock is moving back down the road to Westminster,” Lee replied.
Pete nodded.
“We had to expect they’d move sometime.”
“I was hoping for eight to twelve more hours, but then again we were lucky to get this far without interference.”
“Meade is no Burnside or McClellan,” Pete said. “He’s cautious, but he will react correctly once he’s sure of the threat.”
“This civilian reports that a courier came into Union Mills shortly after one in the morning. He reined in, asked for directions, and this civilian claims that he overhead the courier saying that the Union army was pulling back from Gettysburg, with Hancock in the lead, heading toward Westminster.”
Pete nodded. It usually wasn’t like Lee to kick up a fuss over the report of a lone civilian, especially one who was not a Virginian. But at this moment, it had to be accepted.
“McLaws believed the report and sent it by fast rider back to me. He’s asking for orders, afraid that he’ll get tangled into a fight in Westminster. He reports thousands of troops there, including cavalry and some heavy artillery. He’s concerned that he’ll get engaged, and then Hancock will hit on the flank.”
Pete shook his head.
“Hancock won’t be there until well after dawn, if at all.”
“We must assume they are stirring, General Longstreet. That had to be expected all along, and in fact we want them to.”
“Yes, sir, once we’ve seized a good position.”
“I want you to go up and straighten things out yourself.”
“Yes, sir.”
“McLaws also reports a vast supply train in Westminster. I want that seized. Then we can leave our wagon trains west of the mountains. We can send them back as far as Falling Waters on the Potomac River for safety. That will free us up to move much more quickly. We will defeat the Union army using their own supplies.”
“I’ll leave at once.”
“And another thing, General.”
“Sir?”
“Talk to this civilian closely. He claims to know the area. The report is that Meade was considering a defensive line along this creek,” and again Lee pointed at the map. “Pipe Creek is its name. Several of my staff talked with sympathizers in town here, and they said the same thing, that there were rumors, or they had overheard conversations, that Meade wanted to draw us down here to fight. If that is true, that meant he must have picked out a good position.”
As he spoke, Lee traced out the creek that flowed north of Westminster and then curved south, just to the east of Taneytown.
“Apparently Meade sent Warren and Henry Hunt to survey it just before things started at Gettysburg. Our supposed friend stated that he watched Warren sketching a map and overheard a statement by Hunt talking about good fields of fire.”
Pete nodded. The chief topographical engineer for the army and head of artillery surveying a defensive line? Both of those men knew ground. Given the right spot, Hunt was usually brilliant with gun deployment, and Pete had sensed his hand in the defense of that accursed Cemetery Hill only two days ago. Any ground they liked was worth looking into.
“I’ll push McLaws in, then start moving people here,” and Pete traced his finger over the map toward Union Mills. “I’ll try and take a look myself, and then send a message back if this is the defensive line we want. What reinforcements can I expect?”
“I’m keeping Hood here,” Lee announced. “He’s deployed north of town here, and there’s been some skirmishing reported. It looks like Fifth Corps is approaching.”
“That splits my command to pieces,” Pete said. “McLaws on the right flank, Hood here in the center, and Pickett still twenty or more miles away.”
“I know, but it can’t be helped. I’m passing Hill’s corps up to you. You will take direct command. I’ve already sent an order to that effect. Hill is too sick to continue.”
“The entire corps?”
“Yes, that will give you at least four divisions to secure the right. I think Meade will make his main thrust coming down the road to Baltimore. It’s the shortest route back to their lines around Washington. They will look to turn our flank there, then slip around and into position. We must not allow that to happen.
“Ewell will file in here by midday, though his men will not be in shape to fight until rested, having marched all night. If possible, I will forward up additional troops from him as well. I’ll be in direct control here for now.”
Pete looked back down at the map. Things were getting a little unorthodox. All three corps were jumbled up and split apart. The last time they had tried a maneuver of this scale was Second Manassas, and both corps had remained intact.
What Lee was suggesting here was an ad hoc division of command, Lee directly controlling the center and left, and Longstreet the right.
“A long front, ten miles or more between Taneytown and Westminster,” Longstreet offered.
“I know. Their response will be toward one flank or the other. If aggressive, they’ll try and cut us in half here. If more concerned about regaining their base of supplies and protecting Washington, it will be toward Westminster. I suspect it will be the latter. Take that town; get Hill’s men in position; see if that civilian’s report is accurate.
“While you attend to that, I’ll have people out surveying the land in between along the south side of this creek.
“If all is secure here, I’ll pass Ewell’s command down to you as well, or at least give you Pickett by the end of the day. If their main assault comes in this direction, I want you to hold Westminster nevertheless, and I’ll send down what I can.”
Pete said nothing for a moment and just studied the map. The first hard stage of marching was over. Now it was time to secure the base and then find a good place to hold. If Warren and Hunt had been out exploring this ground, they had found it and would know it. He had to get it first.
Saluting, Pete left the room and then paused to look back. Lee was still leaning over the map. He caught Taylor’s eye. “Get him to sleep,” Pete whispered, almost mouthing the words, and Taylor nodded.
Alexander was out in the corridor, holding Pete’s boots and a cup of coffee. “Let me help you get these on, sir.”
Pete nodded his thanks and sat down, cradling the china cup filled to the brim with the warm brew as Alexander knelt to help him.
“Guess I’m coming with you?” Alexander asked hopefully.
“That you are, young sir. Get outside and round up the rest of the staff; they’re going too. I want to move within ten minutes.”
Alexander grinned. “I’ve already called to have our horses saddled.”
At forty-two, Pete felt very old. Sighing, he stood up and walked out the door. The horizon to the east revealed the first faint glimmer of dawn of July 3, 1863.
5:45 AM, July 3, 1863
Westminster
Chaos.
Never had he seen such wild insanity. The main street of Westminster was packed solid with hundreds of wagons, tangled together so tightly that nothing could move. Several wagons were upended, mules still tangled up in their harnesses frantically kicking at each other in their desperate struggle to escape. Most of the wagons were abandoned, drivers having run off, joining in the uncontrollable stampede heading east.
He edged his mount along the narrow sidewalk, his horse nervously stepping over a body sprawled in front of a tavern that had been looted. The man had been shot in the back, a broken bottle of whiskey by his side. A civilian stood in the doorway, an old shotgun cradled in his arms.
Haupt nodded and said nothing. The civilian ignored him.
All order, all control had broken down during the night. How and why it had started he still didn’t know. Suddenly hundreds of wagons had begun jockeying to get on the Baltimore Pike, drivers screaming that the Rebs were attacking. He had tried to send a scraped-up detail of men to stem the tide; but it was far too much, and most of them had simply joined the stampede.
Then the wagons still parked to the west side of the town had come pouring in, a wagon loaded with cartridge rounds upending and igniting. The thousands of rounds going off had truly enhanced the terror, flames leaping to a second wagon loaded with artillery shells and several hundred pounds of powder. That had exploded in a massive fireball. Several houses had caught on fire and burned, casting a lurid light on the mad scene.
The houses were still smoldering, a detail of civilians wearily carrying buckets to keep it from spreading. They looked at him coldly as he rode past.
In the early light of dawn, he surveyed the madness: the carnage, burned-out wagons, dead animals, another dead man, this one a cavalry trooper.
To the west he could hear the steady rattle of musketry growing closer.
A mule driver, terrorized, was still with his wagon, stuck in the middle of the street behind an upended load of rations, hemmed in on both sides and to the rear by more wagons, all of them abandoned. In his madness the driver was lashing out with his whip. There was no place for the poor tormented mules to go, and they screamed pitifully as their driver continued to lash them, crying out for them to move.
Herman drew his revolver, disgusted with the spectacle. “Goddamn you, stop that!”
The mule driver looked at him, eyes filled with fear, and continued to lash the bloody backs of the mules.
Herman cocked the revolver, aimed it over the head of the driver, and fired. He recocked the pistol and now pointed it straight at the driver’s head.
The driver stopped the whipping, looking at Herman with a blank stare.
“Drop that whip, you damn coward.”
The man did as ordered.
“Get down off that wagon and do one of two things: either find a rifle and get up on the line or go join the rest of your friends and get the hell out of here. But so help me, you raise that whip again and I’ll blow your brains out.”
The driver was off the wagon and, uttering a strange animal-like moan, he started to run, heading east, away from the fight.
The mules looked over at Herman, their backs lashed open. He was tempted to put them out of their misery but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He rode on, heading up the slope, the rattle of musketry growing louder.
As he rode he turned and looked back. The street was choked, impassable. He shifted in the saddle, reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out the message that had come in an hour ago.
Headquarters, Second Corps, Army of the Potomac
Near Gettysburg 2:00 AM, July 3, 1863
To the commander of the garrison at Westminster
Sir, my corps is now on the march, having departed Gettysburg shortly after one this morning, and shall approach Westminster via the road to Baltimore.
I implore you to hold your position regardless of loss. I shall come to you with all possible speed.
Hancock
If anyone would come with “all possible speed,” it was Winfield. If he had been in command of this army, there would have been no delay yesterday afternoon and evening.
But where was the cavalry? One good division right now could make all the difference. Instead, there was nothing but this scratch command and thousands of mule drivers running like madmen in every direction.
As he looked at the nearly impenetrable pileup of wagons clogging the street, a cold voice within told him it was over, to round up a crew, send them down the street, shoot the mules, and start setting the wagons on fire—and try to get out with what he could.
And yet Hancock had said he was coming.
He hesitated to leave his headquarters down at the depot, hoping that somehow, just behind the message that was over three hours old, perhaps Hancock himself just might come riding in with an advance guard.
No, it was twenty-five miles to Gettysburg, a ten-hour march for a corps moving fast, very fast.
To the west the sound of fire was picking up. So they were pushing in at last. Hell, a guard of old ladies armed with brooms could have swept them out of there during the worst of the panic.
With dawn breaking, the Rebs had to feel confident now, could see what was ahead, the mad confusion in the town, and would push straight in. He could imagine them over there. The sight of thousands of wagons, the piles of supplies stacked up around the depot, these would whip the rebels into a frenzy.
A wounded cavalry trooper came limping down the street, blood squishing out of his boot.
