Gettysburg, page 29
“I’m just a captain, sir,” the cavalryman said cautiously.
Sykes smiled. “Appreciate the comment, captain. The question is, what is our mission here?”
“Take Taneytown.”
“No, it’s to cut Lee’s column off from Westminster or at the very least delay it.”
He looked up and pointed to the distant cloud of smoke that was visible above the early morning haze.
“It’s obvious the head of their column has seized Westminster,” Sykes continued. “The fires are most likely our supplies burning, gentlemen. We all know Meade. He commanded this corps before I did. He’s going to focus everything he has on taking that town back.”
As he spoke he traced a line on the map from Gettysburg to Littlestown and from there on to Union Mills. His finger paused over Union Mills.
“That’s the ground you surveyed, isn’t it, Warren.”
“Yes, sir.”
“From what you’ve told me, it’s an ideal position to cover Westminster, but it’s ground that starts east of Taneytown and then arches northeast to Union Mills.”
Warren nodded.
“That’s why we move on Taneytown rather than the bridge. We are now Meade’s flank and not an independent command,” Sykes announced.
He was silent for a moment, looking back down at the map again as if meditating. All around him were quiet, the only sound the steady tramp of the column marching along the road beside them, and from ahead the final sputtering of fire as the last of Crawford’s men fell back across the creek after their dawn repulse.
“His whole army might already have passed,” Sykes said, “but I doubt that. Lee’s goal is Westminster. If we swing to the southwest and cut the bridge, we’ll be advancing at a right angle to where we should be going, which is straight at Taneytown. If I were Lee, I’d let me do it. The troops beyond the bridge, if there are any, engage and hold us while the rest of his army continues eastward. We’ll cut off only part of the tail. I want to cut him right down the middle, and that means Taneytown. That’s what will really help Meade in this situation.
“If we hit Taneytown, he’s going to have to make a fight of it. The report is that Hood is in front of us. We hit him hard enough, whatever is in that town will have to turn to fight us. And yes, whatever is on the far side of the bridge will hit us as well. We might tie up three, perhaps four divisions of theirs in the process.”
“A tall order,” Warren whispered.
Sykes looked around at the division and brigade commanders who had come in to receive their orders and were standing silent, some of them obviously nervous with the way the conversation was going.
“Gentlemen, this campaign might very well decide the fate of the Union,” and as he spoke he pointed toward the smoke over Westminster, which was beginning to expand and spread out.
“Lee has Westminster. The Army of the Potomac has been flanked, and we are cut off from our line of communication and supplies. Meade will be forced to attack, maybe as early as this afternoon, most definitely by morning tomorrow.”
No one spoke.
“I want a concentrated attack on Taneytown, straight into the town. That will draw the rear of Lee’s army back to us. It has to. Two, maybe three of his divisions will be tied up by us. It will tie them up for most of the day, and we might even bleed some of them out. It could very well delay Lee and give General Meade his chance.”
He hesitated for a moment. “The fate of the Union rests here now. I am prepared to risk losing this corps if by doing so we give Meade a chance and thus save the Union.”
The men around him nodded gravely.
“There’ll be no glory in this, gentlemen. It will be a bloody stand-up fight. Crawford will be on the left, Ayres with my old division of regulars, you’re in the center, and Barnes on the right. Get your staffs moving to lay out the deployment and try to keep it concealed as much as possible from the Rebs.”
He pulled out his pocket watch and snapped it open. “It’s a little after seven. It will take at least two hours more for the rest of the corps and our artillery to come up. An hour beyond that to deploy, so we go in no later than ten. The massed batteries will fire two salvos; that will be the signal to begin.
“Advance on a two-brigade front, one brigade in reserve for each division, and aim straight for the town. Once in, fully expect to be overlapped on the flanks as Lee pushes in what he has. That’s what your reserve brigades are for. Once we get into Taneytown, we dig in and hold on, and make ’em pay for it.”
A couple of men grinned.
“If anyone can do it, we can,” Romeyn Ayres, who was in command now of Sykes’s old division of regulars, announced proudly.
“Get back to your commands.”
The men saluted and started to mount up, leaving Sykes and Warren alone for the moment.
“You don’t like it, do you?” Sykes asked.
“It’s that bridge to the west. Suppose they still have another division over there, maybe even two. Your right will be wide open, and they’ll turn your line.”
“Send a brigade down there and they’ll get flanked same as Buford. And I can’t afford a division. I want my command concentrated for this attack. I don’t have enough to do two things at once. It’s a risk we have to take for the Union.”
“So your plan is to just draw them in on you and slug it out.”
“Something like that.”
Warren shook his head and smiled. “Mind if I stick around.”
Sykes forced a smile in return. “Thank you. I’ll need you, the corps will need you, before the day is done.”
6:45 AM, July 3, 1863
Near Union Mills on the Baltimore Pike
Gen. Winfield Scott Hancock reined in, glaring coldly at the cavalry lieutenant who had cut in front of him, and then skidded his horse to a stop. “Damn it, sir, I’m asking you to stop!” the lieutenant cried.
“Out of my way, lieutenant.”
“Sir, I am responsible for you. That’s the job of the cavalry company assigned to your headquarters. At least let me scout down to that mill below before you proceed.”
“There is no time for that now.”
“Sir, if you get yourself killed, then I guess I’m going to have to get killed, too. Because if I don’t, my captain will most assuredly kill me if I come back without you.”
The young lieutenant tried to meet Hancock’s wrathful gaze, but couldn’t hold it. He started to blush and lowered his eyes.
“Please, sir,” the lieutenant asked, and there was a bit of a quaking to his voice. “We’re six miles, maybe more, away from the head of your corps. It’s just you, me, ten of my men, and your aides out here alone.”
Hancock spared a quick glance back over his shoulder. The rest of the men, not as well mounted, were just rounding the bend of the road at a full gallop.
Hancock nodded, and the lieutenant sighed with relief.
“Hear that?” Hancock asked, turning slightly.
The lieutenant nodded. It was artillery…distant, maybe two miles, maybe four or five. Hard to tell.
The valley below was lush, covered in a heavy mist; the treetops on the opposite slope a half mile away were poking up out of the fog, illuminated by the long, slanting light of the morning sun. The air was rich with the heady scent of a summer meadow at dawn, a mixture of wildflowers, grass, warm water.
It was quiet, peaceful, except for that distant thunder.
The staff finally caught up, reining in, the lieutenant shouting for his troopers to head down to the mill, its roof a sharp, dark line standing out in the morning mists.
The men set off at a trot, the lieutenant in the lead.
Hancock smiled. The boy had guts to stand up to him like that. And he was right. Get cut off by some Reb cavalry out here, my corps still miles away. Goddamn stupid way to get oneself killed or captured.
If I’m going to die in this, let it be with my men, out in front, leading a charge, damn it! And as he looked out across the valley below, he wondered for a moment, Might this be the ground where we finally decide it?
This had to be Union Mills and Pipe Creek. Warren had described it to him just before he left. High ground on both sides. Mill on the east side of the road with a good bridge beside it. Stream dammed to the east; ground marshy to the west. Hills nearly bare except for occasional woodlots, the wood having all been harvested off long ago for lumber to be cut by the mill and as charcoal for the smithy. Farmhouse about a half mile to the west down by the creek.
He looked carefully, and in the mists could just see it, a coil of smoke rising from the chimney.
Good fields of fire, Henry had said. Damn, this had to be it.
“Sir, we’re getting the all clear.”
Hancock looked up. A shadowy figure was up on the opposite slope, just above the slowly undulating wisps of fog coiling up from the damp bottomland, waving his hat back and forth.
Hancock spurred his mount and started down the road, which curved across the face of the slope and then leveled out. They clattered over the bridge, mill on their left. All was still. No one was working this morning.
The road pitched up sharply, and Hancock eased back on his horse, letting it slow to a trot. No sense in winding him out now.
The lieutenant and his men were at the crest of the hill, reined in, one of the men pointing. Hancock came up to their side.
Thick columns of smoke filled the sky to the southwest. The thumping was louder. Half a dozen civilians were out, standing by the side of the road, and Winfield rode up to them. “Is that Westminster?” he asked.
“It was burning during the night; you could see the flames!” a young boy shouted.
“Is that Westminster?” and this time he was a bit more insistent, focused on a middle-aged woman wearing a plain dress of dark gray.
“Yes, sir. It’s Westminster.”
“The sound of gunfire, how long has that been going on?”
“All night long. A couple of big explosions and then the fire. Just about an hour ago, it started getting louder.”
“How far is it to the town?”
“About four miles, maybe five.”
Winfield looked over at the lieutenant. “Think you can get through?”
“Well, sir, that does depend on whether the Rebs are to the north side of the town or not.”
“Supposedly General Haupt is down there in command. I want him to know we’re coming up.”
“Look! Is them Rebs?” the boy shouted, pointing off to the west.
The lieutenant turned in his saddle. Hancock looked to where the boy was pointing.
A small troop was cutting across a field about half a mile away.
“That’s Grandpa on the white horse!” the boy cried.
Hancock looked back over at the woman. She said nothing, but lowered her eyes.
“Your granddaddy with the rebel army, son?” Hancock asked.
“Sure is! My pa and all my uncles joined the army a year ago. My grandpa went out to warn them last night. He said you Yankees were going to get whipped. General Stuart himself visited our house, and Grandpa went to fetch him back along with the whole rebel army.”
The woman looked back up, eyes cold, her arms going protectively around her grandson, pulling him in tight against her side.
“Madam, you and your boy have nothing to fear from me,” Winfield said coolly, almost insulted by her reaction.
“It’s Rebs, sir,” the lieutenant announced. “Looks like some staff, a few troopers.”
The approaching group had obviously spotted them, slowed, and were spreading out. He caught a glint of reflected sunlight, someone with field glasses raised.
Winfield took out his own field glasses and raised them, focusing.
The rebel officer with field glasses raised slowly lowered them.
“Longstreet,” Winfield whispered. “It’s Pete Longstreet.”
“Want to try for them, sir?” the lieutenant asked. “We’ve got about the same numbers.”
He stayed focused on Pete. Several of the troopers with him had revolvers and carbines drawn.
Now that would be something, wouldn’t it? Hancock thought. Two generals charge each other and have it out, like princes of old jousting in front of their armies. Certainly would make the cover of Harpers’ Weekly. The thought almost had a romantic appeal.
He chuckled sadly and shook his head.
“Those days are gone forever, Lieutenant. They’d drop half of us before we got across that field. Your dreams of a cavalry charge and dueling knights are long finished.”
He lowered his glasses for a moment and looked over at the lieutenant, who was obviously upset by the put-down of the cavalry.
“No offense, son. Several of them boys have carbines. If I was Pete, I’d just pull back and lead us into them woods. For all we know, a whole brigade of Reb infantry is in there. Then where would we be? Dead or on our way to Libby Prison.”
“Yes, sir.”
He raised his glasses again. Pete’s glasses were up as well. Unable to resist the impulse, Hancock waved, and a second later Pete responded with a wave.
“Damn war,” Hancock sighed, and he lowered his glasses, putting them back in their case.
“You’re right about the infantry in the woods, General,” the lieutenant announced in a whisper and pointed.
A hill beyond where Longstreet was, a mile or so farther back, a dark smudge was moving, a column of infantry.
“Damn all to hell!” Hancock snapped. He looked over at the woman, realizing he was swearing in front of a female, but he didn’t offer an apology.
The rumble of gunfire from the town was increasing. Suddenly there was a deep rolling boom and a second later a spreading cloud of smoke appeared beyond the hills.
“Something blew,” one of the troopers whispered, “and it was damn big.”
“They’re taking the town,” Hancock sighed.
“Still want me to try and get through?” the lieutenant asked.
What good would it do now? Winfield thought. Tell them we’re too late? Tell Washington the army was now cut off?
“No, son, stay with me.”
“Then I advise, sir, that we pull back to the other side of the creek. “I’ve got only ten men, but we could give them a fuss if they try and come over the bridge.”
“He won’t come over the bridge.”
“Sir?”
“That’s General Longstreet, Lieutenant. He’ll dig in right here, right where we are standing. And then it will be we who will have to come back over that bridge.
“He’s got the good ground now.”
Winfield turned his mount and looked down at the woman and boy. “My compliments to your husband, madam. He guided General Longstreet well this day.”
She said nothing, her arms still around her grandson.
“Remember this day, son. When you’re an old man, you can tell your grandchildren about it. Now take care of your grandmother.”
He looked back at the woman. “I advise that you leave your home.”
“Why? Are you going to burn us out?” she asked defiantly.
“No, madam. We don’t do that; at least not yet. You’re going to be in the middle of a battlefield though before too long, and it’s going to get very hot around here.”
He started back down the road and turned to the young lieutenant. “Ride like hell, Lieutenant. Get back up to my corps and tell them to move on the double. We are now in a race with Longstreet.”
The boy galloped off. Winfield looked back one last time at Longstreet and waved. Spurring his mount, General Hancock headed back across the bridge.
7:15 AM, July 3
Union Mills
Pete watched as Hancock disappeared around the bend in the road.
“My family, sir, I’d like to get to them,” Shriver said, for the first time showing real fear.
“Don’t rush. Let them get back across the river.”
“My family is in jeopardy, sir. Do something. I’ve helped you; now do something.”
“That was General Hancock, Mr. Shriver. And I can assure you, sir, he is a gentleman.”
Pete fell silent for a moment. Yes, so many over there were gentlemen. Reynolds was. So was Buford. Will I be killing Hancock now? How would Armistead, who commanded a brigade in Pickett’s division, react to that. Armistead talked often of Hancock, their friendship before the war when stationed together out on the coast of California.
Damn war!
Shriver was still obviously concerned.
“Sir, General Hancock would lay down his life to protect your wife and family, even knowing the invaluable service you’ve just given us this day. So please relax. Let’s wait for our infantry support to come up, and then we’ll go forward.”
“Are you certain?”
Pete looked over at the man, and the civilian fell silent and lowered his head.
“My apologies, General.”
“None needed. You don’t know the army, our old army. We trained together at West Point, and we live by the code of honor taught there. We might be fighting against each other now, but we still live by that code.”
“Look at that place!” Alexander exclaimed, interrupting the two.
Pete turned his attention back to the task at hand. Alexander was pointing to the north.
“Looks like those hills slope down nicely to the creek. Ground on the far side might be a bit higher, but far enough back and not too much higher to give them an advantage if we dig in first.”
“These ridges,” Pete asked, looking back to Shriver. “Do they flank this creek like this in both directions?”
“Yes, sir. For miles to the west. You can’t see it yet, but down where those Yankees just rode, there’s a mill owned by my cousin, a fairly big pond backed up behind it. Then the stream curves a bit to the south, with a very high ridge on this side facing it.
“Natural flank,” Alexander offered, “with a good physical barrier with the pond.”
“Over there,” one of McLaws’s staff announced. “I see them.”
Hancock and his small cavalcade were a mile away now, up on the distant slope on the north side of the creek.
Pete smiled. For a minute there he had half expected Winfield to do something rash, a charge. That would have been devilish to deal with. Foolish, medieval-type thinking. Stuart still had it in spades. The men around me, though, they’d expect me to respond in kind and not simply pull back, whispering I lacked stomach if I didn’t draw a saber and ride out to meet him. Damn, war certainly brings out the stupidity in man.
