"General Longstreet?"
The courier was edging along the side of the road, pushing his way around a battery, standing in his stirrups, and looking toward Pete and his staff. The day was getting hot; the courier's horse was lathered, the animal blowing hard, the lieutenant's face covered with dust, traced with rivulets of sweat streaking his forehead.
Longstreet nodded, motioning the boy over. Excited, the courier drew up alongside the general and saluted. "Message from General Robertson, sir," and the boy handed the paper over.
Pete, swinging one leg up over the pommel of his saddle, opened the message and quickly scanned it.
"Robertson has Emmitsburg. Pete announced, looking back to his staff. "They took the signal station up behind a Catholic convent, St Mary's College," and he paused, looking at the time on the note, "thirty minutes ago."
There were nods of satisfaction.
"Did the signal station get any messages off after we came into view?" Pete asked, looking back at the courier.
"Not sure, sir. They was waving them flags something fierce though as we came through the town. Some mounted boys up front got up there quick and took 'em prisoners."
"Anything else in the town?"
"No, sir, just some stragglers. General Robertson said
that it looked like a whole hell of a lot of Yankees were there yesterday though. Stragglers from First and Eleventh Corps, he said."
Pete nodded, pulled a pencil out of his breast pocket, and flipped the message over.
Secure road south and north of town; push out pickets. Clear your men from the road. Law's brigade will start toward Taneytown.
Signing his name, he handed the message back. "Where is General Hood?"
"Sir, I heard he was reconnoitering east of the town. Moving toward the bridge over Monocacy Creek."
"Get back to Robertson; tell him I'm coming up shortly," and he nodded a dismissal.
As the boy pushed back onto the crowded road, Pete turned to his staff. "One of you stay here in case any more couriers come back looking for me. One of you go back up the road as far as Fairfield, keep them things moving, keep them moving. I'm going up to join General Hood and can be found on the road to Taneytown."
Wearily swinging his leg off the pommel, he slipped his foot into the stirrup and urged his mount to a slow trot. The road was narrow, coming down out of a low ridgeline that cut across the road toward Emmitsburg. The battery that had just rumbled past had come to a stop, and pushing around it, he swore at the sight of an ammunition wagon blocking the way ahead. The driver and half a dozen men were squatting down looking at the rear axle, the left rear wheel splayed out at a drunken angle… apparently a lug nut and the wheel had come loose.
"Damn it!" Pete snarled. "Don't just sit there staring; get some men and, if need be, heave that damn thing off this road. You're blocking the entire column!"
"Ah, sir, we can fix this in ten minutes."
"I don't have ten minutes! Heave it off the road now!"
The men saluted and as he rode on he heard one of them whispering that "Old Pete" was in a bad temper.
Damn it, I am in a bad temper! he thought angrily. Two or three breakdowns like that could delay a column for an hour or more. If this was going to work, they had to get into Taneytown before Meade began to shift He had to assume that the signal station had sent a warning, that even now staff officers were galloping about Meade's headquarters, heading out to the various corps. Fifth and Sixth Corps were still not clearly accounted for. If they were coming up from Westminster or Taneytown, they could be turned around in fairly short order, and the race would be on.
The rear of Law's brigade was ahead of him, swinging down out of the pass, keeping a good pace. An orchard opened up to his right and he edged his way off the road and into the rows of peach trees. The trees nearest the road had already been stripped by the passing column, but in the middle of the orchard the fruit was still untouched. As he moved up to a slow canter, he reached out and snagged one from an overhanging branch and bit into it grimacing slightly. The fruit was still hard, not quite ripe. In Georgia they'd be ripe, and he thought for a moment of his boys-a summer evening, picking peaches for a cobbler-and forced that away. They're dead. Don't dwell on that now. My babies are dead and gone from the typhoid.
He rode on, half consuming the peach and then tossing it aside. The orchard gave way to a wheat field. It took a moment to find an opening in the split-rail fence. The wheat brushed against his boots, heavy golden stalks ready for the harvest. In fact part of the field had already been cut, but no one was working the field today. Not with a war on.
He hated trampling down the hard labor of another. There were more than a few who these last two weeks were taking pleasure from it, making the Yankees feel what a war is like, the men said; but his nature rebelled against such wanton destruction and vandalism. Someday this war was going to be over. If we win, we have to be neighbors once more.
As he reached the bottom of the field he saw the farmer standing by his barn, a portly wife clinging to his arm. Pete tipped his hat, and she offered a wan smile. The farmer just glared at him, saying nothing.
The path from the barnyard led back down to the main road into Emmitsburg, and he followed it The street was packed with troops, men of Law's brigade. The village was typical of the region, small two- and three-story houses, packed together tightly, their front steps right on the walkways flanking the roadway. Windows were open, curious civilians peering out at the flood of men pouring down their „ thoroughfare. A tavern had a provost guard outside its door. The troops streaming past peppering him with jests and more than a few barbed comments about good infantry going thirsty while officers lingered inside. He was tempted, just for a second, to actually stop and go in, to see if any officers were indeed malingering within under pretense of securing contraband liquor. The guard nervously saluted as Pete continued on.
The road curved down a gentle slope, past a church that had a Union hospital flag hung from a window. The doors were open and he could see a surgeon at work. Some casualties from the previous day's fight had most likely been moved down here during the night A dozen soldiers, a mix of Yankees and his own, were on the steps of the church, one rebel boy moaning, holding a crushed foot up in the air, blood dripping from his smashed boot Several others were obviously sick, one an old man with a waxy pallor and blue lips, wearing a tattered uniform, a soldier from the Texas Brigade.
Several of the Yankees saluted, and Pete returned die gesture as he pressed on. Directly ahead was the intersection with the Gettysburg-Emmitsburg Road. A regiment in open order was deployed in a field north of the intersection, slowly pushing up along either side of the road in a heavy skirmish line. As he reached the junction, he spied Robertson, commander of the lead brigade in the march. Robertson was standing to the side of the road, talking with his staff.
Behind him, in the fields to the south of town and below the convent, the Texas Brigade was deployed, guarding the approach to the south.
"How are things here?" Pete asked.
Grinning, Robertson saluted.
"No real trouble so far, sir. Skirmish to take that signal tower," and he pointed up to the high ridge behind the convent "Gotta figure we just knocked on the back door of the Yankees."
"Why is most of your brigade off that way then?" Pete asked casually. Robertson was a good officer, who knew his business.
"A couple of the stragglers we picked up"-and he gestured to where half a hundred Yankees were sitting glumly in an open field, guarded by several mounted provost guards- "one of them said there was a brigade of Yankee cavalry south of here and coming up this way."
Pete nodded, shading his eyes as he scanned the road to the south. No dust on the road, no sense that anything was coming, but still a brigade of Yankee cavalry slamming into their line of march could play havoc; even a brief delay at the crossroads here would reverberate clear back to Gettysburg, bringing the entire march to a halt He silently cursed Stuart Rather than rounding up headquarters details and mounted staff to push the head of the column, it should have been a full division of Stuart's troopers securing the way.
"General Hood?"
'Talked with him about a half hour ago, sir. He's heading east with his staff to scout the bridge at Monocacy. He should be at the front of Law's brigade. The head of their column should be a couple of miles down the road by now."
Pete nodded, gaze still looking south, then turning in the saddle, he studied the road northward. All of the wheat and corn in the fields to either side of the road was trampled down, hundreds of burnt circles marking campfires, clear evidence that a lot of men had been through here in the last couple of days.
"So far though," Robertson offered, "it looks like every one of them Federals hightailed it up to Gettysburg yesterday. Other than that sorry bunch sitting over there, a couple of surgeons and the Signal Corps unit, there was nothing here."
"Could change damn quick though," Pete responded. "Rest your men, then fall in on the rear of Hood's column once the rest of the division has passed. If there's a fight up ahead, I want your brigade of Texans in it I want to keep my units together as much as possible. But if anything starts to loom up from either direction, you get word up to me quick. I'm going forward, and once into Taneytown I will establish headquarters there. You got that?" '
Robertson repeated the orders, and Pete nodded approvingly.
He looked around again. To the west of the north-south road, it was good ground, perfect for a defensive fight; on the other side, however, the land gave way to gently rolling farmland. If this plan worked, the entire Army of Northern Virginia would funnel through here across the next two days. If the Army of the Potomac should react by coming back down the main road to Gettysburg, they could possibly cut his corps off, strung out all the way past Taneytown.
Then it was going to get dicey. We stretch out If we grab Taneytown and start to move toward Westminster, then we have them. But if they react now, coming south on this road, it will be us who are scrambling.
He looked back to the north.
"If there is cavalry coming up from the south, we can handle it I'm more worried about a damn corps of infantry coming back down this road from the north. Before you push on, get up this road a bit scout it out find a good defensive line to slow them down."
"Yes, sir."
He hesitated for a moment Perhaps I should stay here, at least till I get a full division forward. He looked back toward the town of Emmitsburg. The torrent of troops continued to pour down the main street reached the intersection with the Gettysburg Road, and pressed on eastward. The pace was quick. Hood was doing a good job. The men were moving along sharply. Now that they were out of the pass above Emmitsburg and into open country, we should be able to make close to three miles an hour to the Monocacy Bridge. The road was a good one, a pike surfaced with crushed limestone.
Should I stay here to keep an eye on things?
No. That's what I would have done yesterday. Not today. I can't think that way today. Trust Lee's instincts. It was I who first put this scheme forward; I have to keep it moving. The old man was right Jackson is dead. I have to take his place now. To hell with the myth about Jackson's foot cavalry. Let them see what my corps can do for a change.
He looked over at his staff. The boys were tired. Most had not slept since yesterday morning, and he could see more than one who had that wistful, dogged look in his eyes, hoping he'd declare that here was headquarters and they could grab a few minutes of sleep in the shade.
We do that and it sends a signal to every soldier marching past. Headquarters is here; this is the center; we can begin to slacken the pace.
"Come on," Pete said, "we got some more riding."
None of them said anything. A few were obviously a bit surprised at his determination to go to the front of the march.
Swinging out into the open fields beside the road, Pete urged his mount up to a near gallop, weaving through open pastures, rich land of wheat corn, apples, and fat milk cows. It was getting decidedly hot even as he rode, and he took his hat off for a moment letting the breeze cool his sweat-soaked brow.
Troops marching on the road saw him pass, a few offering a cheer. He wasn't the type that most of the men cheered, no Jackson, but damn it he would show Jackson a thing or two this day. He passed a battery of three-inch rifles, moving at a sharp pace, the road ahead darkened by the swaying column of infantry, the men moving briskly, some of the shorter men pushing along at a slow trot Something must be up, he realized, an order from forward to come along on the double.
And then directly ahead, he heard it, the patter of musketry, puffs of smoke rippling along the far ridge, a low stretch of ground, the crest, open pasture and fields. Whoever was shooting was down in the wheat and com. He slowed for a moment, not sure if they had, in fact, run into Union troops contesting their approach, then saw some men in butternut sprinting from the road, deploying out along the base of the ridge and moving up, arms still at the shoulder.
Coming down from the ridge ahead was a knot of mounted men, one of them John Hood, and Pete angled over toward him, coming on fast, his mount laboring hard, exhaling noisily. John was heading for the road but then swerved at Pete's approach and came straight toward him.
"What's happening, John?" Pete shouted, even as he reined in hard.
"Damn Yankee cavalry, that's what gives. The bridge over Monocacy is just on the other side of that ridge. We were just about on it, and then from the other side, out of Taneytown, we saw them coming up, riding hard, a regiment at least and more on the way."
"Can you force it?"
"I'm doing that right now."
Even as he spoke, the volume of fire was increasing. A regiment of troops down on the road was moving forward on the double in columns of four, heading up toward the low rise. As the head of the regiment crested the rise, the racket swelled, and he could see several men tumble out of the ranks. The column slowed and then began to deploy into a battle line.
"We're trying to find a ford so we can flank it, but I think they've beaten us to the bridge." "Who is it?" "Buford."
"Damn!" Pete sighed. It would have to be him. A year ago, at Second Manassas, John Buford had put up a hell of a fight and almost delayed Pete's march through the Bull Run
Mountains. Reports were he had done it again yesterday before Gettysburg. Why the hell was he here now?