"Are you certain about this, Major?"
Gen. Herman Haupt commander of the U.S. Military Railroads, looked up at the begrimed officer standing before him. The flickering of the coal oil lamp hanging from the ceiling of the tavern made the cavalryman look deathly pale.
"I'm certain of it, sir. There's Confederate infantry on the road not five miles from here. I saw them with my own eyes. Column of infantry, moving slow but moving, skirmishers deployed forward. I was up in a barn about a hundred yards off the road. We'd pulled in mere to look for some fodder for our horses and rest a bit Next thing I know, the road is swarming with Rebs."
"A brigade, a division, a corps?" "I didn't stay around to count them, sir. I took my men and we got the hell out of there."
Haupt nodded, looking back down at the map traced on a scrap a paper spread out on the bar.
The first word that trouble was brewing had come in just before six, a lone trooper, absolutely panic-stricken, riding down the main street shouting that the Rebs were coming. He had the man arrested, given a drink to calm him down, and the shaken boy claimed that there had been a vicious fight west of Taneytown. Buford was dead, Gamble dead, and the entire division routed.
By eight, more troopers were coming in; enough information forming that Haupt had finally sent a dispatch rider back to Baltimore bearing a report that there had been an action of at least division-level strength. He then called an officers' meeting, which had proven to be chaotic. There was no real system of unified command here, with units from seven different corps assigned to guard duty. He had over ten thousand men here, including the heavy artillery units sent up from Washington, but each of them answered to a different commander, and they were not all that enthusiastic about taking orders from him, an unknown. Several of the regimental commanders openly called for an immediate evacuation. The meeting ended with him ordering them to get their troops ready for a fight and deploy to the west side of town.
Now more and more defeated cavalry troopers were coming in, singly, in small bands, and this major with a hundred or so men.
He looked out the window and could feel the beginnings of panic. Civilians were again out in the street; men were gathered in small knots talking, obviously agitated. It wasn't looking good..
Until this hit, everything had been going according to plan. The third convoy of trains had come up early in the evening, been unloaded, and sent back. Another convoy was due at two in the morning. So far he had unloaded over fifty carloads of rations, rifle and artillery ammunition, shoes, medical supplies, including dozens of oversized hospital tents. Wood was stockpiled, the bucket brigade to water die engines was working, and several hundred laborers had built a fairly adequate platform for unloading and half a dozen roughshod, open-sided sheds to store ammunition and rations.
Now what?
I have no orders to evacuate. In fact, I can't If I do that it will leave the army dangling twenty-five miles away at Gettysburg, cut off, with only the supplies in their haversacks and the field ammunition trains.to support them. I've got nearly five thousand wagons here, waiting to start the convoying of supplies up to the front once the order is given. Try to pull those out now in the middle of the night and it will trigger a panic.
He looked back down at the map. Lose this and the army is cut off. He looked back up at the major. "Get some rest, but report back to me at dawn."
"Where, sir?"
"Why, here of course."
"Didn't you hear me, sir? You got Rebs, thousands of them, not three hours' march away." "I know that I believe your report." "And what's to stop them?"
"You, Major, for one. The troops I have here in town. Besides, Meade will have a corps down here by morning." "Really?" "Of course."
He fixed the major with his best poker gaze. He had sent two dispatches up to Meade this evening, the last one going out an hour ago with the report that Westminster was threatened. All that had come back so far were reports dated from late in the afternoon, reporting back to the War Department routine dispatches that said precious little other than, that Lee seemed to be skirmishing but not yet fully attacking at Gettysburg.
He could only hope that by now Meade had stirred himself and was sending something down this way by force march. But to say anything different… not now.
The major nodded and wearily left the tavern. Herman watched him go, then called for an orderly to go back out and round up all the unit commanders yet again. Troops had to be deployed, dug in, streets barricaded, supply wagons moved to the east side of town.
Even as he started to give orders, the cavalry major was back out on the street, getting on his mount A sergeant holding the bridle, looked up. "So what did he say, Major?"
"Darn, fool plans to defend the town rather than evacuate."
"Our orders, sir?"
"Find a place to camp. We report to him at dawn."
"Shit sir. The whole Reb army will be here by morning."
"I know, Sergeant Let's get the men rested, then find some ammunition. There's gonna be one hell of a battle here come dawn."
"For what? So we can get killed come dawn? Goddamn generals have done it to us again." "Enough, Sergeant. Enough." The two rode off.
Dick Hansen, a mule driver with Third Corps, his wagon loaded with thirty boxes of.58-cal. rifle cartridges, was leaning against the side of the tavern soaking up every word. He had slipped into town after dark, dodging around the provost guards and laborers, looking for a drink, just a single damn drink. It had been three long days since he had tasted a drop. The tavern, of course, had been a draw, even though such places were always lousy with officers. And now this.
Rumors had been drifting through the vast wagon parks since mid-aftemoon. Meade was dead, the army defeated yet again; then someone reported he had climbed a church steeple and seen smoke off to the west Now those cavalry boys riding in, all lathered up, scared half to death.
So now he knew… and he'd be damned if he got killed just because some goddamn general wanted to make a name for himself. He'd seen battle once, at Fair Oaks. The humiliation of being drummed through the camp, the sign declaring that he was a coward hung around his neck, the taunts of the bastards for his having excused himself from certain suicide by running away, didn't bother him all that much. Let them get killed. In fact, he later heard most of them had gotten killed at Antietam..
Lousy bastards deserved it Service with the supply trains, which his captain had sent him to, that's where a man of intelligence should be anyhow. Good rations in the wagons, always a chance for a bottle, even for the girls who trailed along behind the army, though such pleasures did eat up most of the pay of twelve damn greenbacks a month.
And twelve dollars a month wasn't enough to stay here. Not with those wolves coming this way. He'd seen them once, not much better than animals the way the Rebs came charging in. And by God, that's what they would do here come dawn.
Dick Hansen slipped away into the dark, dodging through back alleyways, finally reaching his wagon. The mules, stinking lousy beasts, were hitched up. Let the others unhitch theirs, but not Dick Hansen. Something told him it was going to get hot, so he had left them in their harnesses throughout the day, ready to go at a moment's notice.
He climbed up onto the rough seat and untied the reins.
"Come on, you sons of bitches," he hissed.
"Hey, Hansen, what the hell are you doing?"
It was Ben Fredericks, another driver with First Corps, his wagon parked next to Dick's. Ben, sleepy-eyed, was peeking out from the tailgate.
"We're ordered back to Baltimore," Dick announced.
"What?"
"Whole goddamn rebel army is coming this way!" Dick shouted. "I was down at headquarters. Orders are coming out now for us to get the hell outta here."
"What the hell you say, Hansen?"
Shit It was Sergeant Vernon, supposedly in charge of their detachment coming out from behind his wagon parked behind Fredericks's.
"You heard me, Sergeant A whole rebel corps is marching right this way."
"From where, damn it?"
"That road going west Taneytown, I heard. They've licked the army, and we're ordered out of here." 'I ain't heard nothing."
'•Well, you just heard it from me, Sarge, and I'm following orders!
"Come on, you sons of bitches!"
He cracked the whip over the ears of the lead mule, and the six whip-scarred beasts lurched forward, squeezing between two parked wagons, heading out across the field, weaving their way around hundreds of other wagons.
"What the hell are you doing?"
The cry echoed and reechoed across the field.
"Army's beat, Rebs are coming here by dawn, and we're pulling back to Baltimore. You all better get moving right now!"
And the panic began.