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 tired. He re-cocked 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
"How is it up there?" Herman asked.
"Won't hold much longer, sir. Goddamn infantry with us, they're just melting away. If we still had Buford, all the ammunition down here, we'd give 'em a hell of a fight but not now."
Herman nodded, reached into his breast pocket pulled out a notepad, and hurriedly scribbled on it.
"This is a pass for the last train out Get yourself on board"
He passed the note down to the cavalryman, who forced a weak grin and saluted. "Didn't relish the thought of winding up in Libby Prison."
'Trooper, you're worth saving," and Herman looked back with disgust at the pileup clogging the street
He nudged his horse and rode to the crest of the hill at the west end of town.
A mix of cavalry troopers, infantry, and at least a few wagon drivers was drawn out in a rough line, crouched down behind trees, pressed up against the sides of the last houses in town, some of the men up in the buildings, firing from the second floors. Bullets were snicking in, bits of clapboard exploding in splinters, fragments of brick puffing out A shell screamed in, breaking the window of a house, detonating inside with a flash.
He had ordered up the heavy four-and-a-half-inch guns, two batteries, twelve beautiful heavy guns, posting them to hold this crest, and finally he spotted them, gunners working feverishly, one of the guns recoiling with a throaty roar.
He rode toward the batteries, and as he did so he crested the hill.
The sight was a shock. Barely 250 yards off was a heavy battle line of Rebs, emerging out of the smoke and early morning fog. These weren't skirmishers probing and fumbling in the dark. With the light of dawn they were no longer. hesitating. They smelled victory; they saw die prize ahead.
"Sir, will you get the hell off that horse!"
He saw the battery commander coming toward him, crouched low.
Herman didn't argue and dismounted, the battery commander grabbing him by the arm, pulling him behind a Umber wagon. The protection chosen didn't give him much confidence. There were several hundred pounds of powder in the Umber.
Five guns of the first battery fired a salvo, followed seconds later by six more guns, positioned a hundred yards to the right, a cheer bursting from the gunners as the deadly spray of canister tore into the advancing rebel line, dropping dozens of the enemy.
The enemy advance slowed, came to a stop, and hundreds of rifles suddenly rose up and then dropped down level.
"Get down!"
The volley ignited. It sounded like a swarm of angry bees rushing overhead, around them, a ball ricocheting off the wheel of the limber. Half a dozen horses, still harnessed to the battery's limber wagons, started to kick and scream or just collapsed.
Ramrods were withdrawn all along the rebel line, men working to reload. Gunners were back up around Herman, scrambling to load as well. The Rebs went into independent fire at will, and within a minute a storm of.58-cal. minie balls was whistling in. It seemed as if the entire rebel brigade out there was concentrating on this one position. The men with the guns began to drop.
A rebel battery was revealed by the puffs of smoke, the flashes of light barely visible in the fog, shells streaking in.
"I could use some more infantry support," the battery commander cried, even as his six guns recoiled sharply, sending another storm of canister into the enemy line. More canister went downrange from the second battery. They were doing it right, not engaging in counterbattery, but working to keep the infantry back instead. I don't have any more."
"A couple of the regiments up here, they're doing their
job, but most of the rest are melting away or already disappeared with those goddamn wagon drivers."
"How long can you hold?"
The major stood up straight, slowly scanning the enemy line, ignoring a spray of splinters that tore up from the top of the limber wagon as it was scored by a bullet
"They'll finally go for the flanks, lap around us. Half hour, maybe an hour. They won't come straight in against my guns, damn them."
Herman actually smiled. This man and his heavy artillery, which threw twice the weight of the lighter field pieces, were actually itching for a fight He most likely had been stuck in a garrison around Washington since the start of the war and been moved up here only because someone back at the War Department liked the idea of some heavy artillery posted somewhere else.
As luck would have it the last convoy of trains that had come up at two in the morning actually had a few hundred rounds of 4.5-in. canister rounds on board, the battery commander sending down fifty men to haul the rounds up by hand, since it was impossible to move a caisson through the streets.
"Where's the rest of the army?"
Herman told him of Hancock's urgent appeal.
The major shook his head.
'It'll be damn near noon before they get in. You're asking the impossible. We'll be flanked within the hour."
Then we fall back into the town, fight them house to house. Your men have hand weapons. There's no way we'll be able to move your guns out So when it finally hits, spike your weapons, smash or take the rammers with you, and men fall back into town. I'm passing the same order to the infantry. We hold the town."
The major shook his head but smiled. "You're not a line officer, are you, sir?"
"Railroad man."
"Goddamn. Wish we had more railroaders running this army."
"McClellan was a railroader."
The major spit on the ground. "Well, every business has some bad apples."
"Just hold as long as you can, Major. I'm going to see the other officers on this line to pass the word."
Leading his horse and trying not to crouch too low and thus look absurd, Herman started to walk away, then looked back. "Major."
"Sir?"
"If it falls apart, get yourself back to the depot. I'm taking the trains out, if we can't hold. I want as many of your men as possible, and you, to go with me."
The major forced a smile. "Sir, I have a bad feeling about today, a dream last night, you know the kind. But thanks."
Herman left him to his work and his nightmares and started down the line, shouting encouragement to the small detachments of Buford's cavalry who were still game, having rallied during the night around a sergeant, captain, and even the colonel of the Eighth Illinois, whose arm was wrapped up in a bloody sling. The half a hundred men gathered round him were mostly armed with the precious Spencer repeating rifle. A supply of ammunition had been found, boxes of it were stacked up behind an overturned wagon, and the men were pouring it in, fifty troopers with the firepower of an entire regiment. They were fighting like true professionals, hunkered down low, taking careful aim.
The weapon in their hands wasn't a carbine; only now was the factory starting to make the lighter weapon, these men had purchased, with their own money, the standard long-barreled weapon and now were putting it to damn good use.
One of the troopers looked back at Haupt. "Just keep the ammunition coming, and we'll hold them all day, sir!"
Herman nodded and continued on.
"Hold until they flank, then into the town," he kept repeating.
We've got to hold. Hancock is coming.