Cursing soundly at the engineer of his train General Robertson rode past the hissing engine. It had taken them six hours to come up from Baltimore, rather than the two promised to them back in the rail yard. Two locomotives had broken down, one of them obviously sabotaged with a hole punched into a cylinder and then plugged with tallow and hemp that had finally blown out. It had forced his entire convoy to shift tracks, then shift back again, to get around the stalled engine, leaving two regiments behind. The scene just east of the river was chaos. Dozens of trains were backed up, the ones that had brought up Scales waiting to begin a backward shuttle all the way to Relay Junction before being able to turn around. The pontoon bridges were parked to one side, blocking the westbound track, and straight ahead was the wreck that he had heard almost killed General Lee.
On the way up they had passed Longstreet's Corps, marching on the National Road, fifteen miles out of Baltimore but still a good day and a half away from the spreading battle at Frederick.
He turned and looked back. His men were piling off the boxcars, passenger cars, flatcars, and even coal hoppers pressed into service for this troop movement. The men were forming up into columns of march, beginning to surge forward on either side of the tracks.
"Keep 'em moving!" Robertson shouted. "Boys, General Lee needs us. Now keep moving!"
Braddock Heights 4:30 P.M.
General McPherson spared a final glance back at the South Mountain range, five miles away. The valley between him and the distant ridge was empty. No troops were coming up.
Where in heavens name was Ninth Corps? They should already be over the crest, flooding in to support him.
But orders were orders and he knew what Grant wanted-to hold Lee in place here' while he cast his net wide. If only the rebs had come on again. Holding this ridge he could have pounded away at them all day. His reserve ammunition trains were coming up the slope, along with a battery of three-inch rifles, the only battery Grant had allotted to him. But he understood his orders, the mission Grant wanted, and that he was now a pawn, or perhaps a knight, ventured out into the middle of the board.
Downslope, a mile away, skirmish fire was erupting, reb infantry and cavalry falling back into the town. He looked around at his staff.
"A moment of prayer, gentlemen," he said softly, and removed his hat.
Lowering his head he silently commended his soul to God, asking for a blessing upon his men who this day might fall. All were silent.
"Let's go," he said, his voice matter-of-fact, as if they were out for an afternoon's ride down into a friendly village to visit old friends.
He raised his field glasses one last time, looking to the far horizon. It should be possible on a clear day to see the church spires of Baltimore. So close to Emily, and yet so far. Battle smoke obscured the view. He lowered his glasses and cased them.
General McPherson and his staff set off down the road to Frederick.
Frederick 4:45 P.M.
Sergeant Hazner raced up the steps to the top floor of the building and flung a door open. He stopped for a few seconds in amazement. It was a photographer's studio, the owner, a dyspeptic-looking frail gentleman gazing at him with surprise, the air thick with the odor of ether and other chemicals.
"Sir, might I suggest you go to the basement," Hazner said, stepping back from the doorway and then directing the half dozen men with him to take positions by the windows.
One of the men started to smash the window panes with the butt of his rifle and the photographer shouted a protest.
"Please just open them," Hazner said. "Let's not get carried away."
He had to laugh inside at this little point of etiquette. If what was about to happen, did happen, this place would be a shambles in fairly short order.
The men did as ordered and Hazner walked over to the table the photographer had set up in one side of the room. A number of wet collodion plates were lying on black felt, others were hanging up, drying. Hazner studied them for a few seconds. Some were just blurs, but a few were really quite remarkable, a blurred column of men moving up the road just below, but there, in a different picture, remaining stock-still at the main intersection of the town, was General Lee on Traveler, General Scales by his side. Another photograph showed the Catoctin Heights wreathed in smoke, blurred columns moving up the National Road, and in the foreground General Lee with field glasses raised, looking up at the battle.
"So you've been busy today?" Hazner asked.
"Quite so! A dozen images, many of the battle itself. Quite extraordinary. I hope to get more," and he pointed to the camera on the far side of the room.
"Could I convince you gentlemen to pose for me right now?"
Several of Hazner's men looked at him, grinning. He was almost tempted, but then shook his head.
"Sir, I don't think you realize how dangerous it will be here in a few minutes. Please go to your basement."
"You can't force me," the photographer said loudly. "Good heavens, man, no one has ever photographed a battle before, and I plan to do so today."
Hazner shook his head.
"Just be careful, sir," he said, nodded to his men, and then ran down the stairs and out into the main street.
The last of the Confederate infantry were disappearing into buildings, men running. A block to the west a two-gun section was set up, both pieces firing at the same instant, recoiling, filing the street with roiling clouds of smoke. The guns were hooked to their caissons by trail ropes, the guns being dragged down the street even as their crews worked to reload. They stopped at the main intersection.
"Fire!"
Both guns kicked back, several windowpanes shattering from the blast, the solid shot of the twin Napoleons screaming down the street.
Still hooked to the caissons by twenty feet of rope, the team started to move again.
"Better get off the street there, Sergeant," the section commander shouted. "They're coming on fast!"
Hazner looked up the road, and sure enough, he could see them a half dozen blocks "away, Yankee infantry, running hard, dodging into buildings, rifle fire already erupting from upper-floor windows. A minie ball hummed past him, and then another; a gunner collapsed, holding his arm and cursing, his comrades quickly picking him up and helping him to get up on the caisson.
The crew moved another block. Hazner pressed himself inside the doorway as they fired again, the scream of the shot tearing down the street and slapping him with a shock wave. He peeked out and saw it slash through a file of troops on the street, knockifig them over. More shots came down the street. From the window overhead his men were opening up, leaning out, shooting, ducking back in. It was time to get inside.
He dashed back into the building and up the stairs. The photographer was in the corner of the room, head under a black hood behind the camera, asking if the men would stand still for a moment, but they ignored him. Two of the best shooters were at the windows, the others passing up loaded rifles. Glass was shattering, the room filling with smoke.
Strange, all their other fights had been out in the open. Usually towns were bypassed in a fight. Why Scales had decided to stand here, men broken up into small units, was beyond him. This was going to be one ugly fight.
Hazner settled down by a window, back pressed against the wall, and then leaned over to look out. Swarms of Yankees were coming down the street, men dropping with every step forward, the column breaking up, an officer out front shouting, waving his sword, the formation disintegrating as they broke and ran toward buildings, ducking into doorways. Within seconds the return fire became intense, bullets smacking into windowsills, tearing across brick fronting. Across the street a man tumbled out of a third-floor window, smacking into the pavement with a sickening crunch.
"Gentlemen, just please remain still for fifteen seconds, that's all I ask!"
Hazner ignored the man, raised his rifle, and joined the fight.
Braddock Heights 5:10 P.M.
Grant stood silent, field glasses trained on the town below. It was turning into one hell of a fight. McPherson had waded straight in. Buildings were ablaze, a church steeple wreathed now in smoke, fire licking up its sides. Beyond, he could see where a large column of infantry was coming over the National Road bridge across the Monocacy, the distant smoke of locomotives barely visible through the haze.
Lee's Second Division was starting to deploy, preparing to sweep into the town from the north side. McPherson had placed his men well. One division was forming to the north to meet the counterthreat, at least another division into the town, and what looked to be a brigade pushing to the south side of the town, fighting what appeared be dismounted cavalry, and steadily moving toward the river.
Now, if only I had more men up, Grant thought. A Confederate division with Lee's army carried almost as much strength as a Union light corps. Though McPherson had fifteen thousand at the start of the day, several thousand at least had fallen out in the forced march. Even now those stragglers were walking past him, small groups, a few men, a couple of dozen being shepherded along by a corporal or a sergeant, more than one stopping to ask one of his staff where the fighting was or where they should go. And always they were directed down the road into Frederick and told to get into the fight.
McPherson had, even by conservative estimates, lost two thousand men taking these heights. Hospitals were already set up on the western slope, the wounded, Union and Confederate alike, being carried in. Grant dared not even to watch that too closely. Unlike many another general, hospitals terrified him, turned his stomach.
So McPherson, at best, had carried nine or ten thousand into the fight and Lee had twenty perhaps twenty five thousand down there closing in. Yes, McPherson was the bait, but now he needed a solid line to hang on to him.
He turned and looked to the west. Only now did Grant see the head of Burnside's column coming over the South Mountains, and the sight filled him with rage. Those men should be up here now, forming up just behind the slope, and ready to sweep forward in mass to catch Lee off guard. He wondered if Lee had realized that. He had conceded the heights too easily. Even as I set the bait, was Lee urging me to cast it in?
No. Never think that. Do that and I start to become like all the others who faced Lee, worrying more about him than what my own plans are.
"I think that's General Sheridan coming up," Ely announced, pointing to the west.
Indeed he was-coming on hard, lashing his mount, Rienzi, up the final steep slope.
"Damn that man," Sheridan shouted, even as he reined in.
"Burnside?"
"Exactly. Says he can't possibly push his men any faster."
Grant looked back to the boiling cauldron of battle down below, Sheridan falling silent by his side.
"My God," Sheridan said, "what a fight."
"It is. I sent McPherson down there to hold Lee in place. If we had dug in here, Lee never would have sought battle and perhaps slipped off."
Grant turned to Sheridan. "I will not leave McPherson down there to be slaughtered. I need Ninth Corps and I need Hunt's guns. We've sucked Lee in and a good counterblow right now would hurt him."
Sheridan did not reply.
"He's got his colored division in the lead, sir. What about that?"
"I don't care which division he's got in the lead. I want them into this fight before nightfall!"
Grant looked around at his silent staff. Ely gazed at him and simply nodded, as if reading his mind.
"General Sheridan. You are to take command of Ninth Corps." Even as he spoke he motioned for Ely to write out the authorization. "Relieve Burnside of command on the spot. Tell him he can report to me tomorrow for reassignment. You will take command of the corps and push them forward with all possible speed. Any division or brigade commander who fails in doing that, relieve them on the spot and find someone who can do the job. Send word back to Hunt to push forward even if it takes all night. If we can save McPherson, Lee will surely hang on for a rematch tomorrow, and we need guns in position to meet him. Do you understand your orders?"
"Yes, sir!" Sheridan said with a grin.
Ely finished writing the dispatch, tore the sheet off, and handed it to Grant who scanned it, then signed the document relieving Burnside.
Sheridan snatched it, turned, and, with staff trailing, set off at a gallop.
Frederick 6:00 P.M.
General, they're hitting us from the north!" James McPherson turned to look as a courier came riding in from the north side of town. "Full division. Robertson's I'm told. Hood's old command."
"Good," McPherson said with a grin. "The more the merrier."
"Our boys are falling back. They can't hold."
"Then go back there and.tell them to get into the houses, hunker down, and, damn them, hold. We've got to hold!"
All around him was blazing wreckage. The pleasant town of Frederick had become a battlefield much like Fredericksburg the year before. The entire western end of the town was afire, flames leaping from building to building on the westerly breeze that had sprung up. There was a touch of coolness in the air and he looked up at the dark clouds gathering on the other side of the mountain, filled with the promise of an evening thunderstorm.
It was always said that a battle brought rain, and it was hard to tell at this moment whether the thunder rolled from the heavens, the incessant rifle fire in the center of town, or the burst of artillery streaking through the streets.
Monocacy Junction 6:20 P.M.
Lee stirred anxiously, sipping a cup of coffee, leaning against a fence rail, looking toward the town wreathed in smoke. It sickened his heart to see a church spire collapse in flames, and he whispered a silent prayer that if it was being used as a hospital that those within had been evacuated.
He looked back at the bridge. All the fires were out hours ago, and hundreds of men were now at work. Men were tearing up track from the spur line, bringing it down, along with the ties. A crew of men were tearing at the timbers of a barn, dismantling it piece by piece to get at the precious beams, which would then be dragged down and slung into place to provide bridge supports. A captain with Stuart, who had worked on this same line before the war, said he could get a bridge in place for at least one track by late tomorrow and was now running the job.
Robertson's boys were going in. The volume of fire on the north side of town was clear evidence of that. Now if only Johnson's division was up, he could make a clean sweep of it, envelop McPherson from the left, and close the trap. But the latest dispatches from Baltimore indicated Johnson's men were still on the rail line, twenty miles back.
Longstreet and Beauregard were reporting good marching on the roads, but were still a day away, and his artillery reserve, so dependent on the railroad, had not yet left Baltimore.
This was unlike any battle he had ever fought. He had hoped, when first he grasped Grant's maneuver, that he could catch him by surprise here, at the base of the Catoctins, tear apart one, perhaps two, of his corps, and then chase him down and finish him. He had placed too much reliance on the railroads, and now it was telling.
He finished his coffee, set the cup down, and walked over to his staff, who were hurriedly eating while standing about the smoking ruins of the depot, watching the work crews scrambling about the wreckage of the bridge.
"Gentlemen, I think we should go into the fight," Lee said.
Several looked at him with surprise. It was obvious they had assumed that after the long day he would establish his headquarters here for the night.
"General, let me go forward," Stuart said. "My boys are blocking that Yankee brigade on the south side of town. I can manage things."
"No, I want to see how Robertson is doing," Lee announced.
Everyone knew better than to argue with him. An orderly brought up Traveler. He mounted and headed into the cauldron, staff following anxiously.
The White House 6:00 P.M.
Lincoln ate alone; his servant Jim Bartlett had delivered a tray with a few slices of fried ham, some potatoes, and coffee to his office. Finishing his meal he stood up to stretch, the sound of his chair scraping on the floor amounting to a signal. Jim politely tapped x›n the door. "Come on in."
"Sir, should I clear your tray?" Jim asked. "Thank you," Lincoln replied.
Lincoln had gone to the window. Crowds had gathered in Lafayette Park, with troops ringing the White House. Lincoln suddenly turned. "Jim, a question." "Anything, sir."
"The colored of Washington. I know this might sound like a strange question. But with all the news of the last few days, what do you hear?"
"Well, sir, I've spent most of my time here in the White House, but I do hear talk with the staff."
"And that is?"
"Frustration, sir."
"Frustration? Over what?"
Jim stood holding the tray and Lincoln motioned for him to put it down.
"Jim, let's talk frankly. I need to hear what you have to say. This war is your war, too."
"Precisely why so many are frustrated. They want to be in on it."
"What about volunteering for the Colored Troops."
"Sir, both my son and grandson are already with them."
Lincoln sensed the slightest of defensive notes in Jim's voice, as if the president had implied that those who were frustrated should join the army.
"I meant no insult, Jim, and yes, I am proud of the service of your son and grandson."
"Sir, so many men here are working folk with large families to support. Day laborers, men who work the rail yards, the canal docks. They can't afford to go off for twelve dollars a month the way some can like my son. But still they feel it's their war."
Lincoln took this in and nodded.
"Perhaps a way can be found for them to volunteer for short-term service," Lincoln said offhandedly. Jim suddenly smiled.
"Can I take that as a request, sir?" Jim asked. "To talk with folks and see if there'd be some interest in that."
"By all means," Lincoln said absently, and then, lost in thought, he returned to looking out the window.
Frederick 6:45 P.M.
Sergeant Hazner ducked down as a spray of shot slammed through the window. It had been fired from across the street. He leaned back up, drew a quick bead on the half dozen Yankees leaning out of the windows on the opposite side of the street, fired, and saw one drop.
He ducked down, motioning for one of his men to hand over a loaded musket. The photographer, long since giving up his quest for a photograph, was on the floor moaning with fear.
The stench in the room was dizzying, the air thick with ether. Bottles of chemicals had been shattered, and to the photographer's horror, several of the glass plates, including the precious one of Lee astride Traveler, watching the fight, had been blown apart, bits of glass sprayed across the room.
"Want a picture now?" Hazner shouted.
The photographer simply shook his head.
Hazner peeked up, caught a glimpse of several Yankees running across the street toward his building, fired, but wasn't sure if he'd hit one.
Below, he heard the door slam open, shouts.
"Come on, boys," Hazner shouted, standing up and running for the doorway. Of the six he had led in, only three were still standing. They followed him out. He hit the staircase, ducking as the two men below aimed and fired, plaster flying.
Hazner leapt down the stairs, bayonet poised. One man parried the strike, another edging around to swing a clubbed musket at him.
He countered the parry, bayoneting the man before him, ducking under the blow. One of his own men behind him shot the man with the clubbed musket, shattering his skull. The two others fell back, running out the doorway.
Panting, Hazner looked down at the man he had just killed. Damn, just a boy. Rawboned, uniform of dark blue, weather-stained, threadbare, patches on his knees, shoes in tatters.
Damn near look like us, he thought sadly.
He grabbed one of his men.
"Sit at the top of the stairs, shoot anyone who comes through that door."
The man nodded and Hazner went upstairs, ducking low, crawling to the window.
Frederick 7:00 P.M.
"Sir, I think we must pull back!" McPherson ignored his staff officer. The entire west end of the town was ablaze. In places Union and Confederate wounded were helping each other to get out of buildings. Hundreds of his men were streaming to the rear, limping, cradling broken arms, slowly carrying makeshift litters with wounded comrades curled up on them. A hysterical officer staggered past him, crying about losing his flag.
From the north side of town a steady shower of shot was raining down. Looking up a side street he saw men of his Second Division giving back, running down the street, shouting that the rebs were right behind them.
He had never fought a battle like this. Always it had been in open fields or a tangle of woods and bayous. Here it was impossible to tell anymore who was winning or losing. If he had been sent down here by Grant to be the bait, he had most certainly succeeded in his task. He was being hammered from three directions by two full Confederate divisions and at least a brigade or more of cavalry.
Down the street, several hundred yards away, a fireball went up, brilliant in the early evening sky. Across the street a pillared building was burning, dozens of men coming out of it, carrying wounded, and he shouted for his staff officers to find some additional men to help evacuate the wounded.
For a moment he was tempted to somehow try to arrange a cease-fire, to ask Lee to stop fighting for one hour. The town was burning; thousands of wounded were trapped in buildings, and they needed to be taken out.
But how? A fight in a town like this was utter confusion. Rebs might hold a block, a building, while across the street his boys were holding on. In several places, columns of troops advancing had turned a comer, only to collide with their foes, with the fight degenerating into a vicious street brawl until one side or the other pulled back.
"Sir, for Cod's sake, let's pull back."
He turned on the man, shouting the advance.
"No, sir. We go forward. Grant will bring up Burnside and we are going to hold this town!"
Frederick 7:15 P.M.
General Robertson!" Lee rode to Robertson's side, his division commander saluting. "How goes it, sir?"
Robertson shook his head and looked up at the darkening sky, now streaked with lightning.
"Sir, it's chaos in that town. Can't keep any control or command of troops. Its street by street, and those Yankees just won't give up. Frankly, sir, I can't tell you what is going on."
"Are we driving them?"
"Yes, sir," Robertson said, "but it isn't like any fight we've been in before. Hard to tell in a town like that. The men we're facing aren't like the Army of the Potomac. Never seen anyone try to hold a town like this before."
He pointed toward Frederick, the city ablaze, driving back the approaching darkness. It looked to Lee like something out of the Bible, apocalyptic, the air reverberating with thunder, explosions, the crackle of rifle fire.
"Drive them! Keep driving them," Lee shouted. "I want those Federals in there taken. Tonight."
"We'll try, sir."
Lee spurred his mount, going forward into the fight.
Frederick 7:20 PM.
Sgt. Maj. Lee Robinson, First Texas, Hood^s old Texan brigade, was at the head of the column, not carrying the colors for the moment, instead directing his men to keep moving, to drive to the center of the town regardless of loss.
Yankee snipers were at a score of windows, shooting down. He urged his own on as ordered. If they got tangled up in a building by building fight all semblance of order would vanish. The orders were to seize the center of town, and that was only one block ahead.
"Keep moving, keep moving!"
Frederick