Monocacy Creek
August 27,1863 4:30 A.M.
General Hunt, sir." Henry Hunt opened his eyes. A sergeant was leaning over him, holding a lantern. He didn't recognize the man and for a moment was disoriented.
"Sir, you told me to wake you an hour and a half before dawn."
Henry grunted and sat up. A low campfire glowed in front of him, several enlisted men squatting around the fire, one feeding in small sticks while another reached out with a gloved hand and pulled out a battered tin pot.
Henry stood up, stretched, mouth feeling gummy, stomach a bit weak. He had misled Grant about the typhoid; it still troubled him a bit He stepped away to discreetly relieve himself, then came back to the campfire.
The men were part of his new staff. He was never really good with names and had yet to learn theirs, but they were about the business of morning chores, one looking up with a smile and offering him a cup of coffee, another handing over a plate that actually had fried eggs on it and a slab of ham.
He nodded his thanks, the men talking quietly among themselves as he ate his breakfast glad that it stayed down and settled his stomach. Finished, he set the plate down, took his cup of coffee, and stood back up and lit a cigar.
It was still dark, a mist rising off the river, filling the valley, pale moonlight reflecting off it. In the fields about him there was a thin layer of mist and wood smoke. Many were still asleep, or pretending to sleep, lying in their blanket wrapped in thought. Around low fires small groups were gathered, some silent, some talking.
He walked the few yards down the slope to where the right flank of his grand battery was deployed. A handful of men were still digging; most, however, were asleep, some lying curled up on the ground, others resting under a caisson or field piece.
He started to walk the line. Guns were well placed, inter-valed at ten yards, lunettes thrown up around each piece, some well built to shoulder height on the flanks, a bit lower in front to offer an open field of fire. The horse teams for the ammunition caissons had been unhooked and sent to the rear, a quarter mile back. Lunettes had been thrown up around the dangerous cargo, and bombproofs for the ammunition had been dug by some of the crews and even roofed over with logs.
As he passed, an occasional officer would come to attention, salute. A few offered comments. "We'll give 'em hell today." "How you doing, General?" "Wait till you see the shootin' my boys can do."
He acknowledged each one and walked on.
Every piece was a rifle, either a three-inch ordnance gun or a ten-pound Parrott. He had always liked the look of the Parrott, with its extra band of iron wrapped around the breech, and though it was more cumbersome to move than the three-inch ordnance gun, he always felt that it was a better piece for true long-distance work.
Ammunition was well organized. Each of the forward caissons carried but two rounds of canister-for use if by some chance the rebs did get up close; every other slot was filled with case shot or solid bolts. Each battery had one limber to the rear loaded just with canister if an emergency should arise. During the night twenty additional limber wagons, each loaded with two chests of ammunition, had come up; an additional two thousand rounds and more was on-the way.
Even now trains were hauling ammunition down from Harrisburg to Hagerstown, off-loading it to be sent the final miles along the National Road. Grant had assured him he would be kept well supplied.
He turned and slowly walked back to his headquarters. More men were up. He could feel the tension in the air.
There was a faint brightening to the eastern horizon.
"Gentlemen, time we went to our posts," Henry announced quietly.
East Bank, Monocacy Creek 4:55 A.M.
Phil Duvall, now a major, sat up and tossed his blanket aside. Sergeant Lucas was by the fire, poking at the flames with a stick. Their horses were calm, lined up on their tether line; a couple of his men were already up, tending to them, one brushing his mount down and talking quietly to her, rubbing her ear, the horse nuzzling in to him.
"What time is it?" Phil asked. "About five I'd reckon, sir," Lucas replied. Phil went over to the fire, extending his hands. There was a slight chill in the air, rather a comfort after yesterday's heat.
It had been a wonderfully still night. They were no longer down by the bridge. Jeb had assigned a couple of additional companies to him and told him to probe south at dawn, down to the Potomac, that there were reports of Yankees there. An easy day, he hoped.
Lucas handed him a cup of coffee.
"Better get the boys up," Phil said. "It's time to move."
Sgt. Lee Robinson of the First Texas stood at attention as steam vented from the train and it slowly began to inch its way down the track, a locomotive pushing a single passenger car.
The men around him were silent, saluting as the car drifted by, engine bathing them in steam, bell tolling slowly. It disappeared into the dark. He relaxed, looking around at his men. "A brave lady she was," one of his comrades whispered. Robinson said nothing. He had followed the orders General Lee had given to him, helping to carry McPherson to the rear. No other orders had come after that, and he assumed that he and his boys should stand by as guards, which they had done throughout McPherson's ordeal of dying, helping to fetch small things, some of the men volunteering to help with other wounded when there was nothing to do for the general. Their final task was to carry the body, draped with a Union flag, back to the rail line, since no carriage or wagon could be found. The widow had walked with them, never saying a word, and he had been overwhelmed with guilt, at times wanting to blurt out that he was the one who had shot McPherson. That would bring her no comfort, he knew; in fact, it would forever put a name and a face to the man who had killed her husband.
He looked to the west, to the dark sky, slill filled with stars. To the east Orion was up, a faint glow of indigo and scarlet spreading beneath it.
"Let's go find our unit," Robinson said. "That's where we belong now."
Sergeant Hazner stood up cautiously. The truce had lasted through the night, men gossiping back and forth across the river, but all had become silent as the eastern sky began to brighten, a Yankee shouting across, "You boys better hunker down now. The ball is about to commence."
The fog lifting from the river floated just below him, rising up so close it seemed almost solid, as if he could leap put of the trench and walk upon it to the other side.
He hated their position, the one that fate had cast for his regiment, right smack in the middle of the line.
After their fight on the heights, and in Frederick, all had figured that Lee would put them into reserve. Instead they had filed in, just after dusk, directly in front of where Lee had established his headquarters, the Fourteenth South Carolina on the left flank of the log blockhouse overlooking the shattered bridge. No one needed to be told that one hell of a lot of fire was going to be coming their way, and the work of the unit they replaced, though they had dug in, had left something to be desired. He and his men had labored until midnight deepening their trench, dragging up lumber to pile atop it, cutting back brush and small trees to the front to improve fields of fire.
When they paused in their work, they could hear the Yankees engaged in the same work on the other side, not a very comforting sound.
Finally, Colonel Brown ordered them to stand down at midnight and get some rest.
"How are you doing, Hazner?"
"Fine, sir," and he saluted as Brown came up.
"Still quiet," Brown said.
"Not for long, sir."
West Bank of the Monocacy 5:10 A.M.
Sgt. Washington Madison Bartlett of the United States Colored Troops was already up. It had been impossible to sleep. His men had been restless during the night, many sitting around the campfires, already using the old soldier slang for what it would be like to "see the elephant," meaning their first day in battle.
Some boasted, others were silent, many prayed. More than a few who could write spent the night penning letters, first for themselves and then for their comrades. A preacher who claimed to have been a recruiter for the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts had joined them just before leaving Philadelphia, Reverend Garland White, walked from campfire to campfire, kneeling with the men, offering a prayer, a few words of encouragement, then stood up and went to the next group and knelt again.
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out two letters: one from his father and the other, now almost in tatters from having been passed around so much, the letter from Lincoln. It was too dark to read them, but simply holding them was like a prayer in itself.
His father, at least, was safely back in the White House, personal buder now to the president. He wondered what his father would say if he could see him now, on this morning of battle.
"Father?"
He turned. It was his son William smiling up at him nervously.
He had been forced to play the role of the sergeant with his son since they joined the army together, ignoring him, yelling at him when need be, even picking him up a few times by his collar and pushing him to his task. But they were in the dark, alone.
"Afraid, Father?"
"Yes, of course, Son."
"I'm terrified."
He put a hand on his son's shoulder.
"When the shooting starts, just remember to stay at your post with the other drummer boys and help the stretcher bearers."
He wanted to say, for God's sake, stay direcdy behind me, let me be your shield this day, but of course he could not say that.
"Your granddaddy is proud of you, William."
The thought of his own father gave him pause. At least his father was safe, a servant in the White House, who, until last week, when they moved out, had sent along daily and often eloquent letters about Lincoln and the reasons for this war of liberation.
He could feel the boy trembling, and he pulled him in close to his side.
"Granddaddy is proud of you, I'm proud."
"I'm proud of you, too," William said, and then with a loving gesture reached up and buttoned the top button of his father's uniform.
"You gotta look right for the men today."
The sergeant major laughed. The darn collar was too tight, but the boy was right.
"I will and so will you."
"Sergeant?"
He looked up. It was Sergeant Miller, company sergeant of A Company, approaching. The man was tall, massive expanse of shoulders, at first look a tough roustabout, but he was always soft-spoken, almost to the point of gentleness, in a tough sort of way. He sensed that Miller had been watching the two and Washington suddenly felt embarrassed.
"Go along now, Son, make sure the drummer boys are up and ready for business."
"Yes, Father… I mean, Sergeant."
He turned and ran off.
"I just wanted to report, Sergeant, that Company A is formed and ready to go." "Thank you, Miller."
Miller hesitated, then nodded in the direction of young William..
"How old is your boy?" "Fourteen."
"Doesn't it make you nervous, him being here like this?"
"Do you mean, could I leave him behind?" Washington said and then shook his head. "No, Sergeant. When he said he had to come, too, the way he looked in my eyes, I couldn't say no. It's his future even more than mine that we're fighting for now."
Bartlett chuckled and shook his head.
"Now his mama, now there was the fight, but I told her, 'Woman, if he's old enough to say he wants to fight for freedom, I will not stop him, nor will you.'"
"Still, a son," Miller whispered.
"You have any boys?" Bartlett asked.
Miller stiffened and looked away.
"I did."
There was a moment of silence, and then Miller, voice almost breaking, told about the mob fighting in Baltimore, how his son was gunned down before him as they tried to escape the city.
"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to go into your personal business," Bartlett offered.
"No, Sergeant. No, it's why I'm here today."
"The name is Washington."
"John here," and the two shook hands.
"I guess if my boy had been given the chance to reach fourteen he'd want to be here, too," Miller finally said.
"That's why mine is."
He paused.
"He'll be safe back with the drummer boys. At least I hope so." 'Think today will make a difference?" Miller asked.
"If we get into this fight, it will," he said sharply.
The two said no more, standing side by side, the regiment finishing its breakfast and lining up, the eastern light brightening.
The White House 5:15 A.M.
He arose early. Dressing, he slipped out of the bedroom, walked down the hall, and quietly opened the door to Taddie's bedroom. The boy was asleep, sheet kicked off, a toy stuffed dog on the floor. Lincoln tiptoed in, pulled the sheet up over his boy, picked up the stuffed dog, and set it beside him. It used to be Taddie's favorite, in fact, still was, though he would no longer admit it, saying such things were for little boys, but when it came time for bed he still had to have "Scruffie" by his side.
He kissed Tad lightly on the forehead, slipped out of the room and down the corridor to his office. His secretary, John Hay, as was so often the case, was within, asleep on the sofa, a scattering of newspapers and dispatches on the floor by his side.
Lincoln walked over to the window and opened it slowly so as not to disturb John. Down on the White House lawn below, troops were still camped, some of the very few still left in this city. A couple of sentries walked their beat on Pennsylvania Avenue, the two stopping for a moment, leaning on their rifles to chat. Then an officer approached, and they quickly resumed their monotonous pacing, the officer turning away. The man paused, looked up, saw Lincoln in the window, and saluted. Lincoln nodded, gave a friendly wave, and the officer disappeared into the morning mist rising off of the Potomac and the marshland behind the White House.
Lincoln went over to his desk, sat down, and, striking a match, lit the lamp, adjusted the wick, and replaced the glass chimney. It was an ugly, elaborate thing, with three insipid brass angels holding up the base, that Mary had picked out at Tiffany's on one of her "decorating sprees" that cost so much it was still causing him headaches with Congress.
He looked at his desk. Nothing new had come in since he had retired at midnight. But it would start coming in, and quite soon. He put his feet up on the desk, tilted his chair back, and closed his eyes, but could not fall asleep.
Frederick 5:20 A.M.
Gen. Ulysses S. Grant, rubbing his brow, walked out of his tent and his staff came to attention. Ely came up, offering him a cup of coffee. Ord, Sheridan, and Banks were waiting.
"Anything new?" Grant asked.
"Quiet on the other side except for digging," Phil reported.
Grant nodded. That had been a lingering concern, that Lee just might try to pull the first move, but he was not noted for night attacks. If roles were reversed, he would have ordered his men to stand down, to rest, just as Lee had done, other than for the front line of troops, who had commenced digging once darkness fell.
Campfires were flickering up, men cooking their morning rations, something he Jiad ordered the afternoon before. He wanted these men well fed, with full canteens, before the day started.
A few drums rattled, a distant bugle called. On the slope below him Phil's reserve division, the colored troops, were already up, beginning to form ranks. Backpacks, any unnecessary baggage was left behind; each man was to carry just rifle, haversack, canteen, and eighty rounds of ammunition. A surgeon was. already preparing for the day under an awning, his staff unloading boxes of bandages from a wagon, a stack of crutches piled up behind the awning, and two men were digging a pit to receive the severed limbs.
Out in the fields beyond, regiments were forming up, the reserve units, just beyond gunnery range. The forward edge of this fight was already down on the line, hidden within the bank of fog filling the Monocacy Valley. There was a slight temptation to order them in right now, under cover of the fog, but it would take a half hour or more for the orders to be sent, and in that half hour the fog would undoubtedly burn off. No, the plan has been set, don't change it now.
"You better get back to your commands," Grant said. "I'll come along later to check. Just remember your orders, our mission this day."
The three corps commanders saluted, mounted up, and rode off, Phil with a bit of a wild dash, saber drawn while standing in his stirrups. Yes, he was something of a showman, but every army needed at least one like that, just as long as he didn't go off and do something reckless.
Grant took the cup of coffee offered by Ely and walked back to where he had sat the night before, camp chair set up, the open plateau, the sloping plain down to the creek, all wide-open ground, except for the squared-off farmers' woodlots. It was getting brighter by the minute, the stars of Orion's shoulder fading, washed out, the horizon now a brilliant gold.
He sipped his coffee and waited, Ely standing by his side, silent. The sun broke the horizon, a brilliant shaft of light marking the start of the day, of August 27.