Remember!" Henry Hunt shouted. "I want measured fire. I want every shot to count. You Western boys claim you're so damn good, now prove it to me!" His booming voice carried up and down the line. Gunners looked up from their pieces, officers standing behind them, gazing in Hunt's direction, his last comment producing some grins, but also a few catcalls about the kind of "damn" shooting he was about to see.
He waited a few more minutes, the red-golden orb of the sun now clear of the horizon, the top of the fog bank catching the light, wisps of it curling up like glowing streamers. A bit of fog and wood smoke clung to the opposite bank, but the higher hills were clearly visible. Behind him the Catoctin Range stood out boldly; looking back he saw the white tops of wagons coming down out of the pass, supply trains, an endless column of them, most likely clear back to Hagerstown.
He continued to wait, feeling the tension, for all of it now rested on him, his one command.
Again it was like Union Mills, when he was ordered to open the action, Meade by his side, waiting expectantly for the rain to ease, the fog and smoke to clear enough, so that he and his gunners could see their targets. The tension was the same, but this morning the air was clear, and what he wanted was directly in front of him. It was a bit similar to Union Mills, too, rebel batteries were dug in, but due to the twisting Monocacy and the lay of the land, he would have them in a partial enfilade. At least eighty guns lined the crest of the McCausland Farm, fourteen hundred yards away. Their only advantage was they were a good hundred feet higher, but still they stood out clearly.
One other thing was different. Grant was not by his side. They had discussed the plan of action yesterday afternoon, a brief conversation again just before sunset when Grant rode down to survey the position, and now he stood alone. He liked that. Meade had clung to his side throughout the bombardment at Union Mills and had even subtly tried to force him into actually taking responsibility for the ordering of that disastrous charge.
No, Grant was leaving him to do the job, and he liked that trust.
A few more minutes passed.
Scattered rifle fire began to crackle down in the fog, which was beginning to burn off, skirmishers opening up. It was time.
"Battalions, make your shots count!" Henry roared and then raised his fist. "On my command!" He slammed his fist down.
"Fire!"
The battle of Monocacy Creek had begun.
Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 6:10 A.M.
There it goes!" Walter exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement. Puffs of smoke, scores of them, erupted from the Union grand battery a mile away, guns fired almost in unison. Lee stood silent, watching.
Approximately seven seconds later the first shell landed, impacting in front of the batteries rimming the edge of McCausland Farm. Then dozens of geysers of earth erupted, explosions in the air from well-cut fuses, smothering his own batteries in smoke and fire. A caisson went up with a flash; a gun upended, flipping over; another collapsed, pieces of its wheel flying through air.
The concussion of the guns rumbled over them, a continual roar, followed seconds later by the softer popping of exploding shells, and the thunderclap of the exploding caisson.
"So it will be our left," Longstreet announced, coming up to join Lee.
They waited, banks of smoke covering the Yankee gun position. No fire for several minutes, the smoke slowly clearing, and then a few guns fired, followed seconds later by dozens more.
His own batteries started to reply, and Lee raised his field glasses to study the result. Shots went wide, plowing up earth several hundred yards ahead of the enemy batteries, others struck behind it, one lucky, or well-aimed, shot dismounted one of their pieces.
Several minutes passed, another gradual rumbling, several more of his own guns were destroyed.
Lee watched, saying nothing. The Yankees were firing very slowly, deliberately, waiting for the smoke to clear. Well-trained crews rolled their pieces back up. Then section commanders took the time to carefully aim their piece, removing the delicate rear sight, stepping back, then giving the command to fire.
The guns at McCausland Farm were his reserve batteries, and crews were primarily infantrymen "volunteered" into the artillery after the huge haul of equipment at Union Mills. They had trained for the last seven weeks, but seven weeks did not equal two years of battle experience. It was going to be hell for them down there.
His own trained batteries were deployed on the slope just below him, the range to the enemy guns almost a mile-very long shooting indeed.
He had noticed it yesterday, the way Grant was deploying, and it demonstrated a good judgment of ground, and of target. He was tempted to order the batteries to pull back, but decided against it for the moment. It was a grim calculation. Pull back now and it might actually trigger an effect not desired, for Grant might hesitate, wondering what he was up to. Also, regardless of the measured pace of the Yankee fire, long experience had taught him that, over time, accuracy would decrease due to smoke, fatigue, due even to such factors as the heating of gun barrels, which generated subde changes in trajectory.
He knew, as well, that even if he wound up trading guns at four to one down at McCausland Farm, it would seriously cut into Grant's small artillery corps, and still leave Grant with well over a hundred and twenty pieces to face whatever came next.
"Walter, tell our batteries below to open up, but with very limited and controlled counterbattery fire."
"Range is rather long, sir," Walter said.
"Precisely why I want it limited. We have a lot of ammunition but should not be profligates with it at the start. Tell Alexander to pick out his best crews and have them start to reply. I want the Yankees to know we will not just sit back and do nothing."
Minutes later the first of Alexander's guns opened up. It was already getting hard to see the opposing battery. In the still morning air smoke was piling up, like a vast fog bank drifting slowly, mingling with the natural fog down in the river valley, which was slowly burning off as the sun cleared the ridgeline behind him.
All up and down the length of the river rifle fire was erupting. The Yankees had dug well during the night, establishing a forward line that at places bordered on the creek. Already a particularly bothersome spot was becoming evident, the railroad cut on the other side, the curve of track behind the destroyed depot The cut could almost be enfiladed by the guns of Alexander's main battery and the blockhouse. He sent another courier down, ordering him to turn his Napoleons in that direction.
The first of the wounded started to come back, the men who could walk, cradling a bloody arm, or moving wood-enly, face and scalp bright red. And mingled in with them were the inevitable shirkers, men shamming wounds or acting as if they were helping an injured comrade, the provost guards shouting out the age-old litany "Show blood!" and, if the man could not, turning them about with the flat of their swords, driving them back into the fight.
A half hour passed, the bombardment pounding McCaus-land Farm dropping off slightly, but still hitting in with a couple of dozen rounds a minute, the fire still well aimed, a dozen pieces on his side destroyed. He watched the men through his field glasses, ghostly in the smoke, standing to their work, firing back.
All along the front now, from north of the National Road bridge, to south of McCausland Farm, there was a continual blaze of fire, occasional spent rounds humming overhead, cracking into the trees behind him.
He pulled out his watch. It was not yet past six-thirty in the morning. Still no assault, but he knew it would come.
In the Railroad Cut 7:00 AM.
Phil Sheridan ignored the scream of a solid shot plowing in, striking the edge of the cut, then bounding up with a howl, passing over head. Still mounted on Rienzi he slowly trotted down the length of track. "How you doing, boys?" he shouted. Men, faces begrimed with powder, up on the lip of the cut, looked down, grinning, surprised to see a major general right in the thick of it.
Phil knew they had a special attachment to their old Burnside. He had to dispel that here and now, and there was only one way to do it, regardless of Grant's orders to not "recklessly expose yourself."
Hell, that's what a good general had to do at times. There are moments when if you do not lead by example you can't lead at all.
Another shot screamed in, this one striking the heavy barricade that had been erected six feet high across the east side of the cut to offer some protection from enfilade. It was made of piled-up railroad ties and rails, wrenched up during the night, the solid shot sending a fifteen-foot section of rail whirligiging through the air like a deadly scythe, cutting two men in half.
The blockhouse, just on the other side of the barricade was getting absolutely pounded to shreds. He had ventured a Napoleon for that position, but word was it was already dismounted by a direct hit through the gun port, but half a dozen volunteers, all of them sharpshooters had stayed on, peppering the rebs across the creek.
The best men of the three regiments holding the cut were up on the lip, taking careful aim as ordered, firing, then passing empty muskets down to men within the cut who were busy reloading and passing the guns back. Sheridan dismounted and crawled to the edge of the cut, stuck his head up, and looked to the other side.
It was hard to see anything. All was veiled in smoke, flashes of light rippling up and down the riverbank. The air was alive with the hum of minies zipping past, a splatter of dirt kicking up nearly directly in front of his face. He deliberately remained motionless for several seconds and then slid back down.
"Hot enough up there for ya, General?" someone shouted, and the men began to laugh.
"Not as hot as you're making it for those damn rebs!" Phil replied and a cheer went up.
He mounted and rode on.
Hauling Ferry 7:30 A.M.
The growl of gunfire was a continual wave from the north. Men as they labored on the entrenchments would pause, look up, talk to each other until -a sergeant came along and shouted for them to get back to work.
Winfield walked the line. It was easier than riding. He noted with interest how the Catoctin Ridge seemed to act as an acoustical reflector, like a cliff returning an echo, the sound of the artillery up at Frederick bouncing off of it, reverberating the length of the valley.
It sounded like one hell of a fight, and, for a moment, he regretted being here. But then again, at least I'm here, near it, rather than back in Philadelphia reading about it.
"General, sir." He smiled as Jeremiah rode up, his horse lathered, saluted, and dismounted.
He reached into his oversize haversack and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, opening it up.
"Sir, I'm sorry this took so long, but what with the darkness, I finally figured it was best to wait till dawn to finish my work, rather than make a mistake."
"You decide what's best when it comes to mapmaking, Jeremiah," Hancock replied warmly. "I trust you."
"Sir, I'm afraid you aren't going to like some of what I got to tell you."
"Go on." Jeremiah looked around for something to put his map against and finally opted to press it against the flank of his horse, who, completely exhausted, was now cropping on the rich pasture grass.
"I think we have to link the defensive line from here all the way up to Nolands Ferry. That means a front of over three miles. If we try to hold these points individually, particularly Nolands, Lee could easily flank it, moving between us here and there, roll the Nolands position up, and then have a means of getting back across the river, while blocking us at this position."
"That's a long front for this command," Winfield said.
"That's why I said you might not like it, but that's the lay of the land, sir."
Winfield studied the map sketched out by Major Siemens. He saw the point of it, that the Potomac behind them curved slightly to the north, cutting off Nolands Ferry from observation here, and also a shallow ravine cut down between them. Lee could force his way between these two strong-points, isolate one, then annihilate the other. He had to keep the two positions linked if they were to hold.
"It's one tall order for digging," Jeremiah said. "I've sketched out what I would like, though. Strong bastions here, then one every six hundred yards, right up to Nolands, thus providing interlocking fields of fire. One of those hundred-pounders in each of the bastions, backed up by several thirty-pounders, would make it a grand killing ground. We also have to drop a lot of timber to open up the fields of fire, however."
Winfield nodded in agreement.
"I've calculated the amount of digging it will take," Siemens announced. "Three to four days at least with the men available."
Winfield said nothing, continuing to smile, which caught Jeremiah off guard.
"Sir, I figured you'd be kind of upset about this news, but that's the way I see it. I've also drawn up some fallback plans, bastioning each of the ferries, but I'm not comfortable with it."
Winfield held up his hand for Jeremiah to stop talking, and then, with his usual dramatic flair, he pointed down to the canal to a line of barges unloading and to the towpath beyond.
Thousands of black men were moving along the banks of the canal, getting off the boats, slowly walking up the tow-path, pushing wheelbarrows, nearly every man armed with a tool-an axe, a shovel, a saw, a pick.
Winfield motioned for Jeremiah to follow him. Together they slowly walked down to the canal, the men from Washington, under a bedsheet banner, gathering around them.
"Mr. Bartlett, is it?" Winfield asked, approaching an elderly black man dressed in, of all things, formal attire of black jacket, vest, clean white shirt, and cravat.
"Yes, sir," Jim replied.
"May I introduce Maj. Jeremiah Siemens, my topographical engineer."
"You mean a mapmaker, sir?" Jim asked.
Almost involuntarily, Jeremiah masked a smile behind his fist. "Something like that, Uncle, but I'm also an engineer who lays out fortifications."
"Yes, I am an uncle, and a grandfather as well," Jim said, bracing his shoulders slightly. "I have a son and a grandson with Burnside's Corps; they're fighting even now up there. And I worked in the White House as the head butler before volunteering."
As he spoke, he motioned to the north and the distant gunfire.
Slightly humbled, Jeremiah dropped his condescending tone and extended his hand.
"Maj. Jeremiah Siemens." He paused. "Mr. Bartlett."
Jim took his hand formally. "How may we be of service to you this morning, Major."
Jim looked over at Winfield.
"Mr. Bartlett," Winfield said, "we need miles of trenches and fortifications in place no later than tomorrow. Major Siemens here has laid out the plan, but we are short of men, short by tens of thousands of the men needed to build them."
"That is why we volunteered," Jim replied.
Even as they spoke, another barge came up, several dozen black men getting off, then turning around to lend a hand with off-loading the barrels of salt pork and heavy small crates marked MUSKET ROUNDS,.58 CALIBER, ONE THOUSAND.
Behind them, farther up the towpath, more men came forward slowly, having walked the entire distance from Washington.
"Well, Jeremiah?" Winfield asked.
"Ah, let's see."
Confused, he looked down at his map and then at Winfield.
"I'm waiting, Jeremiah," Winfield said calmly.
"Mr. Bartlett, I am hereby appointing you as my assistant and commander of the Washington Colored Volunteers," he blurted out.
There was a chorus of chuckles from those gathered round, a few cheers, and offers of congratulations to Jim.
"I want you to start organizing your men into groups of a hundred. Appoint a…" he hesitated, "a captain to command each group of a hundred, and that captain to appoint sergeants who will command ten men. I'll have my men down here within thirty minutes. One of my men will then lead each group of a hundred and will be assigned a section that we'll start to stake out, and your men are to, well, start digging in and cutting out trees to create fields of fire."
"What we came here for, boss," someone in the crowd shouted, and there was another chorus of cheers.
Jeremiah, still a bit flustered, looked over at Winfield, who simply nodded.
"I'll be back in thirty minutes, so I think you better get busy, Mr. Bartlett."
"Some of the boys are mighty hungry," Jim said. "They've walked all night."
Winfield stepped up and motioned to the men off-loading the barrels of salt pork.
"Our infantry came up with five days of rations. I think we can use the reserves for your men," Winfield said. "Mr. Bartlett, have someone who was a cook pick out fifty men to stay behind from the digging. They can set up kitchen areas down here."
He pointed to the ground between the canal and the river.
"Also, appoint another hundred men to work on setting up encampments, digging latrines, and making shelters for your volunteers."
"A lot of orders," Jim said.
"Welcome to command, Mr. Bartlett," Winfield said with a smile. "I'll countermand only one of the major's orders. You don't answer to him. From now on you will report di-recdy to me."
"Yes, sir," Jim said.
Winfield nodded and limped off, Jeremiah following him.
"What a blessing," Winfield said. "A message caught up to me from Elihu Washburne during the night, said that the colored men of Washington are pouring out by the thousands, maybe ten thousand or more, to volunteer their help up here."
"Lord knows, we can use them," Jeremiah replied, "but, sir, getting them organized, setting them to organized work. Building entrenchments, bastions, and clearing fields of fire isn't just simply digging a ditch."
"Who do you think built most of the fortifications around Washington? No one ever gives them the credit. I'm willing to bet, sir, you will find some damn good engineers, not formally educated but practical and experienced, back in that crowd."
"And what if the rebs come?"
"They will come."
"I mean, sir, what if they come and break through? Those men-" and he motioned to the volunteers who were now milling around Jim, shouting, asking for orders, asking for command positions, arguing with him that they didn't hike fifty miles just to be cooks.
"What about them?" Jeremiah asked.
"If it comes to a breakthrough, I'll tell them to fight, and they will fight. They walked here to help win their own freedom and their relatives' freedom. They are prepared to risk their lives as well as their sweat."
Two Miles North of Hauling Ferry 9:30 A.M.
Phil Duvall slipped up cautiously to the edge of the tree line. Yankee troopers and infantry occupied the ground just ahead, spread out in a thick skirmish line, hunkered down behind a low split-rail fence bordering an open pasture. It had cost him seven men to get up this far, and he knew he'd only have a few minutes before the Yankees began to push back.
He scanned the sloping ground ahead, this low crest dropping down into an open pasture, then undulating back up to a low rise a half mile away. An open ravine with a creek weaving through it dropped down to his right, leaving an open vista to the Potomac. He could barely see the canal. If he had had the nerve, he might have tried to climb a tree for a better view, but the Yankees on the other side of the pasture were proving to be damn good shots. He wouldn't last long in a tree.
One of his troopers, providing covering fire for him, knelt, took aim, and fired, and a split second later crumpled over, shot in the head.
Phil raised his field glasses and scanned the opposite slope and his heart dropped. All along the opposite low-lying ridge men were at work. He could see dirt flying into the air, the diggers invisible below their thighs in places. Curiously, many wore blue trousers, their uniform jackets discarded, white shirts standing out clear, but mingled in, in far greater numbers, were colored men. An entire woodlot of several acres was rapidly being cut down, trees crashing, teams of a dozen men harnessed to ropes, laboriously dragging trimmed logs up the slope. Others were taking the branches and weaving them into large oversize baskets, as thick around as a barrel and nearly as tall as a man, setting them in place atop the earthworks while others then shoveled dirt into them.
One crew, of well over a hundred men, working with a team of a half dozen mules, was slowly dragging what appeared to be a long black tube along the crest. He tried to focus in on it. It looked to be the biggest gun he had ever seen, one of the legendary hundred-pound Parrotts.
It was. Behind them, coming into view, was another crew of a hundred colored men, dragging a heavy iron gun carriage, the mount for the piece.
A spray of bark and splinters and tree sap smacked against the side of his face. He ducked back behind the tree. Two more minie" balls whizzed in, kicking up dirt to either side of him.
"Major, sir, I didn't ride with you for two years just to see you killed now," Sergeant Lucas hissed, lying flat on his stomach behind the tree next to him.
Phil looked up.
Damn, mounted troops, a hundred or more, were coming down from the crest, riding hard.
"Major, sir, really I think it's time we got the hell out of here."
Phil forced a tight smile and nodded. He had seen what he had been sent to see, and now it was time, as Lucas said, to get "the hell out of here."
"Come on!"
He stood up and sprinted to the rear.
Headquarters of the Army of Northern Virginia Monocacy Creek