Why don't they come on?" Lee asked impatiently, pacing back and forth, looking over at Pete, who paced alongside of him. The firing had been going on since dawn. Of the hundred guns down at McCausland Farm, barely half were still firing. Ten thousand shells or more had turned the ground around the farm into a plowed-up wasteland, the brick farmhouse pounded into wreckage.
All along the riverfront the firing was continuing, both sides taking losses, but nothing that would even begin to indicate a clear decision.
A thunderclap rolled up from the south, another caisson going up, and that decided it for him.
"Walter, my compliments to General Alexander. Tell him to pass the word down to the battery commanders at McCausland to mount up and withdraw out of range."
Walter almost seemed to breathe a sigh of relief with that order. The men all along the ridge had been watching the duel since dawn, cheering when an enemy gun was wiped out, groaning when two, three, and four of those at McCausland fell victim.
Walter mounted and rode off.
It was impossible to see anything now. The entire riverfront for miles was enveloped in a dank, yellow-gray smoke.
"Perhaps that will draw him in," Lee said. Longstreet did not reply.
This fight was proving to be different. Grant was showing a cagey side, the hours of bombardment, as if to indicate he had ammunition to burn. And I do, too, and more will be on its way from Baltimore once the tangle of trains is unsnarled.
Burnside would have just come in blindly, Hooker would have at least made a lunge, then perhaps frozen, and McClellan… well, if it was McClellan over there I would have already crossed the river myself and gone after him.
For a moment he was tempted to order just that. To send Beauregard's men, who made up most of his reserve, into an attack, but the Yankees had dug in well on the opposite bank, and though they would not advance, he knew they would not give back easily.
So far we've most likely lost a thousand, perhaps two thousand, to an equal number. Something has to break soon, Lee thought. He has to come on.
Hunt's Battery 10:45 AM.
Damn good work, boys!" Hunt shouted. "Damn good work!"
Now mounted, he trotted down the line, shouting his congratulations, the men cheering as he passed.
"What do you think of Western gunners now, sir?" one of them yelled out.
The question actually gave him painful pause for a second, remembering the bloody defense at Gettysburg, the sacrifice of Stevens's Battery, the final stand in the cemetery. And all of them gone now.
He slowed, then remembered to stay in this moment, not to dwell on the bitter past.
"You're damn good lads and I'm proud of you!"
His response drew a cheer and he rode on.
The men were exhausted; many had stripped off their jackets, sweat streaming down their bodies. The August sun beat down on them; gun barrels were so hot that to touch them would fry a man's flesh.
As his batteries ceased fire, men were already swabbing and reswabbing the bores, the sponges hissing and steaming as they were slammed in.
Limber wagons were coming up, circling around, ignoring the incoming fire that still rained down from the center of the rebel line, crews rushing up to off-load ammunition and carry it into the bombproofs.
He passed an entire team of gunners who had been wiped out, all of them killed when a well-placed case shot detonated directly above them. Stretcher bearers ignored them, going down the line to pick up the wounded. Even in victory there would be the casualties.
Eleven of his guns had been disabled in the fight, wheels taken off, barrels hit and dismounted, or bursting case shot killing everyone gathered around a piece.
As always, the wounds to artillerymen were the most horrific. A solid shot had torn off the wheel of a Parrott gun, then slashed clean through the solid oak of the trail piece, killing or wounding the entire crew; one man was impaled against the side of the lunette, a spoke from the wheel driven through his stomach, pinning him to the wall. To Henry's absolute horror, the man was still alive, groaning softly, several comrades gathered round him, debating whether to try to move him or not. A surgeon came up and Henry prayed that the man had the courage to inject him with so much morphine that he would slip away.
He turned his head away and rode on.
Another shot winged in from the distant rebel position, this one either damn well aimed or pure luck. It hit a caisson moving up. The caisson, loaded with fifty shells and over a hundred pounds of powder, exploded with a roar, the entire team of six horses blown down, debris soaring heavenward. Seconds later a distant roar went up. It was a defiant rebel yell.
His own gunners turned, facing the rebs, waving clenched fists, vowing revenge.
Henry continued to ride on, inspecting his pieces. He knew the next stage was about to begin. The question now was simply when.
Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna 11:00 A.M.
Grant lit what was now the tenth cigar of the day, coughing slightly as he puffed it to life, remaining motionless in his camp chair, just sitting silently, watching the fight. Actually, it was now impossible to see much of anything. No wind had stirred, the day was getting hot, typical of late August, with only a few puffy clouds overhead to indicate a storm later in the day.
The entire river valley was hidden in smoke, the rattle of musketry and the booming of the artillery incessant. And yet it had settled into a dull steady pattern, punctuated only by loud huzzahs from Hunt's batteries about twenty minutes ago when it became evident that the rebels they had been pounding all morning were pulling back.
A telegraph line had been run out from the town during the night. The men within the signals tent were bent over their strange machines and cases of batteries that emitted a strange acid smell.
The key started to clatter again, and he stood up, unable to contain himself. This had to be it. It had to be.
He realized he was making a display of anxiety and forced himself to turn back, acting as if he was continuing to survey the smoke-filled valley and the battle that thundered there, which, so far, had not changed ownership of even one inch of ground.
Ely was over at the tent. From the corner of his eye Grant saw his adjutant running toward him, grinning. "Sir, it's from Port Deposit." "Go on."
"Fleet left at dawn. Should be coming into position by now. Second report from observation post opposite Baltimore confirms the report." Grant smiled.
In one sense, it was a miracle. Here he was on this battlefield, and yet news from a hundred miles away had just been handed to him.
He took a deep breath.
He had held Lee's attention since dawn. Now would have to come the bloody part to keep that attention fixed. He looked over at Ely. 'Tell General Ord to go in," he said calmly.
Baltimore 11:00 A.M.
Mr. Secretary, I think you'd better come out and see this." Judah looked up at the Confederate officer, one of Pickett's men standing in the doorway of his hotel suite. "What is it?"
"Sir, General Pickett requests you come out and have a look. Something is up with the Yankees."
Judah headed for the door, leaving his jacket behind. It was another typical Baltimore summer day. The day had turned hot and sultry. Leaving the hotel, he followed the officer up the street to Battery Park. Scores of civilians were heading in the same direction, talking excitedly, and already he had a good guess as to what to expect as he crossed through the picket line at the entry to the fort and then up to where George Pickett stood, looking out over the harbor.
Directly below, within easy gunnery range, was Fort McHenry, its large garrison flag coiling and drifting above the fort. But that was not what was drawing interest. In the outer harbor a flotilla of several dozen ships was just visible in the late-moming haze on the water, dark coils of smoke rising from ships a half dozen miles away.
Pickett turned and bowed formally as Judah approached.
"Mr. Secretary, I think the Yankees are up to something."
"How long have they been out there?"
"Lookouts first reported the smoke an hour ago coming down from the north." Pickett motioned for Judah to take a look through a telescope.
He bent over, the telescope focused on a side-wheel steamship with three masts. It was a heavy oceangoing vessel. Its side wheels were churning the water, bow almost straight on. He studied it carefully. It was hard to tell, but it looked as if the deck was packed with blue… Union infantry.
At the head of the flotilla came a half dozen gunboats and four heavy monitor ironclads, guns pointing menacingly toward the city.
He stood back and looked over at Pickett.
"What do you think, General?"
"Don't rightly know, sir. But if they do move into the inner harbor, should I fire on them?"
"What did General Lee order you to do."
"Hold this city until he finished off Grant."
Judah could detect a bitterness in Pickett's voice. He made no comment about it. It had been reported to him that Pickett was heard complaining that Lee was blaming him for the devastation of his division at Gunpowder River, and that he had only been "following the old man's orders."
He wanted in on the fight now taking place out at Frederick and chaffed at being left behind.
Shortly after dawn everyone in Baltimore knew that something was happening in Frederick. In the early-morning silence all could hear the distant thunder. Window-panes were rattling and excited boys, climbing to the tops of church steeples, shouted down that they could see smoke on the horizon.
But there was no news, other than the fact that a bombardment had started at dawn… and nothing else.
An officer came riding up, arm in a sling, and dismounted, coming up to join the two. It was Lo Armistead.
"So what is it?" Lo asked.
"We're not sure," Pickett replied.
Lo looked through the telescope for a moment "It's an assault force," he announced.
Judah had to nod in agreement, even as Pickett returned to the telescope, bent down, and scanned the approaching ships.
"Who is it?" Judah asked. "Where did they come from?"
"First observations were that they were coming down from farther up the Chesapeake," Pickett said, eye still glued to the telescope.
"Then it's got to be that damned Army of the Potomac," Lo replied. "They just won't die, they just won't die."
"I thought we destroyed them last week," Judah said.
Lo looked over at him and shook his head.
"Yes and no, sir. Maybe ten thousand or more eventually got out. A few, a tough few. Last report was that old Sykes was in charge of them. A slow and deliberate man, but tough in a fight. We faced him at Taneytown.
"The Yankees also have marines that were stationed in Washington, some naval troops, even a few infantry and heavy artillery units stationed down at Fortress Monroe. Combine those with the garrison down there and we have a major problem on our hands."
As he spoke he pointed toward Fort McHenry.
"If we had that fort, they wouldn't dare to come into this inner harbor. Now they can land with impunity by early this afternoon. I wish now we'd taken that fort."
Judah looked over at Lo, suddenly filled with curiosity.
"Is it true, sir, that your uncle commanded the defense of this city against the British?" Judah asked.
"Yes, sir. He commanded the garrison in that fort right down there." Lo pointed to McHenry. "In fact the original flag from that night, the Star-Spangled Banner, is still in my family's possession."
"A curious war we have here," Judah said quietly.
Neither of the officers replied.
He could see that the fleet was drawing closer by the minute, and then, to his utter amazement, a flash ignited from the fort, and seconds later a shell burst directly over where they stood.
Judah ducked down, Lo by his side.
"I guess the truce between us here is over," Judah said, trying to act game, even though the explosion had terrified him.
Pickett slid down beside the two, the men within the battery scattering. Though they still had a half dozen guns in the position, none were currently manned, the other pieces having been pulled out during the feint on Washington at the start of the Gunpowder River campaign.
A half dozen more shells screamed in, exploding, kicking up showers of dirt, scattering panic-stricken civilians out in the street.,
"Mr. Secretary," Lo said, "I think you better get back to your quarters, pack up, and, frankly, sir, get out of this town."
"What?"
"Just that, sir."
"Damn them," Pickett gasped. "We've been hoodwinked. At least they could have shown the common courtesy to send up a flag of truce and announce they were about to fire."
Another shell screamed in, missed the fort, and blew up against a house across the square.
"I don't think it's time for courtesies," Judah replied. "General Pickett, sir, can you hold against that?"
Judah half-leaned up and pointed out to the ships steaming into the harbor.
Pickett looked at him coldly and shook his head.
"Against that, sir?"
Pickett was angry.
"My boys did their duty at Gunpowder River. I get blamed for it, I'm left with little more than two brigades, and given the number of ships out there, there could be fifteen thousand or more Yankees."
"Your orders were to hold," Judah said coldly.
Pickett hesitated, then reluctantly nodded his head.
"I'll try, sir, but I can tell you, before evening we'll be on the run. I suggest you, sir, get out of Baltimore now. Go up and join General Lee."
"There are some home-guard units," Judah argued, trying to remain calm.
"Maryland, my Maryland?" Pickett replied sarcastically. "A rabble. A few thousand. If that's Sykes out there, they'll mow them down. We're finished here."
"I shall tell General Lee your exact words," Judah snapped.
Judah stood up, tried to act dignified by brushing himself off, then ran out of the fort and down the street to his hotel. The crowd of curious civilians of but minutes ago was now a terrified mob, running in every direction. He saw one man leaning out of a window, tearing down the Confederate flag that hung from it, letting it flutter to the street, and then slamming the window shut.
A crowd came pouring out of a tavern down the street, some cheering, and with their cheering a fight broke out.
Madness, all of it madness, Judah thought.
He ran up to his room, grabbed a carpetbag, and quickly stuffed into it every document tie thought might be of value and two small heavy bags of gold coins, the official funds for his venture here. His black servant, showing good common sense, had just finished packing his suitcases.
Judah looked around the room that had been his unofficial office for the last five weeks. He had come into it with so many hopes and dreams, that from here he could engineer an alliance with France, perhaps England, perhaps end this carnage. Maybe Lee could still retrieve that, but his job here was finished.
He picked up his carpetbag and headed down the stairs. To his amazement the owner of the hotel confronted him.
"Sir, regarding your bill," the man said with an unctuous tone. "You have run up quite a few charges."
"You said you were honored for me to be here when I first checked in," Judah snapped.
"Sir, we are talking about nearly five thousand dollars. The bill for the champagne and oysters alone is rather significant." The man held up a long charge sheet. "And should I add, this is calculated in standard currency, not Union greenbacks," he paused, "or Confederate paper."
"Send the bill to me in Richmond when the war is over," Judah snapped.
He shouldered past the man and out on to the street.
To his amazement he saw a single-horse carriage come up, top down. It was his old friend Rabbi Gunther Rothenberg.
"Figured you'd need a ride," the rabbi said.
"In the name of the Eternal," Judah gasped. "You are indeed a friend. The rail yard of the B and O, my friend."
"What I assumed, Mr. Secretary."
Half a dozen trains had finally returned from the front and Cruickshank was back at work, ordering the loading of the stockpiles of ammunition, when he heard the first shell detonate, the explosion echoing against the brick buildings. All had stopped work, looking toward the center of town. Less than a minute later a civilian had ridden through, whipping his horse, crying that a Yankee invasion fleet was coming.
All work had stopped, the single explosion now followed by a continual thumping roar, half a dozen explosions a minute. The report of the panicky civilian was confirmed minutes later when a staff officer from Pickett rode in and took Cruickshank aside.
"We're abandoning the town," the officer said. "General Pickett orders you to load up what you can of the supplies, then set the rest afire."
The man had then ridden off without waiting for a reply. Cruickshank watched him leave, McDougal coming to his side.
"Well, General, looks like that's it for you." Cruickshank stared at him.
"Quite a few tons of explosives in those warehouses," McDougal said quietly. "Light them off and you'll burn down half the city. Now, frankly, I don't care about them rich folks, but it'll ruin us being able to work here for a long time to come."
"Orders are orders," Cruickshank said coldly. McDougal did not reply. He simply stuck his hands in his pockets.
Two more trains backed into the station, one carrying wounded, the second, a single passenger car. The second came to a halt at the main depot, and after several minutes an escort of Confederate soldiers came out, struggling to maneuver a stretcher out the door, the body on it draped with a Union flag.
"That must be him," McDougal said.
Cruickshank did not reply. He watched as the small entourage stepped down from the train and then walked off, a Confederate officer helping to hold up a young woman, all of them oblivious to the spreading confusion, the rumble of explosions.
"Cruickshank!"
He looked up and saw a small carriage coming across the yard, jostling and shaking as it crossed the tracks. He recognized the man as Judah Benjamin.
The driver of the carriage, wearing what to Cruickshank appeared to be a strange small round cap, reined in, and Judah stepped down.
"You've heard?"
"Ah, yes, sir. At least that there's fighting."
"There's a flotilla of Yankee ships coming up the harbor loaded with troops. Fort McHenry is bombarding our positions, and General Pickett will undoubtedly pull back without putting up much of a fight."
Cruickshank did not reply.
"Where's the telegraph station?"
"This way, your honor," McDougal said with a smile and led Judah off.
Cruickshank, unsure what to do next, finally turned to one of his lieutenants and told him to round up all the men of their command at once. They were to leave their packs, just grab their rifles, and come on the double.
He looked at the man with the strange hat in the carriage.
The man smiled, extended his hand, and introduced himself.
"Do me a favor, General," Gunther asked.. "Yes, sir?"
"Keep an eye on my friend. He has a hard road ahead, as do you. I shall keep you both in my prayers."
McDougal came out of the telegraph office, motioning to the train that had brought in McPherson, and began to shout orders.
With amazing speed the yard crew set to work, the locomotive and the lone passenger car shifted over to a sidetrack with a water tank, crew swinging over the pipe to refill the tender, other men scrambling to toss up wood, others with large oilcans checking the drive wheels, while yet others opened the journal boxes of the passenger car and, from buckets, slathered in hunks of grease.
"All but five of the men are reported in, sir."
Cruickshank turned to see his rough-looking detachment lining up, nearly a hundred men in all.
"Who is missing?"
"Oh, Vem Watson and several of his friends." The others chuckled.
"Where the hell are they?"
The lieutenant looked up at Gunther.
"Are you a man of the cloth, sir?" the lieutenant asked, features a bit red.
"A rabbi."
"What?"
"He's Jewish," one of the men shouted. "Go on," Cruickshank snapped.
"Well, Vern and his friends went down to a house of ill repute, said they'd be back by noon, and you wouldn't notice them missing."
Cruickshank sighed.
"Well, let the Yankees roust them out of bed. Now get aboard that train."
The men broke ranks and ran to the passenger car, piling in to overflowing, some scrambling up onto the roof, others atop the wood tender, a few even perching on the cowcatcher.
Judah came out of the telegraphy office, followed by several Confederate soldiers who had been manning the post. He walked up to Cruickshank.
"We're leaving now. That Mr. McDougal said he'd have a train ready for us."
"Over there, sir."
Judah nodded, walked over to the carriage, and extended his hand to Gunther.
"God be with you, my friend," Gunther said.
"Someday, when this is all over, come to Richmond as my guest," Judah said.
"We'll see," Gunther said sadly.
Judah. looked straight into his eyes, smiled, then, taking his carpetbag, he headed for the train. Gunther turned his carriage about and rode off.
Cruickshank found himself alone looking over at the row of warehouses stockpiled with munitions, boots, tents, heavy machinery that was to be transported back to Richmond to aid in artillery production, crates of tools, armored plating for ironclads, rail for track, machinery to make breechloading carbines, tens of thousands of horseshoes.
It'll take ten minutes to set it ablaze, he thought, and what a fire that will be.
He noticed as well that McDougal's workmen stood about, gazing at him. A few had picked up shovels, heavy wrenches, pry bars, axes, and picks.
He could order his men out of the car, one volley would scatter the workmen, and they could then level this damn place. In the distance he could hear more explosions and the distant crying of a mob, rioting yet again.
McDougal came up to his side.
"Your train is ready. General. You have a clear road up to Relay Station, then a thirty-minute delay until a convoy of a dozen trains passes on both tracks, though I dare say that plan will change now, what with you having all them locomotives up there and not wanting them back here."
A dozen locomotives, all they could have carried, Cruickshank thought. Enough' to equal two thousand wagons of supplies.
"Just one question, McDougal, and be honest for once, damn it," Cruickshank asked, gaze still fixed on the warehouse.
"Anything at all, General, sir."
"You were playing me double the whole time, weren't you?"
McDougal laughed softly.
"Honesdy? An Irishman to an Englishman turned rebel?"
Cruickshank looked him the eyes.
"Honesdy."
"Of course I was, sir."
"Why?"
"Wouldn't you if we was reversed? You know, Cruickshank, though you're a bloody Englishman by birth, why you ever sided with them is beyond me. Slavery, all that. It's no different than the way we was treated in Ireland or you in the slums of Liverpool.
"So if you be wishing to shoot me, go ahead. But my boys over there, they might not have guns, but you should see the way they can swing a pick or pry bar into a man's head when they got to. And if you try to burn the warehouses, that's what you'll face."
Cruickshank was silent.
"Don't do it," McDougal said quietly. "I wouldn't want our friendship here to end in a bloody brawl. Besides, you'll bum half the city down and things here are hard enough as it is. My men have families, as do I."
Their gazes held for several seconds.
"A deal then," Cruickshank said, "the last of our deals."
"Go on."
"Help me to load two or three trains with ammunition, and I'll spare everything else."
"How do I know you won't burn it anyhow, once loaded up?"
"You have my word on it." McDougal hesitated then nodded.
"Deal."
McDougal turned to his men and started to shout orders, Cruickshank doing the same to his own command, having them stack arms.
Within minutes hundreds were at work at a pitch Cruickshank had not seen once across the last several days. Cases of small-round ammunition were lugged out and hauled into boxcars or carted over to the train where Judah still waited and piled into the passenger compartment. Boxes of artillery shells, two men to a box, were trotted out and put on flatcars.
Locomotives were uncoupled while the crews worked, moved up to the engine houses, where fuel and water were taken on, grease and oil checked, then returned to the cars and hooked up.
It took little more than an hour to have three entire trains loaded up.
All the time the sound of gunfire was increasing, now counterpointed by the shriek of heavy shells, most likely from the monitors.
Finally, McDougal approached Cruickshank.
"I've given you three trains, as promised. They'll run fine."
The three engines were already maneuvering out of their sidings, pulling the precious supplies that could sustain the army through an entire long day of battle.* Again a moment's hesitation. Cruickshank looked back to the warehouses crammed with enough for a dozen more trains but already, across the far side of the railyard he could see a column of infantry pulling back, heading northwest, out of town.
"A deal is a deal," Cruickshank replied and stepped past McDougal, walked to the passenger car, and mounted the back steps. Leaning out, he waved to one of his men who was in the locomotive cab. The engine lurched, beginning to inch forward with a blast of steam.
"General, darlin'."
He looked down, McDougal walking alongside him. "What now?"
"You know you forgot my day's wages for today. Since I only worked half the day, that'll be thirty dollars in silver." "Go to hell!"
"Where I expect to meet you, too, sir."
McDougal reached into his back pocket, pulled out a bottle, and tossed it up to Cruickshank.
"We'll drink another when we meet in the lower regions," McDougal shouted.
Cruickshank almost allowed himself to smile. Uncorking the bottle, he took a long drink and climbed to the back platform of the train.
McDougal stood in the middle of the track, waving, growing smaller and smaller as the train picked up speed… the last train out of Baltimore, smoke boiling up from the city beyond.
Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 12:45 P.M.
'hey're going in!" one of his staff cried.
He did not need to be told. Though the smoke all but masked the movement, he could see the dark columns coming down the slope toward his left flank, heading toward the same ford they had attempted to breach the day before. This would be the obvious point of attack now that his guns had drawn back.
Alexander was already redirecting his fire, shifting from long-distance counterbattery to direct support, pounding the heavy columns, which looked to be of corps strength, perhaps fifteen thousand men. At last Grant was committing himself.
He felt it was time to move, to go down behind the McCausland Farm, to see directly to the repositioning of the guns and to ensure the movement of one of Beauregard's divisions into a support position if the pressure on Hood's men down at the ford became too heavy.
"Sir?"
It was one of his staff, holding a note, his hand shaking. Lee took it and scanned its contents and felt as if he had just taken a visceral blow. It was from Judah Benjamin. He looked back to the west.
Was this coincidence or part of your plan? he wondered, looking toward what had been identified as Grant's headquarters area.
If planned, it was masterful. Seek battle here, block the river, for that report had just come in a half hour ago, and now strike my base of supply.
He looked down at the assaulting column, his own troops having opened up on it with a thunderous volley, Union troops by the scores dropping, and still it pushed forward.
He crushed the telegram in his fist.
Fine, then, he thought. Let it be here. It will take two, perhaps three days for whatever is hitting us in Baltimore to take effect. So come on and attack, and let us see how we match each other. In that time I will crush you, and then all your maneuverings will be meaningless.
He went over to Traveler, mounted, and rode down to face the approaching charge.