Beauregard was still out front, now riding with Jeb's troopers, who were deployed in a forward battle line, a quarter mile ahead of the infantry. He turned to look back, the divisions moving steadily, but slowly. It was the old problem of any advance in line versus column. Units were weaving their way through farmyards, woodlots, fields high with corn, open pastures, knocking down fencerows before pressing into the next field.
He regretted now not keeping them in column formation, to shake out into line when the Yankees were in sight, but that could be a problem as well. It could take up to a half hour to shift a divisional column into line of battle, and if they were caught by surprise, especially while trying to change formations, a debacle could ensue.
Also, he did want impact. The sight of a mile-wide battlefront advancing could be overwhelming to an enemy force if they were still in column and marching rapidly up to meet them.
Besides, he could not help but marvel at the sight. It was grand beyond anything he had ever witnessed before, a fulfillment of all old dreams of glory to be found in war. He knew it was inspiring to the men as well, occasional cheers still rippled up and down the lines, battle flags to the fore, drummers keeping the beat.
The ground ahead was opening up, broadening out into a vast open plateau. The Catoctin Range was clearly visible, straight ahead, the church spires still standing in Frederick and the town itself becoming visible as well.
A gentle rise in ground was almost directly ahead and to the right of that the creek was bending to the left, the ground leading down to the Monocacy, a long open slope.
'That's the ford over to the McCausland Farm," Jeb announced, "just behind that low rise. We take that and if Ord is on the other side, he'll be bottled up. But it don't look that way now."
As he spoke Jeb pointed ahead, straight up the road. They were still a mile off, but he could see a dark column, concealed in dust, moving at a right angle to his own advance, heading to the west No, they were stopping, shaking out from column into line.
Beauregard grinned. It was about to begin.
Jeb shouted an order, a regiment of troops, spurring their mounts, pushing forward.
"Maybe we can still catch them while they're moving," Jeb announced.
'Form here, form here!" Sergeant Bartlett ran down the front of the regiment, following his white officers, as the regiment, soaking wet after having double-timed across the ford, began to swing back out into line of battle. Men were breathing hard, some pointing south, exclaiming. "Here they come. God, look at 'em!" "Silence!" Bartlett screamed. "Damn all of you. Come to attention and remain silent!"
The men looked at him, braced themselves. Bartlett caught the eye of the colonel, who nodded his approval.
They had been the first across the creek and were immediately pivoting. Their left was nearly at the stream, the right just about up to the railroad tracks; the next regiment was falling in beside them, and then another and another.
Bartlett stepped a dozen feet forward, first glaring at his men, then curiosity got the better of him and he looked up the line.
It was a grand sight, three regiments already in place, a fourth falling in, extending their front now to a quarter mile. The last of the black regiments from the Second Brigade ran by behind them, and right behind them, the first of Ord's men were crossing the stream.
They were a grim-looking lot. Their uniforms were filthy, some not much better than tattered rags. Their faces were blackened, some with uniform jackets off, others with hats missing. They moved slower, obviously numbed and exhausted, some helping along wounded comrades.
And from the direction they had come, distant gunfire erupted.
An occasional round whizzing by overhead, Bartlett's men involuntarily looking up as if they could see the passage of the ball.
"To the front!"
Bartlett turned.
A cornfield was directly in front of them but the ground sloped up enough that he could see mounted men, about six hundred yards away, coming toward them.
The colonel was studying them intently with his field glasses. He lowered them and looked over at Bartlett.
"Those are rebel cavalry. Forward screen. They'll start opening with a harassing fire, Sergeant. The men are to kneel down, not return fire, until their infantry comes up. I want the first volley to hit them like a sledgehammer."
"Yes, sir."
"Scared, Bartlett?." the colonel asked. "No, sir."
The colonel winked at him.
"I am. Any sane man would be at a moment like this. Remember, Sergeant, courage is being afraid but then doing your duty anyhow. Just remember that and you will do fine."
"Yes, sir."
The colonel slapped him on the shoulder.
"When it starts, I want you close to me. We'll be behind the volley line, directly in the center, same way we drilled it a hundred times back in Philadelphia."
"Yes, sir."
"If I should fall," the colonel said, "Major Wallace will take command. If he falls, then it's up to the company officers and especially you sergeants to keep the men fighting."
"You won't get hurt," Bartlett said.
The colonel smiled.
"I was in every fight with the Army of the Potomac from Gaines Mill to Fredericksburg, where I got wounded. Believe me, Sergeant, officers fall."
He gave a tight-lipped smile.
"Prove something today, Bartlett."
"Sir?"
A minie ball hummed overhead, a puff of smoke erupting from the middle of the cornfield, the shooter invisible. Dozens of more shots ignited, a man in the ranks cursing, dropping his rifle, staggering back, clutching his arm. Men to either side looked at him nervously.
"Kneel down, boys, kneel down," the colonel shouted. The men quickly did as ordered, down on one knee, rifles still poised to the front.
The colonel looked back at Bartlett, who realized at that instant the colonel was playacting. He remained standing, talking with the regimental sergeant major as if the two were just standing about, having a friendly conversation, with not a care in the world.
From the opposite bank, a quarter mile up the slope, puffs of smoke were visible, more rounds coming their way, minie balls whining overhead, another man going down, this one silently, the man next to him beginning to scream, frantically wiping blood and brains from his face.
"We're going to be enfiladed from that crest," the colonel said, nodding back to the opposite bank. "Hope Ord at least left a good skirmish line out there to keep them back."
Behind the USCT battle line, the rest of Ord's men were still trudging across the creek, some running, some limping, some barely able to move. Farther down the line at the end of the right flank of the Colored Division, the first of Ord's men were falling into place to extend the line.
"I was saying, Sergeant Major, today is a day to prove something."
"And that is, sir?"
"You and your men stand this fight, and for the rest of your lives you will be able to look any other man in the face and say you are his equal."
"Some might not see it that way, sir," Bartlett replied quietly.
The colonel laughed, then shook his head. He slowly began to pace, a dozen yards in front of their line, and Bartlett knew this was the continuation of the act. And he was now part of that act, to play at being totally unconcerned, and by their example, brace up the men about to face their first action. A quick look to the flank showed him other officers doing the same. A few were extolling their men, others were just quiet, pacing back and forth. One had a Bible out and was reading aloud from it.
"You know, I'm from Ireland," the colonel continued. As he spoke, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar, lit it, and then looked at Bartlett. He pulled out a second cigar. Though Washington Bartlett had never smoked, he took it now, the colonel holding the match while he puffed it to light. He made the mistake of inhaling and started to cough.
Several of the men in the ranks chuckled, as did the colonel.
"I was born in Ireland," the colonel continued, while slowly walking in front of the men, Bartlett by his side. "Came over in 'forty-seven, fleeing the potato famine, a starving lad, nothing but skin and bones and rags when I got off the boat."
Another scattered volley from the cornfield, another man went down, hit in the knee. One of the officers in the next regiment on the line collapsed, and an angry shout went up, the line actually beginning to surge forward, their officers shouting for the men to stand back in place.
For a second Bartlett looked back behind his own men and saw his son, with the other drummer boys. They were down on their stomachs, clustered near the regimental surgeon.
."I first worked as a navvy," the colonel continued, "digging for the railroads at four bits a day plus keep. Became a section boss finally. War comes and I'm a sergeant. My Alice was my salvation; she kept telling me to get some book learning while I was in the army. Had a good company officer, used to teach us reading, history, literature, and such in the evenings to pass the time in winter quarters. Found I liked the learning and began studying. Lot of things, history of our country, biographies of the Founding Fathers, and, of course, Hardee's drill manual.
"While I was in the hospital after Fredericksburg, word came around they were forming up colored regiments and looking for good men with combat experience to volunteer as officers."
He smiled.
"And now here I am a colonel."
Bartlett noticed a change in tone as the colonel talked on. He had fallen into a bit of a brogue when talking of his life, different from the studied attempt at sounding like he was educated, a professional man.
"I heard about that letter the president sent to you. Can I see it?"
Washington proudly unbuttoned his jacket, reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out a pocket Bible, the letter folded inside. He opened it up and handed it to the colonel.
Men in the ranks nodded. 'The letter, he's reading the letter," some of them said.
The colonel held it reverently, read the contents, then handed it back.
"God bless old Abe," the colonel said, this time loud enough for the men of the regiment to hear.
Several repeated his words.
"I understand your father works in the White House."
"Yes, sir," Washington replied proudly. "Been there near on to fifty years. My middle name is Quincy, named after the president who gave me a silver cup when I was baptized. I'm mighty proud of my father."
"And that's your son back there?" the colonel motioned toward the surgeon, where the drummer boys were mingled in with the stretcher bearers.
"Yes, sir."
"Make sure you keep him back today," the colonel said quietly.
'Thank you, sir. I will."
"Sergeant Major, you know there was no love lost between us Irish and you colored." "I know that, sir."
"Both fighting for the same jobs, both treated as trash. This war is changing that forever." "I hope so, sir."
"I know so. Today is your day to win what we Irish won at Fredericksburg."
Bartlett's back was to the south as the two talked. The colonel paused, looking past him.
"They're coming," the colonel whispered.
Bartlett turned and for several seconds he was frozen in place.
Bayonet tips showed just beyond the opposite slope six hundred yards away. Rising above the bayonets, at regular hundred-yard intervals, were the banners of the Confederacy. Within seconds the bayonet tips were rifle muzzles, then a wall, a wall of gray and butternut, cresting up over the apex of the low rise. Onward they came, not slowing, reaching the edge of the cornfield and then disappearing again, except for the rifle muzzles and bayonets projecting above the stalks.
In the silence he could actually hear them coming, the tramping of feet, cornstalks snapping, wavering, and collapsing. It was wave, a tidal wave, an ocean of armed men, relentless, coming forward, the silence broken by cheers from their side now that their enemy was in sight.
'To our duty, Sergeant Major," the colonel said. He turned and casually walked back to the middle of the regimental line. He paused, looked up at the flags, the distinctive yellow regimental flag of the USCTs, beside it the national colors. He formally came to attention and saluted both.
"Fight like hell, boys!" the colonel shouted. "Keep ah eye on your glorious flags! If they go forward, you go forward!"
He stepped back through the ranks, the men still kneeling except for the color guard, and took position directly behind them, Bartlett by his side.
Three hundred yards out and the rebels were still advancing. Bartlett looked at them in astonishment. Their advance was a solid wall, some officers mounted and out front. Drummers beat out a continual roll. Another cheer that sent chills down his spine, the legendary rebel yell. He had heard it often enough yesterday, from a distance, now it was truly real, coming straight toward him.
More than one in the ranks was looking back at him, eyes wide with fear.
Suddenly John Miller stood up.
"Damn rebels!" he roared, shaking his fist. "Come on, you sons of bitches."
With that a loud shout erupted from the regiment, some of the men began to stand up, officers shouting for them to remain kneeling.
"Check your caps, boys!" The cry went up and down the line, and men half-cocked their muskets, looking down to make sure their percussion caps were in place. A few fumbled in cap boxes to replace a lost or forgotten cap.
Two hundred yards.
Again another defiant rebel yell. An increase in the drum-roll beat. It was hard to see the men through the corn but their rifle tips and bayonets stood out clearly, the tidal wave coming forward, not slowing.
"Up, boys, up!"
The regiment stood up, the regiments down the line doing the same.
The colonel drew his sword and tilted his head back. "Set your sights for one hundred yards!" he roared. Men looked down at their Enfield rifles, some adjusting the rear sight.
"Volley fire on my command!"
They waited, rifles at the shoulder. The rebs kept on coming; they were not going to stop; they were coming straight in. Some of the rifle points disappeared, the men carrying them leveling their weapons for a straight-in bayonet charge.
'Take aim!"
The cry was picked up, each man shouting out the words, "Take aim!"
Across the regimental front six hundred rifles were lowered.
"Pick your targets, boys!" the colonel shouted.
Barrels shifted slightly, men searching for targets, hard to find in the cornfield, many therefore aiming straight in to where the enemy colors floated above the advancing line.
Bartlett felt as if he wanted to scream out the order himself. They were close. A hundred yards, yes, but it seemed as if within seconds those glistening bayonets would be right in his face.
The seconds dragged out, as slow as eternity itself. "Fire!"
The volley let loose as if delivered on the drill field. Six hundred rifles firing as one. Jim stood silent, awed. Before, they had always fired across an empty field. The corn directly in front of them just flattened, or flew up into the air. For a few seconds he wondered if any round had even been able to reach the rebs, but then through the smoke he saw rifles tips pitching backward, a regimental flag going down.
"Reload!" Bartlett roared, no longer able to hold himself back. "Hurry, boys! Reload!"
And then he heard it… a Southern voice yelling, "Charge, boys, charge 'em!"
It came from the cornfield.
A yell resounded, a high-pitched yipping like that of a pack of mad dogs on the scent of blood.
"Load, load, load!" A white officer was pacing in front of their volley line, gesturing wildly, urging the men on. Bits of cartridge paper flew into the air as men tore them open with their teeth, poured powder down barrels, squeezed bullet into barrel, and threw the paper aside. Ramrods were out, hundreds of arms rising up, pushing charges down the barrels.
All of it was combining together… "Charge!… Load, boys, load."… the maddening rebel yell almost on top of them… "Load, boys, load!"
"Volley fire, present!"
The colonel had remained absolutely still throughout, not budging an inch, not saying a single word, and Bartlett, looking at him, drew inspiration. Yelling would change nothing; it was calmness now that counted, calmness and nerves of steel.
"Take aim!"
He looked straight ahead. Cornstalks collapsing, flashes of bayonets, faces of men, distorted with battle fever and rage, rushing toward them.
Some of the men were not yet loaded, but most were, rifles leveled.
"Fire!"
A shattering roar. Then nothing but clouds of smoke. Men started to reload. Those who had not loaded quickly enough for the volley lowered their guns, aimed into the smoke, and fired.
And then a few men came out of the smoke, still at the run, bayonets lowered… and smashed into the line.
Wild oaths, screams, men slashing out, rebs lowering rifles in the last few seconds and firing at waist level into the solid ranks. More men going down, the line bowing back just to the flank of the colors, the national flag bobbing down for a moment.
Bartlett looked left and right. The battle line almost broke open where a couple of dozen rebs had waded in, slashing, jabbing, a rebel officer with revolver drawn dropping several men before being clubbed down.
At the center the national flag was half down, its holder bayoneted in the stomach, a reb reaching out grabbing the flagpole, wrestling to pull it out of the grip of the dying man.
Bartlett leapt forward, bayonet poised, and dived into the melee, bayoneting the reb who had hold of the flag, and was hoisting it up, shouting with glee. The man collapsed, flag going back down.
"Volley fire, present!"
It was the colonel, still motionless, oblivious, it seemed, to the near breakthrough. 'Take aim!"
Less than half the men complied; the rest were fighting hand to hand or were so rattled by the onset that they moved as if trapped in mud. More than one had thrown his rifle down and was already running.
Bartlett pulled the colors back from the dying reb, using the staff as a club, waving it back and forth, several rebs trying to close in on him.
"Fire!"
Another volley and the few rebs directly in front dropped, some riddled by half a dozen or more rounds.
Washington stepped back into the line, panting for breath, his rifle gone, the flagstaff clutched with both hands.
Someone slapped him on the back and he half turned, ready to fight. It was John Miller.
"Sergeant Major, I'll take that, sir. You got other jobs to do."
He was reluctant to give it up, looking up at the banner, red stripes, part of the flag torn by a bayonet, blood on the white stars.
"Sergeant Major, if you don't mind, please."
It was the colonel.
He nodded, handed the flagstaff to Miller, picked up a rifle lying on the ground, and stepped back through the line. "Volley fire on my command!"
The line had held, half a hundred were down, but it still held. A glimpse through the smoke showed him a second rebel line was up, in the cornfield, about a hundred yards back, the corn in between already shredded down to the ground. Beyond them, up on the low rise, artillery pieces were wheeling into place.
He stepped back beside his colonel.
'Take aim!" the colonel roared.
Rifles were aimed downrange.
"Fire!"
"Reload!"
Bartlett, panting for breath, looked over at his colonel, who smiled. And to his horror he saw that the man was clutching his midsection, blood trickling out. Washington reached out to grab him, but the colonel waved him off.
"Just a scratch," the colonel said with a smile.
"Surgeon!" Bartlett shouted, but his voice was drowned out by men yelling, explosions, the steady tearing zip of minies coming into their lines.
"Leave off of it," the colonel snapped. "I'm still fine."
He looked at Bartlett and grinned.
"No one will ever take that flag away from you ever again, Sergeant Major."
The colonel turned back to face the rebel line.
"Take aim!"
"Fire!"