Oh, this is beautiful, just beautiful," Henry Hunt exclaimed as he paced behind the new line he had just set up, facing south. He ignored the enfilading artillery fire coming from across the river, which had already dismounted or struck down two of his guns.
It was the target before him that counted.
The last of Ord's broken men had streamed past his position, and now, four hundred yards out, an entire division of rebel infantry was coming straight at him. He had over sixty guns lined up. Not as many as Malvern Hill, but more than Gettysburg.
He had full faith in his gunners. They had proven themselves yesterday in the bombardment of the McCausland Farm. And now they had infantry before them, a beautiful wide target spread out over a half mile. Three brigades in the lead, two more a hundred yards behind. And behind them another division four hundred yards farther back, struggling to reform after their initial clash earlier in the morning.
"Fire!"
This was not a single salvo. He had ordered his battery commanders to carefully check aim and elevation and make every shot count.
The guns directly in front of him went off. Seconds later more opened up, the last firing maybe thirty seconds later. Commands were being shouted, "Case shot, two-second fuse!" "Roll 'em up, boys." "Sergeant, check that elevation screw. Raise it half a turn!"
Field glasses were useless in the smoke. He squatted down, trying to see under the billowing clouds created by the guns just fired, and was delighted. Shells were bursting right in front of the advancing line, puffs of dirt geysering from the shells with percussion fuses, some of the shots going high, but some of the high ones hitting the second line.
Excellent shooting.
He knew when to fall silent, to step back, which he now did. And his men went to work. ll:OOA.M.
'I want my divisions back in!" Beauregard shouted. Robertson's and McLaw's divisions had taken the lead in the assault, passing through and beyond his own two divisions, which had delivered a savage beating to the Yankees but in turn had been torn apart.
He regretted now, more than ever, not waiting for them to come up, to have sent all four in at once. They could have gone through like a battering ram, but then again, the delay might have allowed the Yankees to do what they were now doing, shifting guns about, bringing up more men.
Johnston had not listened to him at Shiloh about his deployment before the attack, packing the men in too close so that all command and control had been lost, and he had been saddled with the blame.
Now Lee would blame him for the loss of momentum. Damn it, well, let Lee try to maneuver twenty-five thousand men on one narrow road, then go into a fight.
To his right the Yankees were digging in along the railroad track. Already the position reminded him of the infamous Hornets Nest of Shiloh.
Turn on it, wipe it out completely, or push toward Frederick and leave Robertson behind, or order Robertson to echelon to the left and avoid it as well?
But battle was already joined. Robertson was sending his men straight in. He would have to leave him behind.
Beauregard pointed up the road toward Frederick, shouting for his own men to form and get back into the attack.
"Come on, boys, come on! We can still take them! Come on, move it!"
His two divisions started forward, not with the beautiful formation and elan of dawn. They had marched over six miles since they began and fought one pitched battle already, but nevertheless they went forward, heading toward the sound of the guns.
Relay Station ¦ Ten Miles West of Baltimore