'Feed it to them! There they are! Feed it to them!" Hunt cried. Gun after gun recoiled, sending deadly sprays of canister downrange to the rebel lines in the corn and grass, and they were returning fire. The ground ahead was a killing ground, casualties piled up by the hundreds, his gunners hard at work in the last fifteen minutes, following his order to retreat by recoil. After firing, the pieces were not rolled forward, but were loaded, in place, the elevation checked, and another canister round was blasted down the field. But canister was running short, many of the crews changing over to case shot cut with a half-inch fuse, blowing as they barely cleared the barrel. Those out of canister were converting back to solid bolts, the shock of one of those bolts passing through the ranks causing the enemy to scatter even if it struck down only one or two.
They were bleeding McLaw out, and his men were shouting with rage, sweeping the position with rifle fire, a good third of Hunt's gunners now down. He took a deep breath. "Hook up trail lines, retire by fire!" Caissons were backed up, cables run out to the trail pieces of the guns. A piece would fire, and the caisson crew would urge their horse forward a dozen paces while the crew reloaded, then the gun would fire again.
It was only a matter of time before they were overrun.
Rebel infantry was swarming about both flanks, horses were going down, stalling pieces in place, desperate crews trying to push their pieces back by hand, but they were still firing, holding them back.
"Feed it to 'em. God damn 'em. Feed it to 'em."
With Lee 12:30 P.M.
P. G.T. Beauregard came riding up, sweat streaming down his face in the humid heat, hat off, and Lee braced himself inwardly for the confrontation. "General," Lee said, "my orders to you last night I thought were clearly understood. Cross at the ford, establish contact, deploy, then sweep due north into the town and take it."
"Sir, it is not that easy," Beauregard replied. "If I had waited for McLaw and Robertson, we'd have wasted another hour, maybe two. I felt it was important to strike hard and fast."
"You hit without waiting. All four divisions at once, backed by a battalion and a half of artillery and a brigade from Jeb, should have overrun them in the first strike. Besides, you have let your command split. One division is wasted now containing that pocket down by the river."
"There is an entire corps trapped down there," Beauregard replied. "Destroy them and Grant's final offensive power is gone."
"It is costing far too much. You should have advanced, echelon to the north, aiming at Frederick. That and the road are the prize."
"It is too late to call back Robertson now; he is too hotly engaged, and his action protects my right flank."
"And the guns," Lee replied sharply. "Why are you sending McLaw straight at their guns?"
"That's all of Hunt's batteries up there, sir. Without infantry support. We take them and we cripple Grant."
"Sir," Lee said stonily, "you have lost focus. You are caught in the moment. Four of your divisions, angling toward Frederick, would have caused Grant to abandon the entire line, and I could have brought in Longstreet and Hood efficiently. Now we are split apart."
"So should I withdraw?" Beauregard asked sarcastically. "We have them on the run."
"No, you will not withdraw, but, sir, I am taking command here."
"Am I relieved, sir?"
Lee hesitated. If it had been nearly anyone else, he would have done so. But these were Beauregard's men, new to the Army of Northern Virginia.
"No, sir, you are not relieved, but I shall now ride with you. I want your men to echelon to the left and drive for the pass. I expect that within the hour. Now go see to your duty and we shall win this fight, regardless of loss."
Railroad Cut 12:30 P.M.
This was beyond anything he had ever imagined war to be. There was no place for the wounded; they lay where they fell. All were deafened by the slapping roar of the Napoleon whose crew had expended all their canister and case shot and was now reduced to firing solid shot, aiming low so that the ball would strike in front of the rebel infantry, kicking up a spray of ballast and splintered railroad tie, which hit with deadly impact.
If not for the barrier, all within the cut would have been swept away. The worst casualties were up on the slopes of the ravine, the men exposed to fire from the flanks even as they fought to keep back the rebels circling in from both sides. Men of several regiments were mingled together at the barricade, some of them whites from the next division who had brought up more ammunition and decided to stay.
"Granddaddy was at Oriskany;" one of them kept saying with a grin. "It was like this. Injuns just circling all around, whoopin' and hollerin'."
Several times the rebs surged to within yards of the cut, threatening to push the men on the lip back down. If that happened, it was over, but the men had held them back, the rebs going to ground.
"Raining, thank God," someone announced.
Washington looked up, felt a few soft splashes on his face, a light drizzle-cooling, a true relief.