He rode back to the head of the column, men standing back up after their noonday break, ready to resume the forced march.
"Duvall, scout ahead. We parallel the canal but out of sight of the Yankees along it. Find a spot where we can force a way across. The river can't be too wide where we cross, ideally with an island in the middle. Now ride!"
And the column had set off, afternoon sun blazing down.
Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna Near Barnesville, Maryland
The distant rattle of skirmishing echoed from farther down the road. The men in the column, which had stopped, leaned wearily on their rifles, ordered to stand in place, to not break ranks.
Since late morning, any break had resulted in scores and hundreds of exhausted men refusing to get up again, regardless of the threats of their officers or provost guards.
Grant could not blame them. They were numb from exhaustion. These were men pushed to the limit and beyond, survivors of the Hornets Nest. Many of the regiments were reduced to little more than company size-a mere fifty men gathered around a flag where there would once have been five hundred.
Phil Sheridan came trotting up the road toward him, grinning.
"We're hitting the back end of Longstreet's column just ahead," he announced. "We're right behind him." 'Then keep pushing," Grant replied sharply. "Keep pushing."
Five Miles West of Seneca Crossing on the Potomac 2:15 P.M.
Col. Phil Duvall slowly stood up, General Longstreet by his side. The crossing below was swarming with Yankee troops getting off canal boats and starting to form up. They both scanned the line with their field glasses. Duvall lowered his glasses and looked over at Longstreet. "We have to try it," Longstreet said. Duvall nodded, not replying.
Longstreet looked over at the young colonel. General Lee had pushed ahead to try to secure their flank at Darnestown while Pete had been ordered to take a narrow lane down to this crossing with his troops to see if they could somehow seize the position.
He had most of Scales's men up, two thousand men, concealed in the woods, nearly a brigade of cavalry with him.
"All at once," Pete said, turning to look back at Scales. "No artillery, complete surprise. Sweep down and into them. You must take that position."
Scales nodded.
"I can do it," he said quietly. "Then go."
Sergeant Hazner was at the fore of the charge, Colonel Brown by his side. Both were panting for breath. The day had turned scorching hot, and they had not had a drop of water in hours, but both knew that this charge, out of so many charges, was different. This was a race for the survival of themselves and their army.
They had indeed caught the Yankees by surprise. They could see them forming up, struggling to create a volley line.
They were down to less than a hundred yards, running full out.
No volleys, just a scattering of fire to start, and then the volume increasing. Men began to drop.
"Come on!" Brown screamed. "One more time, boys, just one more time!"
Hancock stood up. Leaning against the bow of his canal barge, he saw the smoke rolling up from a field just around the bend in the river.
'Damn!
"Get us ashore here," he shouted.
The steersman angled the boat over and slammed it against the embankment, Hancock nearly losing his footing. A couple of enlisted men, already on the embankment, reached over and half-lifted him out of the boat.
Bartlett started to jump off, but Hancock turned and looked back at him.
"No! Your people stay here!"
"We're needed, too," Jim tried to argue.
"No. You stay here. They've caught us by surprise. Chances are we'll get pushed back, at least for now. Get your men out. Move them back up that way."
He pointed farther along the canal, to a gently rising slope.
"Start digging in there. Build a redoubt. That's what we need now!"
Jim pointed the way, and his men, following in a half dozen barges, leapt for the shore and ran up the slope. Within minutes he had them at work, furiously digging, dragging fallen timber out of a nearby woodlot, tearing down split-rail fences and piling them up, forming a fortification for the Union troops to shelter behind."
The charge began to slow out of sheer exhaustion. They were but fifty yards off, but had run nearly a quarter of mile to gain this ground. One man stopped, and then another, and raised his rifle and fired.
"Come on!" Brown shouted, but the men of the Fourteenth came to a stop, raised rifles, and fired. "Keep moving!"
The thin Union line before them offered another ragged volley. Several more men around Brown and Hazner dropped, but they continued to push forward and the Yankees broke, falling back, most turning to run along the towpath to the west.
The last few yards were covered, and Hazner, bent double with exhaustion, stood at the edge of the canal.
They had made it!
Pete Longstreet rode up, General Scales by his side, and quickly surveyed the ground. A half dozen abandoned barges were floating in the canal, a hundred or so Union casualties along the embankment.
Just below the canal was a short, open flood plain, and beyond the Potomac, on the other side, Virginia! Duvall had picked the spot well. A wooded island lay in the middle of the river, significantly shortening the distance they needed to traverse. On the far shore he spotted a couple of mounted troops, the men standing in their stirrups and waving. Mosby's men. He waved back. Virginia!
He turned to Scales.
"Keep pushing them back. I need an opening here at least two miles wide or more. Keep pushing them back. I will send you everyone I can, and you keep pushing out to form a bridgehead that we can move the pontoon bridge through."
Scales saluted and rode off. Longstreet looked around at his staff.
"Venable, a courier to General Lee. Tell him we've seized a crossing point five miles west of Seneca. Second, a courier up our column to Cruickshank, and tell him to get those damn pontoons forward with all possible speed. The rest of you, as additional men come up, get them to work."
He pointed to a nearby farm, a gristmill, some sheds, and outbuildings.
'Tear them apart. Get any lumber out that we can use for bridging material. Use the barges here to build a bridge across the canal. We need more than what is here and then a corduroy road down to the river. Now move it!"
Longstreet watched as the men set to work.
Maybe, just maybe, we've pulled it off. By tomorrow morning we will be across the river and be out of this damn state.
Near Poolesoille 3:00 P.M.
Cruickshank returned the salute of the officer who had come up. "General Longstreet has seized a crossing point, sir."
"Where?"
"About three miles from here, west of Seneca Crossing." "Damn all to hell," Cruickshank said, shaking his head.
The courier looked at him confused.
"The general insists you come up with all possible speed to bring up the pontoons. I'm to guide you in."
"All possible speed? Just what the hell do you think I've been doing all day?" Cruickshank asked.
"Sir, I'm just carrying orders."
"Yes, I know."
Ahead of him an artillery limber wagon had just lost a wheel, the load collapsing, again stalling traffic on the narrow, rutted road. The crew was struggling to jack the wagon up and replace the wheel, everything behind them stopped.
Cruickshank looked over at the courier.
"Got a drink on you."
"Sir?"
"A drink. Bourbon, gin, anything?"
"I'm a temperance man," the courier replied a bit stiffly.
"I bet you are, damn it."
It took five minutes for the artillery crew to maneuver the wheel into place, secure the lug nut, and the piece lurched forward.
Behind him, with much cursing and swearing, his crew lashed their horses and mules, the twenty-four wagons again rolling forward, wheels sinking deep into the mud that still clung to the road down in hollows and stream crossings.
They edged up to an open field where the artillery crew had pulled over and unhitched their horses to let them graze while men hauled up buckets of water from a stream. An infantry regiment was resting by the side of the road, men sprawled in the damp grass, some taking down fence rails to make fires.
There was a distant rattling behind them and the less weary looked up, turning toward the north. Stuart, in spite of his injuries, was in the saddle, guarding the rear, trying to slow down the relentless advance of Grant. From the sound of gunfire the Yankees were only a couple of miles back.
"Keep it moving," Cruickshank shouted, urging his exhausted teams on. "Keep it moving."
Darnestown, Maryland 3:15 P.M.
His men had covered nearly twenty-five miles since dawn. The militia had long since been left behind, but that did not worry him. The crossroads of this small village was just ahead. General Sykes reined in, shouting orders, the head of the column shaking out into line of battle.
To his right, a mile away, across open fields he could see them coming, red flags held high, shifting from column to line as well. It was a race to secure the village crossroads.
He rode across the front of the line, sword held high, trailed by his staff.
"Men of the Army of the Potomac!" he shouted. "This is your time. This is your time to regain our honor!" A resounding cheer rose up, grim, determined. The battle line swept down toward the advancing foe.
Lee watched with field glasses raised, heart pounding. But an hour more and we could have been into this village, secured it, then turned south toward the Potomac, where surely Longstreet even now is securing a crossing place. And now this.
At the front of his column men were deploying out, the same men battered before Hauling Ferry the day before. There was no cheering now, no defiance. Only a grim silence as lines were formed, ramrods drawn, rifles loaded. One battery was up, unlimbered, opening with a salvo as the advancing blue wave closed to eight hundred yards.
The enemy charge came on, relentless, their cheers filled with a terrible anger.
More of his men were coming up, moving to either flank to broaden out their front, but the men moved slowly, without the elan of but three days past.
The enemy were six hundred yards off. Another volley from the guns, several striking the line, but the charge continued forward.
He drew back to a wooden knoll, staff gathered around him. No one spoke.
Four hundred yards, then three hundred. A regiment in the center raised rifles and fired, too soon he thought, others began to fire as well. Clouds of smoke billowed across the field, and still the charge came forward.
They were relentless, bayonets glistening, cheering madly, not as Union troops cheered in the past, the disciplined three hurrahs, but an almost guttural roar, a scream of rage. An officer on a white horse was in their middle, sword raised, pushing forward, other officers, mounted, joining in as well.
Two hundred yards, and then a hundred yards. They did not slow or waver. The massive blue wave broke into a run.
Several of his regiments presented and fired disciplined volleys. Scores of Yankees dropped, but the charge pressed in.
And then his men broke.
One or two turned at first, then dozens, and finally the entire line shattered apart, men streaming to the rear.
Horrified, Lee said nothing, watching as his valiant army disintegrated under the hammer blow rolling toward them. Above the smoke he saw the Maltese cross of the Fifth Corps. This was not Grant; this was a ghost resurrected- this was the Army of the Potomac, and in that instant he understood the rage, the elan that drove them forward. On this field they were bent on restoring their honor and inflicting their revenge.
He turned Traveler and rode back to the west, joining in with his retreating men.
Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna 3:45 P.M.
"Elihu Washburne?" Grant exclaimed in surprise as the secretary of war came riding up, escorted by several dozen cavalry troopers.
"General, how are you?" Elihu exclaimed, leaning over from his horse to shake Grant's hand.
Grant could not reply at first. He had felt deathly ill all day, barely able to remain in the saddle.
The march had been tedious and frustratingly slow. His own men, to be sure, were exhausted, but then again, so were the rebels they were pursuing. The rebel cavalry, though, was still doing a masterful job of contesting every ford, every place where defendable ground could buy the retreating columns ten or fifteen minutes' respite.
Sheridan was at the fore, driving relentlessly, but for the men in column behind the advance, it was the most exhausting kind of march. Advance a few hundred yards, wait in place maybe for a minute, maybe for a half hour, then sprint forward a quarter mile, then slow down, stop, then lurch forward again.
The sides of the road for miles was littered with the castoffs of an army in retreat. Broken-down limber wagons, overturned and destroyed supply wagons, and prisoners by the hundreds, men who had given up and collapsed.
But it was littered as well with the debris of an exhausted army in pursuit, yet more cast-off equipment, gray-faced soldiers lying by the side of the road, unable to advance another step after so many hard days of marching and three days of pitched fighting.
He could so easily sense the inertia that built at such times, understand why so many generals would, at this moment, call a halt to allow their men to "rest, reorganize, and refit." Regiments were jumbled together, not just men from one regiment slowing and bleeding back into the unit behind them, but entire brigades and divisions were mixed together. All that kept them moving forward now was their own will, the will of each man who, sensing victory, would not give out, and his will as well, driving them forward even if but one man was left standing at the end.
"I have a dispatch from the president. I think it is important that you read it, sir," Elihu said.
Elihu handed the envelope over.
"Yes, sir. Is it urgent?"
"Well, sir, I think you should read it soon, but for the moment it can wait."
"I want to keep pushing," Grant said. "Ride along with me. I'll tell you what is happening and we can discuss the president's wishes when we stop for a few hours."
"Fine with me," Elihu said, and he fell in by Grant's side.