Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 (27 page)

"How goes it?" Lincoln asked.

"Oh, sir, the usual chaos." Winfield pointed to the docks and wharfs of the old Chesapeake and Ohio canal. Dozens of barges were lined up, troops filing aboard. A hoist was swinging the barrel of a thirty-pounder Parrott gun out over a barge and slowly lowering it down. The men were nervously standing back as the barrel came to rest in the hull, the boat sinking deeper into the water as it took on the burden.

It did indeed look like chaos, hundreds of workers hauling boxes of rations, ammunition, barrels of salt pork, and stacking them up inside the bulk-hauling boats, many of them coated with layers of coal dust from their years of service bringing coal down from the mountains of western Virginia. Troops were filing aboard passenger boats, a hundred men or more to each, and he could see a procession' of barges was already heading up the canal. Once aboard and settled in, the men relaxed, lying down to sleep, some sitting up, digging into their haversacks. One man had a small concertina out and was playing a lively jig.

"Ready to go!" The barge carrying three of the Parrott guns cast off, the four mules hauling it braying, digging in, their driver cursing at them, snapping a whip. The barge inched away from the wharf.

Resting in a sling by the side of a wharf was the massive barrel of a hundred-pound Parrott gun, twenty tons of metal, its iron carriage in another sling, dozens of men swarming around the monster, hooking cables to the thick woven mat the barrel was resting on. A work crew was busy carrying individual shells aboard, a hundred pounds each, and massive bags of grape and canister shot. Farther down the wharf, another boat, surrounded by sentries with bayoneted rifles, was loading barrels of powder, with hand-lettered
explosives
signs marking the entrance to the wharf.

"I should be leaving soon," Winfield said. "I think they've got the system down. I'll leave staff here to keep moving it along. I want to get up to the front. We have a brigade of mounted troops moving up the canal ahead of all this. Word will get out, and Mosby and his boys might try some mischief. I want to be up there if he does."

Lincoln nodded and extended his hand.

"Be careful, Winfield. You're a good man. Take care of yourself."

"Oh, I will, sir."

He started to dismount and a couple of young staff officers moved quickly by his side. It was not so much a dismounting as it was a lifting-down. He grimaced with the pain, but then, remembering Lincoln, he smiled.

"See, sir, no problem at all." He accepted his cane and leaned heavily on it. Then he limped off.

"Think he can handle it?" Lincoln asked, looking over at Elihu.

"If anyone can, it's him. He spent an hour with me yesterday morning, went over the details, and then was down here at the docks all day and clean through the night He knows his job."

"Fine, then. We made the right choice."

"Something curious going on you should know about," Elihu said, and motioned to a sidestreet, leading Lincoln as they wove through the columns of troops queuing up to get aboard the canal boats.

As they turned the corner Lincoln was startled to see hundreds of black men standing about in a crowd, many with shovels, picks, and axes on their shoulders. Others had wheelbarrows loaded down with baggage. Two men had between them a large two-man whipsaw. A scattering of them were armed with old muskets or pistols.

At their approach the milling crowd fell silent, many of the men taking their hats off, stepping back at Lincoln's approach. To his amazement Lincoln saw Jim Bartlett standing in the crowd—rather, standing out, since he was dressed in a fine suit while most of the men wore the ordinary clothes of laborers.

"Jim?" Lincoln asked. "May I ask what is going on here?"

Jim braced his shoulders back, staring Lincoln straight in the eye.

"Mr. President, remember last night when you asked me to see if men would be interested in volunteering short-term for some work?

"Well, we know where them boats are going." He nodded toward the canal barges loading up.

"How do you know that, Jim?"

With that a number of the men started to chuckle.

"Ain't no secrets from us colored folk, Mr. Lincoln," a burly worker replied, and that brought on more laughter.

"Too many of you white folks think we're invisible. We're cleaning the dishes and the missus starts gossiping with other ladies about what her husband just told her, we're sweeping the floor at Willard's and the officers are boasting, or we're emptying trash in the War Office and pieces of paper just come falling into our laps. Oh, we know."

That brought renewed laughter, and Lincoln could not suppress a grin. He instantly saw the wisdom of it, thinking himself of so many conversations in the White House with servants walking in and out of the room. By heavens, of course they'd know.

"What are you and your friends proposing, Jim?" Lincoln asked.

"Our hands, our backs. There are tens of thousands of colored in this city who want to do something, anything. Let us go with the soldiers. We can dig for them, and, sir, we know that's a worry of yours."

The burly man nudged the man next to him, a thin, frail gentleman with graying hair who stepped forward nervously.

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Washburne, I hope you ain't mad, but I brought coffee into the room while you and a general were talking. I heard you say something about moving the men, but maybe not having time to dig in proper, building forts and such."

Washburne looked at the speaker in amazement.

"You know I oughta fire you," he blustered. "What you overheard is a military secret."

"Oh, I heard Mr. Stanton talking all the time, a lot of things, sir, maybe you should know about, considering all the fuss he's kicking up in the newspapers."

Lincoln threw back his head and laughed, a laugh unlike any he had experienced in weeks.

"He's got you, Elihu. We need this man."

Elihu shook his head, then leaned out of his saddle and extended his hand.

"All right then. We'll talk after this is over, but by heavens I'll never speak a word again when you are around."

The man grinned and took Elihu's hand.

"We're on the same side, sir. Maybe for different reasons, but the same side."

"For the same reasons now," Lincoln said quietly, and he looked back at Jim. 'Troops have to have priority on the boats, but wherever there's additional room, you men get aboard."

A cheer went up.

Lincoln extended his hand.

"I should warn you, though. It will be dangerous. I cannot guarantee that you will be treated well if things turn against us and you are captured."

"Then we fight," Jim said quietly. "A pick or an ax is as good as a bayonet."

"Not against disciplined troops," Elihu said softly.

"It'll be hours, most likely, before there will be room on any of the boats," Lincoln said.

"We already figured that," the burly man said. "We'll just start walking if you don't mind. Follow the canal path."

Lincoln suddenly was overcome by emotion, his face limp with sadness.

One of the men held up a banner made out of a bedsheeL Emblazoned in red letters:
Washington colored volunteers.

The crowd cheered again and then spontaneously poured down the street, turning on to the canal path to head toward the front. As they surged by him, Lincoln remained motionless.

Looking back toward the boats, he saw Colonel Shaw leading the men of the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts aboard several barges. Shaw caught his eye and snapped to attention, saluting, his men cheering as they saw their brothers pouring down the street and then turning to follow the canal path.

"How" the world is changing," Lincoln whispered. He reached over and took Jim's hand.

"God be with you, my friend."

"And with you too, Mr. President," he paused, "and thank you."

CHAPTER TWELVE

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia East Bank of Monocacy Creek

August 26 7:00 A.M.

G
en. Pete Longstreet rode up the steep slope past a wooden blockhouse, pausing for a moment to watch as a gun crew struggled to maneuver a twelve-pound Napoleon through the back doorway, then rolled it into place inside, positioning it at a gun port looking down on the river below.

The blockhouse was perfectly positioned to cover the ruins of the railroad bridge and the still-smoking wreckage of a rail depot on the other bank, less than four hundred yards away. To either flank of the blockhouse men were digging in, cutting trenches, a work crew dragging cut lumber from the mill just south of the track to pile atop the barricades.

A scattering of Yankee skirmishers were around the depot on the other side of the creek, but for the moment there seemed to be one of those informal cease-fires between them and the Confederate skirmishers. Many were up, walking about, examining the wreckage, both sides adopting the live-and-let-live attitude of soldiers who were more than willing to fight when called upon, but considered sniping to be little better than murder if there was no immediate purpose to it. Like schoolboys they prowled around the wreckage, coming to the river to examine the bridge and gape down at the two
shattered locomotives in the creek. A few had started fires to fix one last pot of coffee before battle was rejoined.

Even Pete stopped for a minute to look at the ruins. It was obvious there had been one hell of a fight here yesterday. Bark had been peeled off trees by bullets, hunks of metal from the exploding train littered the riverbank, and burial details were at work on both sides of the river, as if clearing the ground for the next harvest, which would begin soon enough.

"Hey, reb, who's the general?" a Yank with a booming voice shouted from across the river.

Several of the Confederates down by the bridge looked back and saw Pete.

"Why, that's old Longstreet!" one of them shouted back. "Now that he's here, there'll be hell to pay for you boys."

Pete shook his head. A compliment in a way, but the men would be in Yankee headquarters within the hour. Curious, this war: no matter how often the men were lectured on it, skirmishers on both sides tended to gossip and give away secrets, just like old women at a quilting party.

Pete pressed up the hill to a flat plateau where Lee, Jeb Stuart, Walter Taylor, and John Hood stood, all with field glasses raised, looking toward the distant ridgeline.

Pete offered a salute as he approached, and Lee, lowering his glasses, smiled.

"General, good to see you. You must be exhausted after such a long ride."

"I'm fine, sir," he lied. He was numb after the twenty-four-hour ride, the anxiety of what was happening ahead, and the frustration he felt as he paralleled the railroad track and saw the colossal traffic jam mat stretched for miles. The hope had been that during the night, once Hood was finished moving his divisions up, the trains could start shuttling troops from his own corps forward, sparing them the rest of the march. That was clearly impossible. Only a few engines were moving, while dozens waited to back up through the single-line track between the two tunnels.

'Tell me, General, when can we begin to expect your troops?" Lee asked, as Pete dismounted. One of the staff handed him a cup of coffee, which he gladly accepted.

"I left them during the night, sir. The lead division, McLaw's, should be up by noon."

"Good. And General Beauregard's Corps?"

"Behind the rest of my column, sir, but he is also moving on parallel roads, not the National Road. He should start filing in late this afternoon."

Lee nodded approvingly.

"How are things here, sir?" Pete asked.

"Grant is living up to his reputation," Lee said and motioned to the Catoctin Ridge.

Pete uncased his field glasses and focused on the distant ridge. Though it was wreathed in early morning mist and smoke from the burning town, he was able to catch glimpses of troops moving down the road.

"Ord we think," Walter interjected.

"McPherson and Burnside are already accounted for," Lee said. "That only leaves Banks. Scouts with General Stuart reported a number of batteries coming into the town during the night."

"I heard you really chewed into McPherson yesterday," Pete said.

"Yes," Lee replied, his voice now barely a whisper. "Sir, I'm sorry. I meant no disrespect to James. He was a good man."

"He's still alive," Walter said.

"Will he pull through?"

Lee shook his head.

"Again, sir, I'm sorry."

"It is God's will," Lee said softly.

"Most-of McPherson's Corps was destroyed yesterday," Walter said. "We briefly tangled with some of Burnside's men last night. Colored troops."

"Damn all," Hood said coldly.

Lee turned and looked over at Hood, who lowered his gaze.

"They are to be treated like any other troops we face,"

Lee announced. "If taken prisoner, they and their officers are to be shown all due respect, as has been our tradition. I want everyone to understand that." "Yes, sir," Hood said.