Never Sound Retreat (11 page)

"It's more than that, sir. As we were heading north our lookout reported a flotilla coming down the river into the bay."

"Flotilla?"

"He said it looked like dozens, maybe a hundred or more ships. They knocked the door down, sir; they have the sea and can go where they damn well please."

Andrew looked over at Vincent.

"The land cruisers," Vincent said. "Sir, it's the only way they could ever bring them into action. They must be planning a landing."

"But where?"

"They could hit the Shenandoah River and cut off Pat," Bullfinch whispered. "It's navigable right up to the railroad bridge."

Andrew suddenly felt as if his stomach was on fire. Wearily he sat down on one of the pilings, his gaze fixed on
Petersburg.
 

The bastards have the sea; they can hit us anywhere. But where? Where would Ha'ark hit them? Pat, Hans, or here?

Or all three . . . Ha'ark would do the audacious, the master stroke. Andrew felt a wave of self-reproach, of bitter anger. He had been lured out, it was why Ha'ark had waited so long, even after the mask was pulled off, revealing his intentions. Lure the army to the end of the line, then in one blow slam the back door shut.

"He'll hit us near Fort Hancock," Andrew said softly. "They must have mapped this before we even got there. He cast this plan in his mind a year, two, even three years ago. Take Fort Hancock, drive ten miles to the northwest, cut the rail and both fronts at Junction City, where the line branches to the south. Hold there, and then simply let the land forces on both fronts grind us down when we run out of supplies."

"The logistical support though," Bullfinch interjected. "We talked about this before. There's no real harbor at Hancock, there's a fort there with thirty-pound Parrott guns . . ." Then his voice trailed off at the cold realization that thirty-pound Parrotts were useless against Ha'ark's ironclads.

"If his ironclads can tear
Petersburg
up, they'll most certainly pound the fort into submission," Vincent snapped.

"Vincent, what do we have at Hancock?" Andrew asked.

"Sir, only one regiment, the Third Roum Heavy Artillery. Garrison troops, older men, disabled veterans."

One day's, warning, Andrew thought bitterly, one day and we could have a division, two divisions waiting for him, tear him apart right on the beach if he tried to land.

"Vincent, how many trains are in the yard right now?"

"Fifteen, I think, sir. There's another twenty up on the Shenandoah, and ten, maybe twelve down on the southern front."

"I want the line cleared of all traffic coming east from Roum past Junction City. Get that signal out right now. You're to take two divisions of Fifth Corps, run them up to Fort Hancock now. Get them there. If you get there ahead of the bastards, start digging in, meet them on the beaches. I'll alert Marcus back in Roum to release Tenth Corps and move it up to support. I'll hold one division here in case they go for a landing here or to the east. We can make up another brigade from the men in the supply units."

"What about Hans and Pat?"

What to do there? They had to be alerted, but should he order a pullout right now? Twenty train-loads to move a corps, and that meant abandoning a fair part of their supplies. Pull back the four corps under Pat, the three under Hans. Once that started rolling, it would be impossible to stop. And there was the chance, still the chance, that the lookout was wrong, that all Ha'ark had on the sea was eight or so ironclads and some lighter support ships. But he never would have made the effort to build them unless he wanted to use the sea for offensive operations.

Everything now was tied to a single ribbon of track. Ten corps, over two hundred thousand men, thousands of tons of supplies, all of it to be moved on two strips of iron. It was always the inherent weakness in this new type of war, everything in the end was tied to a twin ribbon of iron that could so easily be cut.

What do to? First priority was to move to try and hold Fort Hancock. There was only a single regiment of garrison troops there, a battery of thirty-pound rifles, muzzle loaders from the last war. Useless against what Ha'ark might have. Get Vincent moving, then see where the blow hits and figure the next step from there.

"I want the first train moving within the hour, Vincent. I'm counting on you. Now get moving!"

There was the slightest flicker of a smile. The boy had what he wanted again, a field command. Saluting, he turned and ran, calling for his orderlies, who had been waiting at a respectful distance to follow him.

"Can
Petersburg
fight?" Andrew asked, shifting his attention back to Bullfinch, who had stood silent, head lowered.

"I lost half my crew, sir. We not only have to repair the damage, we have to add more armor, another three inches at least. The added weight, sir . .." His voice trailed off, and he sadly shook his head.

"No, sir. She's finished."

"Then strip the guns out. We're going to need them here. If we have time, pull the armor off as well and be prepared to scuttle her."

Startled, Bullfinch could not reply.

"I'm sending you back to Roum, Mr. Bullfinch."

"Roum, sir? The fighting's here," he hesitated. "Are you relieving me of command, sir?"

Andrew tried to laugh, but the chuckle sounded false, hollow. "Lincoln once said that if he fired every general who lost a battle he wouldn't have anyone left.

"I'm not sure of this yet, Bullfinch, but you might be needed more there in a couple of days. I want you to get on the first train heading out to Junction City. Take your staff with you. If that's where Ha'ark hits, then get yourself back to Roum."

"Sir, if you're relieving me of command, just tell me, sir, straight out."

Andrew stood up and smiled.

"It's not victory that defines us, son, it's how we handle defeat. You've only started to fight in this war. Now get on that train, I'll forward your orders out later."

"Sir . . ." he tried to look Andrew in the eyes, but couldn't, lowering his head.

"You did the best you could. Now let's get ready for what comes next. Take your staff and get out of here."

Bullfinch finally looked up.

"Thank you, sir. I won't let you down."

Saluting, he departed, following Hawthorne. Once again Andrew sat down on the piling, his gaze wandering to the ship.

"We're in it this time, aren't we."

Emil approached him, ready if need be to withdraw if Andrew indicated.

"How bad is it?" he asked.

Andrew stirred.

"Emil, it might be worse than the Potomac."

Emil sighed and sat down on a piling across from Andrew.

"Those poor boys in that boat. Never could understand why anyone would be crazy enough to join the navy. Samual Johnson was right."

"What was that?" Andrew replied absently.

"Samuel Johnson. Said a ship was like a prison, with the added factor that you could drown. The wounds some of those boys had. Ghastly." He shook his head sadly. "Damn all wars."

Andrew said nothing, still staring at the ship as if it represented the shattering of all that he had planned and hoped for.

"Andrew, we've got twelve hundred wounded up in the hospital, just arrived from the eastern front. Should I get them out?"

Another factor he suddenly realized. If they were about to be cut off, what of the wounded, a train that could haul two hundred stretcher cases could move two regiments instead. But if they were cut off?

"One train, the serious cases. We need to get Fifth Corps in position first. I'll release two more trains to you if they hit us where I think they will, so you can get the rest out."

"I better get back to the hospital."

"Fine, Emil. I'll keep you posted."

"Andrew?"

He looked up into his old friend's eyes as Emil stood up and came to his side.

"You haven't lost yet," Emil said quietly, and then, with hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, he walked away.

Haven't lost yet.

All he felt now was numbness. A wondering if he had gone to the well one too many times. Ten damn years of this, dear God, he thought, ten damn years, and it never seems to end.

Again there was the dream, the memory of Maine, to escape back to another time, another place of peace, tranquillity. Once it had just been a company, then a regiment. From there to a corps, an army, now armies, and always the same, a right decision brought victory, but even then, at such moments there was the fresh-turned earth, the sightless eyes gazing at the heavens, the harvest of death.

Johnnie. How old would Johnnie be now, the baby brother dead at Gettysburg. Same age as Hawthorne and Bullfinch? No, my God, a year older than them. Hard to imagine that, the dead innocent boy might have lived to become the cold proficient killer like Hawthorne, or the shaken, frightened admiral who could never believe in the prospect of defeat and now confronted it in all its horror.

More stretchers were coming off
Petersburg,
but these did not require a rush to an ambulance, but rather the slow walk to the graveyard on the edge of town, where hundreds of dead from this new campaign were already being laid to rest. The army was so organized in its grim business that the graves were already dug.

How many have died under my command, he wondered . . . The price of victory? A hundred thousand? No, more likely two hundred thousand by now. Every day yet more dead, and now the lives of two hundred thousand more hung in the balance.

Strange, he could remember the stories about Grant and Sherman . . . how when Sherman came to understand the full enormity of what would be required to win that his nerves broke and he went home, hiding for months in his house, unwilling to return to face the task until finally ordered back. And Grant, the damn butcher who could send men into the slaughter of Cold Harbor, but supposedly became ill at the sight of blood, and could not even eat a piece of meat unless it was cooked clean through.

He could sense his men looking at him, solitary, sitting alone on the end of the pier, lost in thought, staring at the ship. What show do I have to put on for them now? Confidence, always the game; let them see you fearless, confident. There was a time, he knew, when he could play it so well. At Fredericksburg, during the charge on Mayre's Heights, turning his back to the enemy fire, walking backwards, shouting encouragement, yet terrified of the bullet he was convinced would strike between the shoulder blades. Or pacing the line at Gettysburg after Colonel Estes went down and he took command. Even at Hispania, when all seemed lost, waiting in the line with his men for the final charge. This was different now. The fighting hundreds of miles away, no heat of the moment, no frightful grim joy of battle to sweep one up and thus transport a commander to fight beyond his own fears.

But this situation was different. To be truly alone, to confront one's own fears in silence. To calculate and recalculate, always knowing that in those grim calculations a mistake meant two hundred thousand dead, a war lost, the dream destroyed, and in the most intimate sense, Kathleen and the children dead as well.

He felt as if his knees had gone to jelly as a surge of fear tore into his heart Kathleen, the children. Yet again the enormity of it all reduced to the simplest terms, the survival of those whom he loved the most.

He finally looked away from the ship and saw them, the staff, the youngsters who but a short time before were peasants in the fields, craftsmen in shops, some of them even the sons of Boyars and patricians, now wearing Union blue, waiting for him to decide.

Wearily he stood up and he could sense their anticipation, ready to spring forward to fulfill his orders, hoping, praying for that moment of distinction, of glory that would make their names, their memories shine.

Glory . . . such a strange concept. How I dreamed of it myself, how I still believe in it. Yet it masks the grim reality, that in the end we are doing a butcher's job. Both sides, a butcher's job, and we mask it with banners, uniforms, honor, and glory. For to believe otherwise leads in the end to madness, and in this war, the baring of one's own neck to the butcher of the other side.

He approached them, slowing to step around the bodies that were being unloaded from
Petersburg.
Without a word he motioned for his staff to follow and slowly walked back up the hill to wait for what would come next.

Leaning back in the saddle, Hans silently cursed all horses. It was one thing to go galloping after the Commanche when one was thirty-five, but chasing the damn Horde when one was pushing into the mid-fifties was something else. And the damnable horses were simply too big, size of Clydesdales back home, he thought, as he drew his left up out of the stirrup and rubbed the old wound, which was aching. Uncorking his canteen, he took a swig of water, swished it around, and spit it out, clearing the dust, then soaked his bandanna and wiped the grime from his face and the back of his neck. A troop of cavalry trotted past, pushing on to the next pass, where a flurry of rifle fire marked the forward line as a dismounted regiment worked its way up to the crest. A battery of ten-pounders to his left opened up, firing high to drop shells over the ridge onto the road beyond. Raising his field glasses, he watched the forward signal unit, which, with a flutter of flags, was passing back word to the battery as to its accuracy. Apparently the range was good because the battery set to with a will.