should have had more men clearing the approach. You'll have a brigade of men working on this shortly.'
'A brigade? Three thousand men.'
'In this army,' Longstreet replied sadly, 'a brigade now means five hundred men. Get to work.'
Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia Five Miles Southeast of Poolesville
4.45P.M.
All around was chaos. Men were staggering back up the road they had forced-marched down but four hours earlier in their drive toward Darnestown, 'Damns-town' as they were now calling it.
Supply wagons had been abandoned, pushed to the side of the road to clear the way. Men were told to pull out what they could, especially ammunition. Wounded and exhausted men were mounting horses and mules being cut loose from the traces.
How many times in the past have I seen this? Lee thought. But always it was the other side. Always it was their wagons abandoned, their exhausted men lying by the side of the road, their men collapsing into disorder and disintegration. 'General Lee!'
A courier came up, one of Stuart's men, a newly promoted regimental commander, Colonel Duvall, followed by several dozen troopers.
'Sir, we got a crossing. The bridge is being built even now,' Duvall cried excitedly.
'Where?'
'Sir, it's a rough track down to it. A lot of your men have already marched past the turnoff. General Longstreet, as ordered, tried for Edwards Ferry but it was too heavily fortified. He finally pushed down, about halfway between Edwards Ferry and Seneca. It's a good spot, sir, island halfway across.'
Lee looked over at Walter and smiled. 'Pete came through for us,' he said.
Walter, expressionless, could only nod in agreement.
'I want a solid rear guard to be maintained. Slow down the Army of the Potomac behind us. If need be, sacrifice some of the artillery to do so. We need breathing space. I'm going up to see what we can do with this.'
Lee set off with Duvall. In the column he spotted Judah Benjamin and reined in beside him.
'Good news, Mr. Secretary,' Lee announced. 'We have a crossing.'
Judah nodded wearily but said nothing, silently falling in by Lee's side as the general continued to push his way up the road.
The Crossing 5:45 P.M.
Some semblance of organization was taking hold. Hundreds of men were dragging logs, brush, anything to lay down to create a roadway from the canal to the crossing. The sixth pontoon was in the water, the bridge now extending out over sixty yards. The sergeant in charge of construction was hurrying back and forth, urging men on. The crews were starting to learn the routine of maneuvering a boat into place, anchor it, span the gap with the heavy thirty-foot-long stringers, bolt them down on to the gunwale of the boat, then start laying the cross ties of heavy planking.
Cruickshank stood at the edge of the bridge watching as the sixth boat was steered down from where it had been pushed in forty yards upstream, men along the gunwale using bits of board and planking as oars and poles.
The current was stronger as they approached the middle of the river, the maneuvering more difficult, men shouting at each other, contradicting each other. The anchor lines went out and the boat stopped, but it was not lined up correctly, having drifted a dozen feet below the axis of the bridge. There was more swearing and yelling. A couple of men jumped over the side, but the river was too deep and they were swept away, one disappearing, the other floundering back to shore.
Men up at the bow pulled on the anchor lines, gradually hauling the boat into a near alignment, a couple of feet off center but about as close as they could get.
'Stringers!'
Cruickshank stepped off the bridge and down into the pontoon bridge, feeling it rock and sway as men ran up, pushing and struggling. Men aboard the anchored boat threw lines over, the lines were lashed to the ends of the stringers, and between the crew on the next boat out pulling and men on the edge of the bridge pushing, the stringer went across and was locked into place.
More men came up, two to each plank, dropping the cross ties into place, and another thirty feet was spanned.
The next boat was now easing into the river and Cruickshank actually felt that for once he was pulling something off correctly. Every man about him knew what was at stake, and though more than one man finally had to stagger off to one side to collapse from total exhaustion, others filled in.
The survival of the Army of Northern Virginia was as dependent on them now as it had ever been on any volley line.
To one flank the rattie of musketry continued, Scales holding back the Yankees to the west.
Hancock grinned as the team of black laborers, a hundred of them to each piece, urged on by Jim Bartlett, dragged two of the thirty-pound Parrotts up the slope. The horses had been left behind, but the men were here to help maneuver the weapons into place. Others were hauling up the shells and wooden tubes containing the ten pounds of powder needed for each shot. Two more guns were on the next barge, teams of men struggling to off- load them.
The first two guns were rolled into place. The range was just about a mile, long shooting for a three-inch ordnance rifle, but well within the capability of the heavier pieces.
A captain of artillery came up to Hancock's side and saluted. Hancock merely pointed down to the river. 'Lovely,' the captain exclaimed, 'just lovely.' 'Let's try some case shot for openers, nine-second fuses!' The crews set to work, the captain standing behind each piece, carefully setting the rear sight in place, gunnery sergeants following his directions as they dropped elevation screws.
Powder was rammed in, followed by the shells. The captain stood back and looked over at Hancock. 'Care for a shot, General?'
Hancock grinned and limped over, picking up the lanyard. He caught Jim's eye.
'Mr. Bartlett, after all you've done, why don't you take the other one.'
Jim nervously walked up to the breech of the gun, the sergeant looking at him over with a jaundiced eye, but then under the gaze of the general he relented and handed it over.
'Just step back till it's taut,' the sergeant said. 'When the captain gives the command, step back hard, jerk, and turn away.'
Jim did as directed, the line taut in his hand. 'Fire in sequence so we can judge the shot,' the captain announced.
'Number one!' He pointed toward Hancock. 'Fire!'
The thirty-pounder leapt back with a sharp recoil, a tongue of flame bursting from the muzzle. The noise was stunning. 'Number two!'
Jim gripped the lanyard and thought of his son and grandson, wondering what they would say of this moment. Though he and his men had not been in the fight directly, still here, at least, was one shot that might count.
'Fire!'
He stepped back, pulled, but nothing happened and several men laughed good-naturedly. 'Harder!' the sergeant yelled.
This time he threw what little weight he had into it, and nearly stumbled backward. The gun leapt back with a roar.
Grinning, he looked over at Hancock, who gave him a friendly salute.
'Something to tell your grandkids about,' Hancock shouted.
Cruickshank looked up, heard the shell screaming in, a geyser of water erupting about fifty yards upstream. Men working along the bridge flattened themselves. Seconds later a second shot, this one overhead, a sudden flash, water around the bridge spraying up from the cascade of case shot, several men dropping. A heavy shell fragment slashed into one of the boats, seconds later someone was crying they had a leak.
