A solid volley rang out from his forty men. Good shots all of them, a dozen saddles emptied. The men around him in the depot opened up, enfilading fire pouring into the flank of Custer's charge.
Monocacy Junction
6:20 A.M.
'Charge!' The bugles picked up the command, echoing across the valley, the sound all but overwhelmed by the pounding of hoofs, the high-pitched cries of men loosed from all restraint, caught up in the mad, magnificent splendor of a full-out cavalry charge. He looked back for a second at these good troopers, up off their saddles, knees braced in tight, leaning forward, holding reins with one hand, weapon in the other, crouched low over the necks of their mounts.
The first volley caught him by surprise. He felt a bullet wing past, puffs of smoke ahead.
He looked back. Several troopers had dropped, tumbling from saddles; four or five horses were down, men pitching off their mounts, tumbling end over end. And yet the momentum of the charge was now unstoppable, men and horses weaving around the fallen, riding full out, the first blow not slowing them, instead now driving them forward, weapons raised high. 'Come on, Wolverines! Common!' The charge swept down through open pasture and fields. What appeared to be a ravine, perhaps a railroad cut, was straight ahead, marked by puffs of smoke. 'Come on, boys!'
He urged his mount onward, the horse moving uncomfortably, favoring its right side. He spared a quick glance down and saw where a shot had sliced its right leg, blood streaming out.
Fifty yards, now twenty-five.
Rebs stood up-from the edge of the ravine, carbines lowered. He hunched down low in the saddle. Another volley. His horse just collapsed, throwing him, knocking his wind out. Troopers of the First Michigan were reining in around him, as he struggled to stand up, their pistols drawn, firing blindly at the puffs of smoke, cursing, yelling.
He judged the moment. Not too many over there, maybe not more than fifty or sixty. He stood up, feeling dizzy, looking for his saber. A trooper leaned far over from his saddle, picked it up from the ground, and tossed it to him.
'Come on! Keep pushing!'
Men, yelling wildly, rode up to the edge of the ravine, pistols out, firing left and right. Men pitched out of saddles. Some rebs were up out of the ravine, pistols drawn, emptying cylinders, tossing revolvers away and drawing sabers, swinging wildly. A mad melee erupted.
A volley erupted from his left. The railroad depot. Puffs of smoke swirling from windows, mingling with the early morning fog. A blockhouse caught his attention. Aperture for a field piece.
My God, did they have artillery here?
Saddles were emptying around him from the enfilading fire. A trooper came up to his side, leading a riderless mount.
'General, sir, might I suggest we get the hell outta here?' the sergeant shouted. Custer remounted.
He scanned the action. The ravine was full of horses; it was hard to count them in all the confusion. A reb came up out of the ravine, raised a carbine, pointing straight at him. The sergeant next to him dropped the man with three shots from his revolver.
'General, sir!'
Custer nodded.
'Sound recall. We'll wait for the Fifth.'
The bugle call sounded, the well-disciplined men of his command turned about, many glad to do so, and broke into a ragged gallop back across the field they had traversed minutes before with such confidence.
A few hundred yards out Custer looked back. More than a few rebs were up out of the ravine, shouting defiance.
He looked off to the north. The men of the Fifth were deploying from column into line.
'Let the bastards cheer,' Custer announced. 'We'll bag them before the hour is out, boys.'
Three Miles East ofMonocacy Junction 6:30 A.M.
'General, is that gunfire?' Jeb Stuart reined in, stopping, the aide by his side, head cocked, listening. Yes, it was. Distant, a soft, muffled popping, almost drowned out by the clatter of hooves behind him, men of Jenkins's Brigade riding to either side of the track in a sinuous column that stretched back for over a mile.
Damn all. What the hell was going on? If not for the damn train he'd have been in Monocacy a couple of hours ago. Looking back down the track, which after the tunnel they had ridden through was again a double line, he saw nothing but his men on horseback. 'Pick up the pace!' Stuart shouted. Leaving the column behind he broke into a gallop, heading toward the sound of distant battle.
Monocacy Junction
6.40 A.M.
'Dismount!' George Custer, himself, remained mounted, ignoring the snapping whine of.52 Sharps carbine rounds whistling over his head. The troopers of the First, their blood up after the initial repulse, gladly followed orders, drawing carbines from saddle holsters, levering breechings open, inserting rounds, deploying out into heavy skirmish line, every fifth man detailed off to hold the reins of the four who dismounted.
He wished now for just a few guns, even a section of three-inch ordnance rifles to sweep the edge of the ravine with canister before going in. But he had traveled fast, leaving his one battery of light guns behind.
'Boys, forward at the double!' Custer shouted, 'Take that damn depot!'
The men started forward on foot, running flat out. A few tumbled over before reaching a shallow ravine, pausing, hunching down, a ragged volley ringing out as they began to return fire. The more venturesome then stood up, racing forward, closing the range to a hundred yards.
The rebs, though, were in an excellent position. Phil had picked his ground well. The railroad cut was a trench offering protection, the depot, especially the log blockhouse, an impregnable position. To his Jeft the troopers of the Fifth were doing the same, advancing dismounted, shooting, pushing up a few dozen yards, sprawling out on the ground, firing again. Scanning the depot building with field glasses he saw shards of wood explode from the side, windows shattering, a reb out in the open for a second, sprinting from a shed back to the depot, collapsing on the track from a well-aimed shot.
George pushed up, ignoring the danger, furious that his charge had been repulsed.
'Here comes Gray!' someone shouted.
George looked back. He had sent word for Gray to come up in support, and the column was coming out of the town, riding hard.
'Keep pushing them, keep pushing!'
Phil Duvall raised his field glasses and saw the distant column coming out of Frederick. This time, damn it, George was doing it right. A regiment, dismounted, was coming down on his right. Custer's lead regiment, dismounted as well, was pressing on the left. The third regiment meant that well over a thousand men would be pushing in on him in a matter of minutes. At better than ten-to-one odds he would simply be pushed back from the bridge. It was just a matter of time.
Several of the men by the windows were already down, one dead, another cursing, holding his shoulder, a third man crying, a spray of shattered glass having torn into his face.
He walked to the far side of the room and looked over at the ravine. His men were up at the lip, firing away, but he knew it was useless now to try to hold longer.
Damn all, where was Stuart? He gazed back at the railroad bridge, hoping against hope that he'd see a column crossing it even now, reinforcements coming up to hold this crucial junction.
'They're starting to deploy out, sir.'
He looked back to the north. The column coming out of the town was swinging out into line, preparing to charge. They'd ride through the dismounted skirmishers and this time overrun him.
'Time to get out, boys,' Phil shouted. 'No bugle calls, just mount up. I'll see you on the far side of the bridge. Sergeant Lucas, get up to the ravine, tell them to bring down our horses!'
