insanely.
Half way across, fifty yards, ten seconds, five seconds, and we're out.
The smoke was blinding, he couldn't see, his mount nervous, slowing at the sight of the flames licking the walls on the far side. He spurred her viciously; the horse lunged forward.
Almost out of the smoke.
And then he saw it. A double file of Yankee troopers, standing, carbines lowered. A suddenly flash, and then just a quiet stillness and a slipping away.
The lead horses of the charge collapsed not ten yards away, riders thrown, men and horses screaming, tangling up. The third and fourth ranks of the column colliding with the horses that were already down, more men falling, a lone horse jumping the tangle, the rider superbly keeping his saddle, crashing into the double file of the volley line, slashing left and right with saber, two men staggering back, screaming, one just collapsing, a headless corpse. 'Reload! Reload and fire!' Custer roared. Men were levering open their carbines, slamming in rounds, cocking pieces, firing blindly into the smoke. Another horse came out, riderless, then two more, men still holding their saddles, one with pistol out, firing, emptying his cylinder, then pitching backward off his horse.
The bridge echoed with a roaring shout. Through an eddy in the smoke George saw a packed column of dismounted troopers racing forward.
More of his men from the First were up on their feet, running up, forming a volley line three ranks deep, a lieutenant shouting for volley fire.
The men reloaded, waiting the extra few seconds. Several pitched over even as they waited. 'Present! Fire!'
The interior of the covered bridge was now all smoke and confusion. Men screaming, cursing, a horse with a broken leg staggering out in blind panic, knocking its way through the volley line, a trooper coming up to its side and putting a bullet in its head, the animal collapsing and the same trooper then dropping down behind it, reloading his carbine.
George had his revolver out, drawn, cocked, waiting… and then the charge hit with full fury, two hundred dismounted cavalry of Virginians swarming forward, pistols, carbines, sabers out His thin volley line began to step back, men dropping carbines, drawing revolvers, blazing away.
George felt something slap his left arm, numbing it. He pivoted on his mount, saw a rebel trooper with pistol raised, cocking his revolver, and George dropped him with two shots. The rebels were out of the bridge, beginning to swarm outward, pushing the men of the First back, but as they emerged from the bridge they stepped into a firestorm. Troopers hunkered down in the ravine that Duvall's men had held but two hours ago now turned and poured in a withering fire. Few rebs made it more than a dozen feet before collapsing.
George caught a glimpse of men still inside the bridge, tearing off their jackets, using them to beat out the flames that were licking up the sides of the bridge. The one side, soaked with the can of coal oil, was now burning hotly, but it could still be stopped.
'Come on, boys!' Custer shouted. 'Take it back!'
Men from the ravine flanking the bridge stormed forward, and a mad bloody melee ensued at close range. Troopers firing into each other's faces from not five feet away, men down on the ground grabbing, kicking, punching.
He heard a bugle call from behind him, looked back, and saw Gray riding down hard, a ragged line of mounted troopers behind him. George stood in his stirrups and waved, cheering them on.
The mounted column slammed into the melee. His boys on horseback firing left and right, pushing their way through the confused struggle… and the rebs began to fall back, one or two at first, and then within seconds the entire command, turning and running.
Gray, caught in the madness of the moment, pushed into the flaming bridge, saber drawn, slashing to either side, his mount jumping the tangle of dead and dying horses. The column thundered down the bridge, pursuing the retreating rebs across its entire length.
Custer fell in with the column, his mount screaming with fear as they pushed through the flames licking up the side of the bridge and over the blood-soaked bodies. Dozens of Union troopers were inside the bridge, yelling, cursing, firing blindly. Far ahead he could see that Gray had reached the far side in pursuit, and then was blocked seconds later by a volley that dropped half a dozen men around him.
'Sound recall!' Custer roared.
But he did not need to give the order. Already Gray had turned — about, the turn difficult in the tight confusion of the bridge, more men dropping.
The survivors of Gray's countercharge emerged, Gray leading the way, hat gone, blood streaming down the side of his face. The men were panting, some cursing, others filled with the wide-eyed look of troopers who had known the moment, the thrill of a charge, the driving of their enemies.
'Good work, Gray. Now get your boys back in reserve!'
Gray gasping for air, nodded, saluted, and shouted for the men of the regiment to follow him back.
All around Custer was chaos. Half a hundred or more men were down, dead, wounded, screaming, their screams mingled with the pitiful screams of the horses and those of the wounded trapped on the burning bridge.
The bridge was now ablaze. Flames licking along the eaves, gradually spreading toward the center of the span. In short order it would spread to the underpinnings, the support beams, the dry wooden floor. For the moment his right flank was secure.
He caught the eye of a sergeant and motioned him over.
'Sergeant, get a flag of truce. Tell Jeb Stuart my compliments, but I'm asking for a fifteen-minute truce on this bridge to get the wounded and dead off before they burn.'
The screams of the horses and men caught in the flames were horrific.
'And for God's sake, shoot those poor animals. They deserve better than to die like that.'
Jeb Stuart lowered his field glasses, shaking his head. He had spotted the Yankee trooper waving a white flag on the far side of the bridge and sent word down to honor it. The bridge was rapidly disappearing in flames, smoke billowing hundreds of feet into the air, and it was obvious they were trying to rescue as many of the wounded as possible.
Damn all. For a brief instant he thought Witcher had actually carried the bridge. Now it was going to take time, scouting, finding a ford that could be taken without too much loss.
Nothing yet at the railroad bridge, just heavy skirmishing fire back and forth. Word had just come that the light battery of the Charlottesville Artillery was even now arriving, and he had sent a courier back to guide it into place next to the blockhouse that looked down on the bridge. The Yankees had no artillery yet to counter with, a carbine was next to useless much beyond three hundred yards, and with the guns he could dominate the position. For starters, they could flatten the depot.
Frederick
9:10 A.M.
Lieutenant Schultz, what the hell is holding you up?' Schultz looked up in surprise. It was Custer, left arm hanging limp, blood dripping from his fingertips. 'General, you're hurt.'
'Don't bother me with that now. I want to know what the hell is going on with these locomotives!'
'Sir. The boilers were dead cold. We had to get them fired up. It's taking time to build up a good head of steam.'
'How long?'
'Another hour at least.'
Even as they spoke Custer turned in his saddle to look back toward the river where a different sound had just mingled in with the cacophony of battle-artillery fire.
A couple of dozen men were gathered around the locomotives, cavalry troopers, one of them a corporal, obviously having taken charge, shouting orders. Custer rode up to him, and the corporal saluted.
'Who are you?'
'Tyler, sir. Rick Tyler, First Michigan.' 'Why are you here?'
'Was an engineer for three years before the war. Heard the word you needed railroad men up here, sir, so
