He looked back down the road-dust. It had to be Robertson; it had to be.
Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 9:20 A.M.
He had not gone in as one solid blow, Lee thought, high enough above the smoke that he could clearly see the spreading battle on the other side of the creek.
Two divisions were in, trading blow for blow with what looked to be two divisions of Yankees. One division was far stronger than the other, and close examination had revealed them to be the colored troops. Most likely fresh from training fields, numbers not yet depleted, perhaps five thousand or more.
They had just sustained a mad frontal charge and held, his own men forced to give back, and now it was a stand-up firefight. Beauregard was right to try that tactic; if the blacks had broken in panic, that panic could easily have infected the rest of the army and sent them running, the way the German Eleventh Corps had at Chancellorsville.
The Yankees had taken a bad position to try to hold. Their left flank, on the far side of the creek, was at a right, angle to the ford. They should have conceded that point, pulled back several hundred yards to the north, but if they had done so, the Yankees still on the east side of the creek would have been completely surrounded.
There was a great opportunity now.
'Tell General Alexander to return his guns on our left back to their position of yesterday, to open a general bombardment on the Yankees below them. Also, tell Jubal he must push forward and retake that ford. That could begin to roll up their entire right flank.'
An orderly saluted and galloped off.
Hood and Longstreet were by his side, both silent, glasses raised, watching the spreading fight.
'I should go down, help Jubal,' Hood said. 'I can bring up what's left of Rodes's old division as well.
Lee nodded in agreement, not saying a word.
'We're losing a lot of men down there,' Pete said.
'So are they,' Lee replied.
Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna 9:40 A.M.
He could sense the growing anxiety of his staff. Men were moving about hurriedly, couriers setting off a bit too quickly, spurring their mounts hard.
There was so much smoke now it was hard to see, the air absolutely still, filled with dampness, the kind of conditions that could cause battle smoke to become a thick, impenetrable fog.
Banks came in. Dapper-looking, fifteen years older than Grant, he saluted in a perfunctory manner. 'You sent for me, sir?'
'I want you to prepare to shift your reserve division back into the center of Frederick, then move south of town to cover the Catoctin Road.'
'Is this the beginning of a pullout?' Banks asked quietly.
'No, it is not!' Grant snapped, loud enough for everyone to hear. 'We stand here, we fight here, we win here. We are not pulling out.'
'Sir, may I be so bold,' Banks said with almost a lecturing tone. 'You have been flanked, sir, and that is Lee down there. He is already preparing to come in from across the river. I suggest we consider evacuation of this plain and pull back to the high ground.'
'You are being bold and completely out of line, General Banks,' Grant said icily. 'I have given you an order. Now see that it is carried out. Keep your division in town. When I pass the order, they are to come out on to the plains south of town.'
He paused, stepping closer to Banks.
'Those are my orders.'
'Yes, sir,' Banks said calmly. He saluted crisply, and without a look back, rode off.
The roar of battle continued to intensify. Hunt's batteries were fully engaged, half the pieces sending shot into Beauregard's guns, the other pieces pounding the ground on the other side of the ford, where increasing numbers of rebel infantry were pushing down toward the river.
'More rebs going in!' someone exclaimed.
Grant shifted his field glasses back to Beauregard's advance, but could see nothing, the smoke too thick. He lowered the glasses. It was hard to discern, but watching closely he could see a dark tide moving through the smoke, coming up to merge with the enemy's forward battle line:
'Bet that's the Texans,' Ely Parker said softly.
First Texas 9:50 AM.
Men panting, bent double, the battle line of Hood's old Texas brigade surged forward. Behind them the rest of Robertson's Division was filing in behind Beauregard's right-flank division, having broken column from the road to swing into line.
They crossed over a railroad track, gray-clad bodies scattered along the right-of-way. A shell screamed in, bursting directly on the track, showering them with case shot and fragments of ballast, five men going down.
'Keep moving, boys!' Lee Robinson shouted. 'Keep moving.'
Men were cursing, a few falling out from exhaustion. Directly ahead he could see Monocacy Creek, and at the sight of it some men cried out that there was water.
At the head of the column was a staffer from Robertson's headquarters, mounted on a bloody horse, sword drawn, now pointing to their left.
'Turn and form line!' he screamed.
The men around Robinson cursed, one of the corporals snatching canteens from half a dozen of his comrades and ignoring the orders, dashing the last few yards down to the creek.
Lee let him go. Those who were still with this column were the solid hard core of the old First. No skulkers. They had been driven out long ago. Every man was a veteran, a veteran of the cornfield at Antietam, Fredericksburg, Union Mills, the debacle before Washington, the slaughter last week at Gunpowder River. An officer shouted for the corporal to come back, but the man ignored him, jumping into the creek, forcing the canteens down, then but a few seconds later coming back up the slope, muddy, water dripping, passing the canteens back to his comrades, who drank greedily and then passed the precious liquid to friends forming line around them.
'Forward at the double!'
The First Texas set off, a ragged line, but then again they were never noted for parade-ground performance, but when it came to a fight, they were the ones called upon.
'I heard it's niggers up there,' someone cried.
'They can kill the same as a white man,' someone shouted back, and from more than one there were dark oaths about what would happen to prisoners.
'None of that,' Robinson shouted. 'General Lee said prisoners will be taken and treated properly. I'll shoot the first man that disobeys.'
No one spoke in reply; all were now too exhausted, too focused on what was ahead.
They swept past a battery of Napoleons, gun crews busy at work, pieces kicking back, gunners rolling their pieces forward while swabbers ran sponges down the bores to kill sparks and keep the barrels cool.
As the men passed in front of the guns the crews stopped work for a moment, a few cheering 'old Texas!' on.
They hit the edge of the cornfield, or what had been the cornfield. It was mowed flat, barely a stalk standing, bringing to Lee's mind dark memories of Antietam, where the brigade had lost nearly eighty percent of its men in twenty minutes.
Hundreds of bodies littered the ground, the wounded who were unable to walk trying to crawl to the rear. Walking wounded staggered about, seeing Texas coming on, a few of them cheering, others just standing silent.
The roar of battle ahead swelled. Nothing could yet be seen,only smoke, a shell bursting overhead, more men going down, a riderless horse dragging a body, the foot of a dead man caught in the stirrups, the litter of battle, drums, cartridge papers, smashed and twisted rifles, and bodies and more bodies.
Finally he saw it, a shadowy line, men no longer standing, most down on their knees or lying flat as they fought. 'Forward, Texas!'
Sergeant Major Bartlett remained by the side of his colonel, whose features were pale, graying, lifeblood seeping out between the fingers of his right hand clasped to his stomach. But the man was still on his feet.
