"You accusing me of somethin', sir?"
Cruickshank raised his arms, then slapped his sides in exasperation. He looked back down the line. Fifteen trains were fully loaded with an entire division of infantry, men piled so thick on the cars that many were riding on the cowcatchers of the locomotives, the wood tenders, and atop the boxcars.
The locomotive that had just broken down was the lead one in line.
"Get this wreck pushed out of the way," Cruickshank said. "How?"
"You idiot, the locomotive behind it." 'Too much weight sir."
"Then damn you, disconnect it from its own train, push this wreck to a side track, and clear the line. I need this convoy moving now. General Lee will be here any minute; I need an express for him as well.
"Just move 'em," Cruickshank shouted.
"What about the broken-down train with the pontoon bridge on the single-track section?" McDougal asked.
Cruickshank stepped closer to McDougal. They were of the same height and build and anyone watching would have expected a brawl to break out.
"I'm raising your pay to fifty dollars a day in silver," Cruickshank said coldly. 'Telegraph up the line, make sure those pontoon trains are clear of the single track. This division needs to move up now. But so help me, McDougal, I'll string you up myself if I think you're playing double with me."
"Me, sir, at fifty dollars a day?" McDougal laughed. "Like hell, sir. I'll take care of you."
The Toll Road on Monocacy Creek 8:15 A.M.
Colonel Witcher of the Thirty-fourth Virginia nervously turned and looked back at his men. First company was mounted, guidon at the front. Behind them, the rest of his command was dismounted, carbines and pistols out, the men in a column stretching up the road for fifty yards.
He lowered his head, whispering a silent prayer, then drew his saber and pointed toward the bridge, its roof just visible through the trees. "Bugler, sound the charge!"
Custer was just riding down to the covered bridge when he heard the high clarion notes of the charge. The west end of the bridge was beginning to smoke.
Someone had found a can of coal oil in a nearby farmhouse, cut it open with a knife, and was hurling the contents on to the shingled siding. Troopers were sprinting up, tossing loads of kindling against the side of the bridge, then dodging for cover. Three men were already down, one of them dead by the side of the bridge.
George urged his mount to a gallop, riding down the length of track, reining in where the toll road crossed the track and looked straight down the tunnel-like length of the bridge, the interior already coiling with smoke, the sides licked by flames.
He saw the head of the charging column appear at the far end.
"Someone get back to Gray," he shouted. "He's in reserve back in the woodlot a few hundred yards north of here. I need him here now!"
The entry to the bridge was directly ahead, and Witcher caught a glimpse of a sign WALK YOUR HORSES WHEN CROSSING.
He leaned into the neck of his mount. Once into the dark tunnel of the bridge the noise was stunning, pounding hooves, echoes doubling and redoubling off the roof, the walls, the floor of the bridge, men shouting. A Yankee trooper, hunched down by a support beam at midpoint, was out from concealment, running, the far end obscured by smoke, licks of flame. No gunfire yet.
Thirty seconds, dear God, thirty seconds and we're across and back into the open.
The charge thundered forward, men shouting, a few shots, men caught in the madness of the charge, firing pistols blindly.
Saber out, he pointed the way, leaning forward, caught in the madness of a charge across a bridge, yelling 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.