"A moment of prayer, gentlemen," he said softly, and removed his hat.
Lowering his head he silently commended his soul to God, asking for a blessing upon his men who this day might fall. All were silent.
"Let's go," he said, his voice matter-of-fact, as if they were out for an afternoon's ride down into a friendly village to visit old friends.
He raised his field glasses one last time, looking to the far horizon. It should be possible on a clear day to see the church spires of Baltimore. So close to Emily, and yet so far. Battle smoke obscured the view. He lowered his glasses and cased them.
General McPherson and his staff set off down the road to Frederick.
Frederick 4:45 P.M.
Sergeant Hazner raced up the steps to the top floor of the building and flung a door open. He stopped for a few seconds in amazement. It was a photographer's studio, the owner, a dyspeptic-looking frail gentleman gazing at him with surprise, the air thick with the odor of ether and other chemicals.
"Sir, might I suggest you go to the basement," Hazner said, stepping back from the doorway and then directing the half dozen men with him to take positions by the windows.
One of the men started to smash the window panes with the butt of his rifle and the photographer shouted a protest.
"Please just open them," Hazner said. "Let's not get carried away."
He had to laugh inside at this little point of etiquette. If what was about to happen, did happen, this place would be a shambles in fairly short order.
The men did as ordered and Hazner walked over to the table the photographer had set up in one side of the room. A number of wet collodion plates were lying on black felt, others were hanging up, drying. Hazner studied them for a few seconds. Some were just blurs, but a few were really quite remarkable, a blurred column of men moving up the road just below, but there, in a different picture, remaining stock-still at the main intersection of the town, was General Lee on Traveler, General Scales by his side. Another photograph showed the Catoctin Heights wreathed in smoke, blurred columns moving up the National Road, and in the foreground General Lee with field glasses raised, looking up at the battle.
"So you've been busy today?" Hazner asked.
"Quite so! A dozen images, many of the battle itself. Quite extraordinary. I hope to get more," and he pointed to the camera on the far side of the room.
"Could I convince you gentlemen to pose for me right now?"
Several of Hazner's men looked at him, grinning. He was almost tempted, but then shook his head.
"Sir, I don't think you realize how dangerous it will be here in a few minutes. Please go to your basement."
"You can't force me," the photographer said loudly. "Good heavens, man, no one has ever photographed a battle before, and I plan to do so today."
Hazner shook his head.
"Just be careful, sir," he said, nodded to his men, and then ran down the stairs and out into the main street.
The last of the Confederate infantry were disappearing into buildings, men running. A block to the west a two-gun section was set up, both pieces firing at the same instant, recoiling, filing the street with roiling clouds of smoke. The guns were hooked to their caissons by trail ropes, the guns being dragged down the street even as their crews worked to reload. They stopped at the main intersection.
"Fire!"
Both guns kicked back, several windowpanes shattering from the blast, the solid shot of the twin Napoleons screaming down the street.
Still hooked to the caissons by twenty feet of rope, the team started to move again.
"Better get off the street there, Sergeant," the section commander shouted. "They're coming on fast!"
Hazner looked up the road, and sure enough, he could see them a half dozen blocks "away, Yankee infantry, running hard, dodging into buildings, rifle fire already erupting from upper-floor windows. A minie ball hummed past him, and then another; a gunner collapsed, holding his arm and cursing, his comrades quickly picking him up and helping him to get up on the caisson.
The crew moved another block. Hazner pressed himself inside the doorway as they fired again, the scream of the shot tearing down the street and slapping him with a shock wave. He peeked out and saw it slash through a file of troops on the street, knockifig them over. More shots came down the street. From the window overhead his men were opening up, leaning out, shooting, ducking back in. It was time to get inside.
He dashed back into the building and up the stairs. The photographer was in the corner of the room, head under a black hood behind the camera, asking if the men would stand still for a moment, but they ignored him. Two of the best shooters were at the windows, the others passing up loaded rifles. Glass was shattering, the room filling with smoke.
Strange, all their other fights had been out in the open. Usually towns were bypassed in a fight. Why Scales had decided to stand here, men broken up into small units, was beyond him. This was going to be one ugly fight.
Hazner settled down by a window, back pressed against the wall, and then leaned over to look out. Swarms of Yankees were coming down the street, men dropping with every step forward, the column breaking up, an officer out front shouting, waving his sword, the formation disintegrating as they broke and ran toward buildings, ducking into doorways. Within seconds the return fire became intense, bullets smacking into windowsills, tearing across brick fronting. Across the street a man tumbled out of a third-floor window, smacking into the pavement with a sickening crunch.
"Gentlemen, just please remain still for fifteen seconds, that's all I ask!"
Hazner ignored the man, raised his rifle, and joined the fight.
Braddock Heights 5:10 P.M.
Grant stood silent, field glasses trained on the town below. It was turning into one hell of a fight. McPherson had waded straight in. Buildings were ablaze, a church steeple wreathed now in smoke, fire licking up its sides. Beyond, he could see where a large column of infantry was coming over the National Road bridge across the Monocacy, the distant smoke of locomotives barely visible through the haze.
Lee's Second Division was starting to deploy, preparing to sweep into the town from the north side. McPherson had placed his men well. One division was forming to the north to meet the counterthreat, at least another division into the town, and what looked to be a brigade pushing to the south side of the town, fighting what appeared be dismounted cavalry, and steadily moving toward the river.
Now, if only I had more men up, Grant thought. A Confederate division with Lee's army carried almost as much strength as a Union light corps. Though McPherson had fifteen thousand at the start of the day, several thousand at least had fallen out in the forced march. Even now those stragglers were walking past him, small groups, a few men, a couple of dozen being shepherded along by a corporal or a sergeant, more than one stopping to ask one of his staff where the fighting was or where they should go. And always they were directed down the road into Frederick and told to get into the fight.
McPherson had, even by conservative estimates, lost two thousand men taking these heights. Hospitals were already set up on the western slope, the wounded, Union and Confederate alike, being carried in. Grant dared not even to watch that too closely. Unlike many another general, hospitals terrified him, turned his stomach.
So McPherson, at best, had carried nine or ten thousand into the fight and Lee had twenty perhaps twenty five thousand down there closing in. Yes, McPherson was the bait, but now he needed a solid line to hang on to him.
He turned and looked to the west. Only now did Grant see the head of Burnside's column coming over the South Mountains, and the sight filled him with rage. Those men should be up here now, forming up just behind the slope, and ready to sweep forward in mass to catch Lee off guard. He wondered if Lee had realized that. He had conceded the heights too easily. Even as I set the bait, was Lee urging me to cast it in?