CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

McCausIand's Ford 8:15 A.M.

Up, men, up!" Sgt. Maj. Washington Bartlett knew something was happening long before the order was given. The division had deployed just behind the crest of a ridge, a ruined brick farmhouse above, obviously the site of yesterday's terrible battle. Just beyond the ridge a steady fusillade was resounding, the men of Ord's surviving troops engaged just on the other side of the rise. Since deploying, the men had been busy scratching at the ground with bayonets, tin cups, anything to dig out a little protection from the long-distance artillery bombardment coming down out of the hill to the left.

A few dozen had been hit, the first blooding of the division, but the men had held steady.

Minutes earlier he had seen Sheridan galloping up from the ford, and the way he rode, flat out, told Bartlett that something big was about to take place.

He quietly worked up his nerve, at one point looking over at John Miller, who returned his gaze, tight-lipped.

"Think we're going in?" Miller asked.

"Well, that general didn't ride over just to ask us how we were doing."

And now the command. "Up, men, up!"

Within seconds, like a giant dark wave, the ten regiments of the United States Colored Troops were up, preparing to dress into line of battle.

"By column of regiments, starting from the left!" 'That's us," Bartlett shouted, and he started to move to the left of the line, the position the colonel said he should assume when they went into a fight.

"By column of companies, to the left wheel, march!"

Surprised, the men looked at each other, not responding at first. They were being ordered to turn about and head back to the ford, away from the fight.

Bartlett looked back. The other regiments were repeating their maneuver, stepping away from what they thought would be their assault position, shifting from battlefront into columns by company front.

Sheridan came back from the front line, still riding hard, one of the white officers of Bartlett's regiment trotting over to meet him.

"Sir, I thought we were going to fight?" the officer cried. "My boys are ready."

"You will fight, damn it!" Sheridan cried. "We're being flanked to the right and rear on the other side of the creek. You are going to have to meet Lee's flank attack head-on. Now get your boys moving!"

Sheridan galloped off toward the ford several hundred yards away.

That stopped the grumbling and a few even offered a cheer as Sheridan rode off.

The officer turned, grim-faced.

"Move it! Back to the ford! Move it!"

From the lip of the crest Bartlett could see small formations of white troops coming as well, running fast.

8:30 AM.

Beauregard was still out front, now riding with Jeb's troopers, who were deployed in a forward battle line, a quarter mile ahead of the infantry. He turned to look back, the divisions moving steadily, but slowly. It was the old problem of any advance in line versus column. Units were weaving their way through farmyards, woodlots, fields high with corn, open pastures, knocking down fencerows before pressing into the next field.

He regretted now not keeping them in column formation, to shake out into line when the Yankees were in sight, but that could be a problem as well. It could take up to a half hour to shift a divisional column into line of battle, and if they were caught by surprise, especially while trying to change formations, a debacle could ensue.

Also, he did want impact. The sight of a mile-wide battlefront advancing could be overwhelming to an enemy force if they were still in column and marching rapidly up to meet them.

Besides, he could not help but marvel at the sight. It was grand beyond anything he had ever witnessed before, a fulfillment of all old dreams of glory to be found in war. He knew it was inspiring to the men as well, occasional cheers still rippled up and down the lines, battle flags to the fore, drummers keeping the beat.

The ground ahead was opening up, broadening out into a vast open plateau. The Catoctin Range was clearly visible, straight ahead, the church spires still standing in Frederick and the town itself becoming visible as well.

A gentle rise in ground was almost directly ahead and to the right of that the creek was bending to the left, the ground leading down to the Monocacy, a long open slope.

'That's the ford over to the McCausland Farm," Jeb announced, "just behind that low rise. We take that and if Ord is on the other side, he'll be bottled up. But it don't look that way now."

As he spoke Jeb pointed ahead, straight up the road. They were still a mile off, but he could see a dark column, concealed in dust, moving at a right angle to his own advance, heading to the west No, they were stopping, shaking out from column into line.

Beauregard grinned. It was about to begin.

Jeb shouted an order, a regiment of troops, spurring their mounts, pushing forward.

"Maybe we can still catch them while they're moving," Jeb announced.

'Form here, form here!" Sergeant Bartlett ran down the front of the regiment, following his white officers, as the regiment, soaking wet after having double-timed across the ford, began to swing back out into line of battle. Men were breathing hard, some pointing south, exclaiming. "Here they come. God, look at 'em!" "Silence!" Bartlett screamed. "Damn all of you. Come to attention and remain silent!"

The men looked at him, braced themselves. Bartlett caught the eye of the colonel, who nodded his approval.

They had been the first across the creek and were immediately pivoting. Their left was nearly at the stream, the right just about up to the railroad tracks; the next regiment was falling in beside them, and then another and another.

Bartlett stepped a dozen feet forward, first glaring at his men, then curiosity got the better of him and he looked up the line.

It was a grand sight, three regiments already in place, a fourth falling in, extending their front now to a quarter mile. The last of the black regiments from the Second Brigade ran by behind them, and right behind them, the first of Ord's men were crossing the stream.

They were a grim-looking lot. Their uniforms were filthy, some not much better than tattered rags. Their faces were blackened, some with uniform jackets off, others with hats missing. They moved slower, obviously numbed and exhausted, some helping along wounded comrades.

And from the direction they had come, distant gunfire erupted.

An occasional round whizzing by overhead, Bartlett's men involuntarily looking up as if they could see the passage of the ball.

"To the front!"

Bartlett turned.

A cornfield was directly in front of them but the ground sloped up enough that he could see mounted men, about six hundred yards away, coming toward them.

The colonel was studying them intently with his field glasses. He lowered them and looked over at Bartlett.

"Those are rebel cavalry. Forward screen. They'll start opening with a harassing fire, Sergeant. The men are to kneel down, not return fire, until their infantry comes up. I want the first volley to hit them like a sledgehammer."

"Yes, sir."

"Scared, Bartlett?." the colonel asked. "No, sir."

The colonel winked at him.

"I am. Any sane man would be at a moment like this. Remember, Sergeant, courage is being afraid but then doing your duty anyhow. Just remember that and you will do fine."

"Yes, sir."

The colonel slapped him on the shoulder.

"When it starts, I want you close to me. We'll be behind the volley line, directly in the center, same way we drilled it a hundred times back in Philadelphia."