Thousands more collapsed literally at the edge of town, and then the charge was upon them.
Rebels swarmed over the barricades, screaming insanely, aiming and firing down at their tormentors. Men behind the barricades lashed out with musket butts, some swinging them like clubs, catching their foes across legs and knees, breaking bones, the injured collapsing back.
There were bayonet thrusts, pistol shots, shouts, oaths, curses, hurrahs, men fired into faces not five feet away. None now really knew what he was fighting for, other than the raw primal instinct of survival. All speeches, all talk of causes, of rights, of freedom, of land, of honor, of who had wronged who were forgotten by these nineteen- and twenty-year-old boys swept into a nightmare not of their making, a nightmare that they would enact.
If there was any sense beyond the immediate, it was a vague consciousness that somehow, for some reason, at this moment, what they did would finish it forever, one way or the other, and those not yet into the melee were driven forward by that thought, that and the hysteria that sweeps all men being sucked inexorably into the hurricane of battle.
Jeb Stuart was down, horse riddled by a half dozen bullets, sending him flying forward, a fall that saved his life, for at least a dozen more rounds were aimed straight at him. As he pitched forward one round tore open his left sleeve, another creased his brow, a third struck a uniform button over his stomach at an angle, and painfully drove it in, but barely breaking the flesh.
He lay there semiconscious, troopers dismounting around their beloved "cavalier."
Beauregard had stepped back in the last hundred yards, letting the charge sweep past him. Dismounted, he stood silent, watching the slaughter. The fight was now beyond anything he could ever control. If victorious now, he would go in; if defeated, he would fall back to confront Lee.
Farther back, Lee stood silent, head bowed in prayer.
"Please give them strength, Lord, please give them strength," he kept repeating over and over.
Another wagon had come up over the pass, this one loaded down with, hope beyond hope, cases of canister rounds. They were pre-packaged straight from the factory in Troy, New York, having only been cast and made the day before yesterday, the railroad bringing them through Harrisburg straight from the factory-tin can, serge powder bag attached to the can containing fifty iron balls, each one inside a wooden tube ready to be transferred into a standard limber box. Hunt shouted for one of his batteries still mounted to turn around, and leading the way, he raced back toward Frederick, six three-inch ordnance rifles behind him and the wagon driver, terrified to be heading into the storm. A gunner had climbed up alongside the mule driver, grinning, telling him that he had just joined the artillery and would be shot if he slowed down.
Grant, hands still in pockets, continued to stand silent. It was impossible now to see with all the smoke, the steady drizzle of rain.
His lips suddenly felt warm, and he reached up to his cigar and burned his fingers. In his agitation he had smoked it clean down to the stub. He spat it out, fished for another in his pocket, and swore. The silver case was gone, most likely dropped on the retreat into the town.
Ely came up, offered a cigar, a reserve he always carried for the general, and lit it. No one spoke. Even the reporters down in the street were silent, all looking south.
The wall of men had broken across the front of the town into six funnels, swarms of men, all formation lost, pushing against the barricades across the six streets facing south, barricades giving way under the sheer pressure, while up in the buildings Union troopers were firing away frantically, five and six men loading for one man at a window, until he dropped and another stepped up to take his place.
To the left, at the edge of the town, Banks's Division was buckling back. The charge was already across the pike that led to Harpers Ferry and now beginning to approach their goal: the pike over the Catoctin Mountains. Victory was in sight.
Jeb was back up on his feet, staggering like a drunk, not yet aware that he was suffering from a concussion and a broken wrist, but turning about, shouting for a horse, screaming for the infantry to go forward, for the cavalry to turn oblique and to start swarming up the National Road to take out the Yankee artillery that was enfilading them with such deadly effect. One barricade in the center fell, the next one to the left collapsed, Union troops giving back, a swarming wall of rebs pouring over, battle flags to the front, and beginning to push into the town They're breaking through," someone announced.
Grant ignored the comment. Wounded were trickling back, a few cowards running, but the provost guards did not bother with them; they had been ordered into the fight as well.
I have no more reserves, Grant realized, and yet… my God, what a price Lee is paying for this.
There was a clatter of hooves in the street below, and he walked to the edge of his precarious ledge and looked down. It was a battery of guns, three-inch ordnance rifles, Hunt in the lead. At each street corner one gun was being detailed off, unlimbered, men swarming around a canvas-topped wagon at the rear of the formation, unloading boxes.
Hunt rode to the warehouse, looked up at Grant, and saluted.
"Hundred rounds of canister!" Hunt shouted.
Grant nodded and actually grinned.
"Good work, Henry! Good work!"
Hunt positioned a gun directly below Grant, pointing due south, then shouted for the last gun to cut down an alleyway to the next street and position.
Looking down the street, Grant could see where the rebel charge was over the barrier, only a block away, beginning to fight its way up the street.
"Sir, we had better get ready to pull back again," Ely announced.
Grant said nothing, heading for the shattered stairs and back out onto the street.
The reporters who had been shouting questions were long gone, except for one, the Tribune's man, who was silent, wide-eyed, looking down the street. The telegraphy crew had left their station, drawing pistols as they ran out of the building. Grant's staff, standing about in the ruins of the depot, waited for the order to mount up and evacuate the town.
He said nothing, going to Hunt's side.
"I can hold them," Hunt gasped.
"You'd better," was all Grant could say in reply.
The terrified wagon driver reined in behind the gun, the crew reaching into the back, pulling out boxes of canister rounds, one of the gunners tearing the wooden shipping lid off, slipping out the tin can and cartridge.
"Double canister!" Hunt shouted.
A second wooden cylinder was opened, the serge bag torn off. The first charge went down the barrel, the second can then rammed down on top.
The sergeant in command of the piece plunged a pick through the touchhole tearing open the powder bag within, fished into the primer bag at his side, pulled out a friction primer, set it in the touchhole, hooked the lanyard on, and stepped back.
"Stand clear!"
He drew the lanyard taut and waited. The road ahead was still packed with Union men, fighting hand-to-hand with the rebels surging forward.
The charge was up all six streets leading into Frederick, and Lee could see that on the left, his primary goal had all but been reached. Part of Beauregard's Second Division had indeed swarmed over the Catoctin Road. Jeb's troopers were on to the road. Their mounts were blown, but they appeared ghostlike to be rising out of the mist, pushing upwards. If not for the Yankee artillery blocking the way, they'd be to the top within minutes.
What I wouldn't I give right now for one more fresh division, he thought. One division to support Jeb and to flank the town.