Never Call Retreat (cw-3) by NEWT G INGRICH & William R Forstchen

Author:NEWT G INGRICH & William R Forstchen [INGRICH, NEWT]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: sf_history

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Monocacy Creek

August 27,1863 4:30 A.M.

General Hunt, sir." Henry Hunt opened his eyes. A sergeant was leaning over him, holding a lantern. He didn't recognize the man and for a moment was disoriented.

"Sir, you told me to wake you an hour and a half before dawn."

Henry grunted and sat up. A low campfire glowed in front of him, several enlisted men squatting around the fire, one feeding in small sticks while another reached out with a gloved hand and pulled out a battered tin pot.

Henry stood up, stretched, mouth feeling gummy, stomach a bit weak. He had misled Grant about the typhoid; it still troubled him a bit He stepped away to discreetly relieve himself, then came back to the campfire.

The men were part of his new staff. He was never really good with names and had yet to learn theirs, but they were about the business of morning chores, one looking up with a smile and offering him a cup of coffee, another handing over a plate that actually had fried eggs on it and a slab of ham.

He nodded his thanks, the men talking quietly among themselves as he ate his breakfast glad that it stayed down and settled his stomach. Finished, he set the plate down, took his cup of coffee, and stood back up and lit a cigar.

It was still dark, a mist rising off the river, filling the valley, pale moonlight reflecting off it. In the fields about him there was a thin layer of mist and wood smoke. Many were still asleep, or pretending to sleep, lying in their blanket wrapped in thought. Around low fires small groups were gathered, some silent, some talking.

He walked the few yards down the slope to where the right flank of his grand battery was deployed. A handful of men were still digging; most, however, were asleep, some lying curled up on the ground, others resting under a caisson or field piece.

He started to walk the line. Guns were well placed, inter-valed at ten yards, lunettes thrown up around each piece, some well built to shoulder height on the flanks, a bit lower in front to offer an open field of fire. The horse teams for the ammunition caissons had been unhooked and sent to the rear, a quarter mile back. Lunettes had been thrown up around the dangerous cargo, and bombproofs for the ammunition had been dug by some of the crews and even roofed over with logs.

As he passed, an occasional officer would come to attention, salute. A few offered comments. "We'll give 'em hell today." "How you doing, General?" "Wait till you see the shootin' my boys can do."

He acknowledged each one and walked on.

Every piece was a rifle, either a three-inch ordnance gun or a ten-pound Parrott. He had always liked the look of the Parrott, with its extra band of iron wrapped around the breech, and though it was more cumbersome to move than the three-inch ordnance gun, he always felt that it was a better piece for true long-distance work.

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