"These ridges," Pete asked, looking back to Shriver. "Do they flank this creek like this in both directions?"
"Yes, sir. For miles to the west. You can't see it yet, but down where those Yankees just rode, there's a mill owned by my cousin, a fairly big pond backed up behind it. Then the stream curves a bit to the south, with a very high ridge on this side facing it.
"Natural flank," Alexander offered, "with a good physical barrier with the pond."
"Over there," one of McLaws's staff announced. "I see them."
Hancock and his small cavalcade were a mile away now, up on the distant slope on the north side of the creek.
Pete smiled. For a minute there he had half expected Winfield to do something rash, a charge. That would have been devilish to deal with. Foolish, medieval-type thinking. Stuart still had it in spades. The men around me, though, they'd expect me to respond in kind and not simply pull back, whispering I lacked stomach if I didn't draw a saber and ride out to meet him. Damn, war certainly brings out the stupidity in man.
He shaded his eyes? The morning sunlight was burning through the haze, making it hard to see.
Hancock had reined in, his small escort dismounting.
So you wait there, Winfield. Wait and watch. Now, who can get the most here first?
Pete looked back over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Barksdale's brigade coming on hard, at the double. He had put the fire into them when riding past a half hour ago.
We get a brigade in here first and start digging in.
"Damn all, sir, this is good ground. Best I've seen since Fredericksburg."
"Better," Pete replied.
"How's that, sir?"
"They didn't have to attack at Fredericksburg; it was just Burnside being bullheaded. But once we take that town, cut them off from Washington, they'll have to attack."
The question now, Pete thought, looking back toward the town and then to the approaching column of his infantry who had bypassed the battle, the question is, do we get enough men here first Hancock knows it and by God he will push it We're still spread out all the way back to Emmitsburg. If they hit us hard enough in the middle, they could break our lines. Or Hancock has a corps just behind that bend in the road and could storm across it in the next hour or two.
Too many ifs. Focus on now. Get that brigade up and barricade the crest Seize the town, and get those precious supplies.
A series of explosions rumbled across the fields. Longstreet looked back toward the town and the rising columns of smoke that seemed to be spreading out
"My God," Shriver whispered, "it looks as if all of Westminster is burning."
"Most likely is." Pete sighed. I don't have the time to worry about that now, he thought coldly. "Come on, Mr. Shriver," Pete said, "let's get you home to your family."
7:15 AM, JULY 3,1863
Herman Haupt stood with arms folded, watching as a detachment of men from his railroad command began to upend cans of coal oil on the stacks of boxes piled up under the open-sided sheds that he had so laboriously built only the day before.
The main street of Westminster, which passed directly in front of his makeshift depot was still jammed with abandoned wagons. The last remnants of his command were falling back, running between the wagons, shouting that the Rebs were closing in.
He spotted several gunners, red trim on their hats and trousers, coming around from behind some wagons and then sprinting toward the trains. Herman shouted for them to come over.
"How far away are they?"
"Not a hundred yards, sir. Them cavalry troopers are dying game. Holed up in houses with their repeating rifles, but the Rebs are pouring in fast"
"Get on the trains; we're clearing out"
The men saluted and started to run down the track.
"Where's your battery commander?" Herman shouted.
"Dead, sir. Shot in the head," one of the men shouted back, even as he continued to run.
A sergeant lit a torch with a match and looked over at Herman. "Sir, this fire might spread to those wagons in the street. We got ammunition here. It's gonna be a hell of a mess; might burn down half the town."
"I know," Herman said coldly.
"All right then, sir, but suggest we start the train the hell out of here before I light this."
Herman climbed up onto the cab of the locomotive and nodded to the engineer. The other three trains behind him had already pulled out a half hour ago. Ten flatcars were behind the train. Exhausted infantry, artillerymen, and a few cavalry piled on board.
"Let's go!" Herman shouted.
The engineer opened the throttle, letting the steam rush into the locomotive's pistons. Pressure started to build.
The sergeant threw his flaming torch, the last of the railroad men running out from the sheds, tossing aside the empty cans of coal oil. The fire caught flames dancing across the boxes of rations, piles of shoes, ponchos, tents, barrels of whiskey, barrels of salted beef, barrels of axle grease, boxes of ammunition for Springfields, Sharps, and Spencer rifles, and limber chests filled with canister, case shot solid shot and serge bags filled with powder.
The wheels of the locomotive spun, grabbed, and the train lurched, starting to back out of the station, pushing the flatcars. A few more troopers came running from the main street, cavalrymen, one pausing to take a final shot, and as he did so, he spun around and collapsed. One last man appeared, arm in a sling, Major Beveridge, commander of the Eighth Illinois.
Herman leaned out of the cab, offering a hand. The major took it with his good hand, and Herman pulled him up into the cab, the major gasping, leaned over, gagging, shaking like a leaf.
He looked back up at Herman and nodded his thanks. The engineer of the locomotive leaned over, offering a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Herman said nothing about this breech of discipline, and the major gratefully took the bottle and finally handed it back after draining off one hell of a long gulp.
"You'll see 'em any second," the major announced, still shaking.
They were a hundred yards back from the depot, slowly picking up speed.
The open-sided warehouses were engulfed now in flames. Herman saw butternut, a lone rebel soldier, step out onto the track and, within seconds, dozens more. They stood watching the fire, several advanced toward the flames, as if getting set to try and put them out, and then they scattered, the engineer chuckling at the sight.
A second later the engineer doubled over with a grunt Startled, Herman looked to his left. Rebs were out in the field flanking the track, not fifty yards away. Looking back, he saw places where they were already over the track, swarming around the wagons jamming the open fields.
He eased the wounded engineer aside, grabbed the throttle, and opened it up full, carefully feeding a bit more water into the boiler to keep the steam up. Now they started to pick up speed.
"Hey, you damn Yankee, stop that train!" Amazingly, a Reb officer, on horseback, was galloping alongside the locomotive, pistol raised.
For a few seconds they were only a couple of feet apart
And then the Reb reined in hard as the train passed over a culvert. The Reb raised his pistol and then simply lowered it and waved a salute.
But this didn't stop the infantry out in the fields from taking potshots. Rifle balls sparked off the side of the engine, another round passing through the cab. Some of the troopers on the flatcars were firing back, but most of the men were simply sprawled out flat, cursing.
And then it let go.
Just as they rounded the curve, a flash ignited in a pile of burning supplies, then another, bags of powder flaring up. There was no real explosion, for there was nothing to contain the rapid expansion of gasses, just a dull whoosh, but the eruptions were sufficient to upend other boxes, tearing them open, exposing more powder, and like a string of firecrackers going off, the detonations spread and then truly started to build in power. Later, when he looked over the shipping manifests, he might be able to give an exact number, but it was safe to guess that at least six to eight tons of powder were going off. The roof of one of the sheds lifted up, peeling back. The sound washed over him, building. And then it just simply flashed, a continual rolling explosion that soared up and out, windows across Westminster shattering, wagons in the street catching fire, and the poor beasts harnessed to the wagons dying.