There was a calm assurance in his voice that impressed Grant. If the rest were like him — then he could believe it.
“I hope that you are right,” he said. “They will have the opportunity to prove their worth. We will certainly find out in the morning. Dismissed.”
Grant realized that he meant the words most strongly. Right now he would put a regiment of red Indians — or red devils for that matter — into the battle against the British.
The enemy lines had been reinforced during the night. The pickets reported hearing horses and the sound of rattling chains. At first light Grant, who had fallen asleep in his chair stirred and woke. Yawning deeply he splashed cold water onto his face, then climbed to the parapet and trained his field glasses on the enemy lines. Before them, on the right flank, a battery of artillery was galloping up in a cloud of dust. Nine-pounders from the look of them. Grant lowered his glasses and scowled. He had used the 1st Regiment USCT to fill in the gaps where his line was the weakest. Colonel Trepp had stationed his men at intervals along the defense positions and he was waiting close by for instructions. Grant pointed at the distant guns.
“You still believe that you can do anything against weapons like that?”
Trepp shaded his eyes and nodded. “That will not be a problem, General. Impossible of course without the right training and the right weapon. For me, I do not exaggerate when I tell you that it is a very easy shot. I make it to be just 230 yards.” He lay prone and settled the gun butt against his shoulder, squinted through the telescopic sight.
“It is still too dark and we must be patient.” He spread his legs apart for a more comfortable position, then looked again through the telescopic sight. “Yes, now, there is enough light.”
He slowly pulled down the long trigger that cocked the smaller hair-trigger. Took careful aim and gently touched the trigger. The gun barked loudly and pounded into Trepp’s shoulder.
Grant raised his glasses to see the officer commanding the battery rear up. Clutch his chest and collapse.
“Sharp Shooters — fire at will,” the colonel ordered.
It was a slow, steady roll of fire as the sharpshooters who lay prone behind the battlement fired, opened their rifle breeches to load bullets and linen cartridges, sealed and fired again.
In the British line the gunners were unfastening the trails of their guns from the limbers, wheeling them about into firing position. While they did this they died, one by one. Within three minutes all of them were down. Next were the horse holders, killed as they tried to flee. And finally, one by one, the patient horses were killed. It was butchery, the best butchery that Grant had ever seen. Then a British gun fired and the shell screamed by close overhead. Grant pointed.
“Easy enough when they’re out in the open. But what about that? An entrenched and sandbagged gun. All you can see is the muzzle.”
Trepp rose and dusted off his uniform. “That is all we need to see. That gun,” he ordered his men, “take it out.”
Grant looked through his glasses as the reloaded gun in the center of the British lines was run back into firing position. Bullets from the sharpshooters began to hit in the sand all about the black disk of the muzzle and spurts of sand almost obscured it; then it fired again. When it was reloaded and run back into position yet again the bullets tore into the sand around the muzzle.
This time when the cannon fired it exploded. Grant could see the smoking wreck and the dead gunners.
“I developed this technique myself,” Trepp said proudly. “We fire most accurately a very heavy bullet. There is soon enough sand in the barrel to jam the shell so that it explodes before leaving the muzzle. Soon when the attack begins we will show you how we handle that as well.”
“Truthfully, Colonel Trepp, I am greatly anticipating seeing what you get up to next.”
The destruction of the artillery seemed to have impressed the enemy commander, because the expected attack did not come at once. Then there was sudden movement on the far left flank as another battery of guns was pulled into position. But Trepp had stationed his sharpshooters in small firing units the length of the line. Within minutes the second battery had met the same fate as the first.
The sun was high in the sky before the expected move came. To the rear of the enemy lines a small party of mounted officers trotted out from the distant line of trees. They were a good five, perhaps even six hundred yards away. There was a ripple of fire from the American positions and Grant called out angrily.
“Cease firing and save your ammunition. They are well out of range.”
Trepp was speaking to his marksmen in German and there was easy laughter. The colonel aimed carefully then said softly, “Fertig machen?” There was an answering murmur as he cocked the first long trigger. “Feuer,” he said and the guns fired as one.
It was as though a strong wind had swept across the group of horsemen, sweeping them all from their saddles in a single instant. They sprawled on the ground while their startled mounts quieted, lowered their heads and began to graze.
A single gold-braided, scarlet-coated figure started to rise. Trepp’s rifle cracked and he dropped back among the others.
“I always take the commanding officer,” Trepp said, “because I am the best shot. The others take from left to right as they wish and we fire together. Good, Ja?”
“Good, Ja, my friend. Are your marksmen all Swiss?”
“One, two maybe. Prussian, Austrian, all from the old countries. Hunters there, damn good. We got plenty Americans too, more hunters. But these boys the best, my friends. Now watch when the attack comes. We shoot officers and sergeants first, then the men carrying the little flags, then the ones who stop to pick up flags. They always do that, always get killed. Then we shoot the men who stop to shoot at us. All this before their muskets are within range. Lots of fun, you will see.”
Despite losing many of their officers the British pushed the charge home, roaring aloud as they rushed the last yards. Most of the troops on both sides had fired their final rounds and the battle was joined with bare bayonets. Grant looked at his new colored troops and found them holding the line, fighting fiercely, then even pursuing the attacking redcoats when the charge lost its momentum. Fight and die their sergeant had said — and they were doing just that.
Perhaps this battle was not lost quite yet, Grant thought.
The little steamer, River Queen, that had been so empty on the outward bound trip from Washington, was as filled as a Sunday excursion boat on her return voyage. Jefferson Davis, Robert E. Lee and all their aides filled the salon. The air was thick with the smoke of cigars and excited talk: there was good attendance in an alcove where a keg of whiskey had made an appearance. Abraham Lincoln retreated to a cabin with his secretaries, and General Sherman, to write the first of the many orders that must be issued. General Lee was called to consult with them and the atmosphere here became so close after a bit that Lincoln retreated to the deck where the air was fresher. The ship slowed as they approached the harbor at Yorktown where General Pope and his staff were waiting. Soon their blue uniforms were mixing with the gray of Lee’s officers. All of these men had served together at one time and knew each other well. Now they put the war behind them. Men who had been separated by the conflict were comrades once again. Seeing the President standing alone, General John Pope left the others and went to join him.
“The best of news, Mr. President. The telegraph line is finally opened to Grant’s command. They have held!”
“Welcome news, indeed John.”
“But they held at a terrible price. He reports at least 16,000 dead, more wounded. The reinforcements are getting through to him, the regiment of sharpshooters was first, then the New York Third. More are on the way. As soon as the cease-fire with the Confederates went into effect almost all the troops from the Washington defenses were pulled out and sent north. The first of them should be reaching Grant later today. I have another division on the way. We are getting plenty of men to the railheads, that is not the problem. Trains are. Just not enough available to move all the men that are needed.”