Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 by William R. Forstchen, Newt Gingrich Page A
Book: Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 by William R. Forstchen, Newt Gingrich
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Authors: William R. Forstchen, Newt Gingrich
Tags: Military, Historical Novel
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there, and prepare to load for a move to Frederick."
"Yes, sir."
"But do not misinterpret this caution, General Longstreet. I want all my generals to realize and to know in their hearts that I plan to seek out General Grant, meet him in the field, and in one sharp action defeat him as we have defeated all others who have come against us."
"Of course, sir," Longstreet said quietly.
CHAPTER FIVE
Baltimore and Ohio Rail Yard Baltimore
August 23 1:00 P.M.
Y ou mick son of a bitch, come back here!" The yard boss turned, glaring at Maj. Zachariah Cruickshank, commander of the pontoon bridge train, Army of Northern Virginia, with a dark eye. Several of his fellow workers gathered around behind their boss, one of them hoisting a sledgehammer and swinging it one-handed. Cruickshank's men, a hard-bitten lot themselves, stepped closer to their major, one of them unclipping the flap on his revolver, another beginning to uncoil a bullwhip.
"Go ahead and shoot me," the yard boss snarled, "but I'll be damned if I'll take your ordering me around like some damn slave. This is my rail yard, not yours."
Cruickshank was tempted to do just that, shoot the son of a bitch. Not kill him, just blow a hole in his foot or arm to make the point. General Longstreet had ordered him to get the pontoon train loaded up, and by damn he had to do it. Now this dumb Irish Yankee was giving him back talk.
He looked around as more of the yard crew came over. Tough-looking men every one of them. Some were grinning, expecting the start of a donnybrook, and were picking up sledges, pickaxes, pieces of ballast.
"Most of 'em are goddamn Yankees," a sergeant standing next to Cruickshank whispered. "Let's go at 'em and take this damn place. I can get your trains for you, sir."
The men around Cruickshank muttered agreement.
Kill some of those sons of bitches, Cruickshank thought, and it will be my ass hauled before Old Pete again, the threat of court-martial real this time.
Cru I ckshank wearily shook his head, reached into his haversack, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of whiskey and held it up.
"Let's you and me talk," Cruickshank said, glaring at the yard boss. It galled him that he had to be reduced to making this offer, but damn all, he had orders from Longstreet himself and had to see them through.
The yard boss looked at the bottle, then nodded his head, turned to his men, and yelled at them to go back to work. Cruickshank ordered his men to back off, walked over to the yard boss, and together they climbed into an empty boxcar and sat down.
The two sides, like two street gangs waiting to see if it would be work or fight, stood apart, watching as their chiefs negotiated. A gesture from either would mean a bloodbath.
Cruickshank handed over the bottle; the yard boss uncorked it and took a long pull.
"Good stuff," he gasped. "This town's been dry as a bone ever since you rebs came in and confiscated all the liquor."
"There's plenty more where that came from"—Zachariah hated to say the words but had to—"if you help me out."
The yard boss looked over at him and grinned.
"So, got you by the short hairs, reb. One minute I'm a son of a bitch and the next you're trying to bribe me."
"I got a barrel of Tennessee's finest if you can help me work things out."
"This is my yard, not yours. You don't come in here ordering me around, especially in front of my men. Damn you, even the boss calls me Mr. McDougal, not 'Hey, you.'"
"I understand. Listen, McDougal—"
"Mr. McDougal." Cruickshank sighed.
"All right then, Mr. McDougal. It's hot, I'm tired, and I got my orders."
"Listen, Major. I've had no word from the office about this. You just come wandering in here and demand four engines and forty flatcars. You have to be joking."
"I'm not."
"And I expect an apology for that son-of-a-bitch comment, you son of a bitch."
Cruickshank swallowed hard. Anyone else, at this moment, he'd have dropped him with one good punch.
"All right, one son of a
"Yes, sir."
"But do not misinterpret this caution, General Longstreet. I want all my generals to realize and to know in their hearts that I plan to seek out General Grant, meet him in the field, and in one sharp action defeat him as we have defeated all others who have come against us."
"Of course, sir," Longstreet said quietly.
CHAPTER FIVE
Baltimore and Ohio Rail Yard Baltimore
August 23 1:00 P.M.
Y ou mick son of a bitch, come back here!" The yard boss turned, glaring at Maj. Zachariah Cruickshank, commander of the pontoon bridge train, Army of Northern Virginia, with a dark eye. Several of his fellow workers gathered around behind their boss, one of them hoisting a sledgehammer and swinging it one-handed. Cruickshank's men, a hard-bitten lot themselves, stepped closer to their major, one of them unclipping the flap on his revolver, another beginning to uncoil a bullwhip.
"Go ahead and shoot me," the yard boss snarled, "but I'll be damned if I'll take your ordering me around like some damn slave. This is my rail yard, not yours."
Cruickshank was tempted to do just that, shoot the son of a bitch. Not kill him, just blow a hole in his foot or arm to make the point. General Longstreet had ordered him to get the pontoon train loaded up, and by damn he had to do it. Now this dumb Irish Yankee was giving him back talk.
He looked around as more of the yard crew came over. Tough-looking men every one of them. Some were grinning, expecting the start of a donnybrook, and were picking up sledges, pickaxes, pieces of ballast.
"Most of 'em are goddamn Yankees," a sergeant standing next to Cruickshank whispered. "Let's go at 'em and take this damn place. I can get your trains for you, sir."
The men around Cruickshank muttered agreement.
Kill some of those sons of bitches, Cruickshank thought, and it will be my ass hauled before Old Pete again, the threat of court-martial real this time.
Cru I ckshank wearily shook his head, reached into his haversack, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of whiskey and held it up.
"Let's you and me talk," Cruickshank said, glaring at the yard boss. It galled him that he had to be reduced to making this offer, but damn all, he had orders from Longstreet himself and had to see them through.
The yard boss looked at the bottle, then nodded his head, turned to his men, and yelled at them to go back to work. Cruickshank ordered his men to back off, walked over to the yard boss, and together they climbed into an empty boxcar and sat down.
The two sides, like two street gangs waiting to see if it would be work or fight, stood apart, watching as their chiefs negotiated. A gesture from either would mean a bloodbath.
Cruickshank handed over the bottle; the yard boss uncorked it and took a long pull.
"Good stuff," he gasped. "This town's been dry as a bone ever since you rebs came in and confiscated all the liquor."
"There's plenty more where that came from"—Zachariah hated to say the words but had to—"if you help me out."
The yard boss looked over at him and grinned.
"So, got you by the short hairs, reb. One minute I'm a son of a bitch and the next you're trying to bribe me."
"I got a barrel of Tennessee's finest if you can help me work things out."
"This is my yard, not yours. You don't come in here ordering me around, especially in front of my men. Damn you, even the boss calls me Mr. McDougal, not 'Hey, you.'"
"I understand. Listen, McDougal—"
"Mr. McDougal." Cruickshank sighed.
"All right then, Mr. McDougal. It's hot, I'm tired, and I got my orders."
"Listen, Major. I've had no word from the office about this. You just come wandering in here and demand four engines and forty flatcars. You have to be joking."
"I'm not."
"And I expect an apology for that son-of-a-bitch comment, you son of a bitch."
Cruickshank swallowed hard. Anyone else, at this moment, he'd have dropped him with one good punch.
"All right, one son of a
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