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Chapter 11
July 3, 1863, 10:30 a.m.
Monterey Pass, Pennsylvania
'Dismount!' George Custer himself remained mounted, ignoring the rounds whistling around his head. The troopers of the 1st Michigan, their blood up after the initial repulse and the injury of their leader, gladly followed orders, deploying out into heavy skirmish line, every fifth man detailed off to hold the reins of his four comrades.
He wished now just for a few guns akin to those firing down on him and his men from above. But Kilpatrick had left his artillery behind.
'Boys, forward at the double!' Custer shoutetd, 'Take that damn pass!'
The men started forward on foot, running flat out. A fed tumbled over before reaching a shallow depression, pausing, hunching down, a ragged volley ringing out as they began to return fire. The bravest of them then stood up, racing forward, closing the range to a hundred yards. The rebels, though, were in an excellent position. His counterpart, Imboden as it was reported, had picked his ground well. To Custer's left the troopers of the 5th Michigan were advancing dismounted as well, shooting, pushing up a few dozen yards, sprawling out on the ground, firing again. Custer went up, ignoring the danger, furious that he, again, had been repulsed.
'Here comes Farnsworth!' someone shouted.
Custer looked back. Kilpatrick had promised to send Farnsworth up in support, and finally, after a long period of waiting, the column was nearing his position, riding hard.
'Keep pushing them, keep pushing!'
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John Imboden raised his field glasses and saw the distant column coming for him. This time Kilpatrick was doing it right, he thought. One brigade, Custer's, was coming down on his left. The second brigade now meant that around 3800 men would be pushing in on him in a matter of minutes. At better than two-to-one odds he would simply be pushed back from the pass. It was just a matter of time.
Several of the men next to him were already down, one dead, another cursing, holding his leg, a third one sitting on the ground, sobbing. He walked to the far side of the ridge and looked along the line. His men were firing away, but he knew it was useless now to try to hold longer.
Damn it all, I hope this achieved anything, he thought. He gazed back westward, hoping against hope that he would see a column approaching even now, reinforcementscoming up to hold this crucial position.
'They are starting to deploy out, sir.'
He looked back to the east. The second blue column was swinging out into line, preparing to charge. They would ride through the dismounted skirmishers and this time overrun him.
'Time to get out boys, pass the call down the line', Imboden shouted. His adjutant raced towards the nearest cluster of officers.
Soon, his men were disengaging, sliding down the slope, running to their horses, mounting up. The battery of guns was the first unit to quit the field. It was going to be a tough race. As soon as his boys would stop shooting, the Yankees would press in. Imboden only hoped most of them would get out in cohesion. Maybe we could make another stand, perhaps at Waynesboro, he concluded as he turned his horse around and rode away.
Brig. Gen. Elon J. Farnsworth, USA.
Chapter 11
July 3, 1863, 10:30 a.m.
Monterey Pass, Pennsylvania
'Dismount!' George Custer himself remained mounted, ignoring the rounds whistling around his head. The troopers of the 1st Michigan, their blood up after the initial repulse and the injury of their leader, gladly followed orders, deploying out into heavy skirmish line, every fifth man detailed off to hold the reins of his four comrades.
He wished now just for a few guns akin to those firing down on him and his men from above. But Kilpatrick had left his artillery behind.
'Boys, forward at the double!' Custer shoutetd, 'Take that damn pass!'
The men started forward on foot, running flat out. A fed tumbled over before reaching a shallow depression, pausing, hunching down, a ragged volley ringing out as they began to return fire. The bravest of them then stood up, racing forward, closing the range to a hundred yards. The rebels, though, were in an excellent position. His counterpart, Imboden as it was reported, had picked his ground well. To Custer's left the troopers of the 5th Michigan were advancing dismounted as well, shooting, pushing up a few dozen yards, sprawling out on the ground, firing again. Custer went up, ignoring the danger, furious that he, again, had been repulsed.
'Here comes Farnsworth!' someone shouted.
Custer looked back. Kilpatrick had promised to send Farnsworth up in support, and finally, after a long period of waiting, the column was nearing his position, riding hard.
'Keep pushing them, keep pushing!'
--------------------------------------------------------------------
John Imboden raised his field glasses and saw the distant column coming for him. This time Kilpatrick was doing it right, he thought. One brigade, Custer's, was coming down on his left. The second brigade now meant that around 3800 men would be pushing in on him in a matter of minutes. At better than two-to-one odds he would simply be pushed back from the pass. It was just a matter of time.
Several of the men next to him were already down, one dead, another cursing, holding his leg, a third one sitting on the ground, sobbing. He walked to the far side of the ridge and looked along the line. His men were firing away, but he knew it was useless now to try to hold longer.
Damn it all, I hope this achieved anything, he thought. He gazed back westward, hoping against hope that he would see a column approaching even now, reinforcementscoming up to hold this crucial position.
'They are starting to deploy out, sir.'
He looked back to the east. The second blue column was swinging out into line, preparing to charge. They would ride through the dismounted skirmishers and this time overrun him.
'Time to get out boys, pass the call down the line', Imboden shouted. His adjutant raced towards the nearest cluster of officers.
Soon, his men were disengaging, sliding down the slope, running to their horses, mounting up. The battery of guns was the first unit to quit the field. It was going to be a tough race. As soon as his boys would stop shooting, the Yankees would press in. Imboden only hoped most of them would get out in cohesion. Maybe we could make another stand, perhaps at Waynesboro, he concluded as he turned his horse around and rode away.
Brig. Gen. Elon J. Farnsworth, USA.
- Lothar
- Word Count: 570