Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) (24 page)

Jackson settled on his plan. He had Sandie woken up to prepare the initial written orders. At dawn, Polk’s and Stewart’s Corps were to put out a double skirmish line, deploying two companies instead of the more usual one, to seize control of the valley between the two armies. It offered a partially covered approach for an attack, and that at least had some potential. He granted permission in advance to strengthen the skirmishers and bombard enemy work parties with artillery if necessary.

Jackson checked his watch. It was just past two in the morning. With his staff busy writing orders for Polk and Stewart, he sat down and penned a new, separate set of orders himself.

Stepping out of his tent, Jackson handed the folded paper to a courier. “Send that to General Forrest. Wake him if necessary. He is to report to me immediately.”

Forrest was asleep when the message reached him, bivouacked with his men in an open field southeast of Haynie Hill. He rubbed his eyes, got up, and took the message over to a nearby campfire for better reading light.

May 5, Army Headquarters

Maj. General Nathan B. Forrest, CSA

Upon receipt of this message, turn command of your brigades over to Brigadier General Abraham Buford, and report to me for further orders. Instruct General Buford to have his command ready for action at first light.

Respectfully and sincerely,

T.J. Jackson, General Commanding

He blinked. “Does this mean what I think it means?” he mumbled aloud, and read the message again. Forrest decided it did.

Twice before, Braxton Bragg had ordered him to hand over the cavalry he had personally raised, trained and armed to the command of another. The second time he responded by verbally abusing Bragg in his headquarters tent, cussing him down like a dog and challenging him to fight.

Now here Forrest was again, his command taken away from him by Stonewall Jackson, a West Pointer and one who had not even bothered to call on him yet, and given to another West Pointer, Abe Buford. That Forrest liked Buford didn’t assuage his anger. This was one outrage too many, and Forrest made up his mind then and there he would suffer no more injustices from the West Point clique that ran the army, even if they hanged him for it.

Although he was filled with baleful anger, Forrest remained outwardly calm, and quietly ordered his horse saddled. Getting onto his mount, he told his aides in clipped tones to remain in camp, and that he would be going to headquarters alone. Whatever happened, it was best if none of them were involved.

Arriving at Jackson’s tent village, Forrest dismounted, and strode from his horse straight through the busy throng of staffers.

James Power Smith stepped forward. “Begging your pardon, General Forrest...”

“Get out of my way” Forrest said, deliberate menace on each word, as he effortlessly shoved Smith aside and almost off his feet.

Bursting into Jackson’s tent, Forrest shook the message in his hand and shouted in a thick West Tennessee drawl “What do you mean by this? Shitfire! To rob me and give my men to one of your dandy eastern favorites? You ain’t going get it. I ain’t going tolerate this here insult, not from you, not from any other West Point scoundrels. You can all go on back to Richmond and to Hell, far as I care. You may as well tear up these here orders, because I ain’t obeying them, and I dare you to make me try.”

Jackson stood flabbergasted, but only for a moment. Taking a step forward, he met Forrest’s glare and snarled “You sit down, General, and be silent. Silent, silent, I say! Or I will give you cause to regret it.”

Forrest had gone into that tent fully determined to challenge Jackson to fight him with pistols, right then and there, rather than give up his cavalry for a third time. He expected to be shot or hung for it, not that it mattered, for he could tolerate the indignities heaped upon him no longer. Yet now that he saw how Jackson’s eyes were lit up, he paused. Instead of smacking Jackson in the jaw, he took a step backward.

Smith sprang into the tent, armed with a cocked revolver. Jackson instantly cried “Out Smith! Get out!” the hill country twang tearing through his speech. Then he bellowed at Forrest “And you! I thought I told you to sit down!”

Forrest stood motionless, eyes moving like those of a pensive cat. Smith snapped off a flustered salute and withdrew. Jackson glared at Forrest. Staring straight back at Jackson, Forrest sat down.

“I do not know what you are on about, and nor do I care” Jackson snapped at Forrest, his accent returning to normal. “I want you to assume temporary command over all the cavalry with this army. Your division and Red Jackson’s.”

Forrest’s eyes widened. His anger dissipated instantly, replaced by the shameful sensation of having acted like a fool, a damnable, hot-tempered fool.

He was about to speak, but Jackson cut him off. “At first light, I want you to amuse the enemy left flank with one division. Give them a good theatrical, make it look like there is an army corps deploying there. With the other division, you are to cut the Pulaski Road, attack the enemy cavalry there, and drive it as far back onto the town as possible. Understood?”

“Yessir! General, I want to...”

“There is no time for that!” Jackson snapped. “It will take the rest of the night for you to get ready. You have your orders. Now get out!”

Forrest stood to attention. “Yes! Sir!” he said, deliberately emphasizing each word.

As Forrest turned to leave, Jackson said “General Forrest, if you ever so mutinously abuse any officer under my command again, I’ll have you stood up against a wall and shot. If it costs a thousand lives, I’ll do it.”

Forrest looked back. “You won’t need to worry about that, General Jackson. You have my word.”

Forrest passed the tent flap. Smith was standing there, pistol lowered, but still cocked.

“Your name is Smith?” Forrest asked.

“Captain James P. Smith.”

“Captain James P. Smith, I declare my temper got away from me, and I ought never to have laid hands on you like that. I hope you will accept my sincerest apologies.”

Forrest extended his hand. Smith eyed the cavalryman briefly, and then took his hand. “Gladly, general. Gladly.”

Jackson lingered by the tent flap until Forrest rode away. Once the cavalryman was gone, Jackson slumped onto his cot, weary and embarrassed. He had worked a lifetime to shed the accent of the western Virginia hills, to sound more like the genteel member of the Shenandoah’s professional class that he had worked so hard to join. His hill speech sometimes slipped out when he became agitated, but never as badly as that before, and never as often as it had several times through that day.

He had clashed with subordinates many times before, and had been anticipating a violent confrontation with some rough-hewn western general long before now. With Frank Cheatham, perhaps. He hadn’t expected anything like this. Exhausted, he blew out the lantern and fell instantly to sleep.

5 a.m.

Army of Tennessee, CSA

Oak Ridge

Just before dawn, blue soldiers quietly crawled out of their trenches and into the early morning gloom. They went over their embankments and across their shallow ditches to muster before their lines, one company from each regiment on the front line. In front of the XVI Corps, the entire strength of Yates’s Sharpshooters and the Western Sharpshooters filtered out as well, taking up a position in front of the regular, musket-armed skirmishers. They formed into a loose, open formation of small groups, and began carefully walking down the slope and into the valley below.

The more alert butternut pickets heard the oncoming Billies, even if they could not see them. The jumpiest fired from their shallow rifle pits, producing random stabs of flame in the inky dark.

In the center, the Western Sharpshooters divided into three groups and rushed into action. The group in the middle advanced right up to the tree line, marking the start of the thin woods on the valley floor, and began to fire as quickly as their 16-shot repeating rifles allowed. Confronted by a shocking flood of bullets, the Rebels clung to the dirt of their shallow rifle pits, while the blue sharpshooters on the left and right charged right through the picket line, firing rapidly as they went. Within minutes, dozens of Johnnies were surrounded. Called upon to surrender, the Rebels rose from their rifle pits in their groups of two and four, threw down their muskets, and raised their hands.

On the eastern end of the valley, the skirmishing was more evenly matched, both sides carrying similar arms and turned out in similar numbers. Still, the job of the Rebel pickets was to give a warning, not to stand up and resist a serious attack. Stewart’s men returned fire for a few minutes, and then fell back through the wood lots and across the valley floor.

Yates’s Sharpshooters and the other blue skirmishers advanced into very different terrain on the Federal right. They moved into a thickly overgrown and wooded ravine bottomed by Coon Creek, and found the Rebel pickets waiting for them on the other side. The Billies took cover behind trees, rocks and under bluffs, and kept up a steady fire. They inched their way forward, and when they got close enough, the butternuts shrank away from the sharpshooters and their deadly repeaters.

Veatch’s skirmishers advanced up and out of the ravine, and over the low hill that separated Veatch’s line from Featherston’s Confederates. Finding another ravine on the other side, they stopped, found cover, and sniped at the Confederate main line, a little less than 200 yards distant.

The musketry in the valley wound down to random cracks, but only for a short time. At first light, a doubled line of skirmishers from Stewart’s Corps advanced into the valley to resume the struggle. Polk’s skirmishers, somewhat tardy, went forward a little later.

6 a.m.

Stewart’s Corps, Army of Tennessee, CSA

Haynie Hill

Stewart watched the Federal lines closely through his telescope. There was little light to see by, but he could tell the Yankees had gotten the jump on his men. Now his skirmishers would have to fight their way forward if they were to control the woods between the armies. He could also see those work gangs emerging from the Federal entrenchments, setting out to cut timber for obstacles and to strengthen their works.

Turning to his chief of artillery, Stewart said “Colonel, you have a clear line of fire along that slope all the way to the Military Road. I want case shot put down on any man swinging an axe. Don’t worry about counter-battery fire. Keep it hot on those work details, and whoever else you can see and hit.

The guns on Haynie Hill and Stewart’s portion of the Redding Ridge line fired off one by one. These were Stewart’s rifled cannons and 12-pounder Napoleons, since his 6-pounder field guns and his howitzers were too puny to hit targets at this range.

Enough to harass, Stewart thought. But not enough to stop the work.

“Send to General Polk” he said to his aides. “Give my compliments, and request that he open fire with his artillery, targeting the Federal work gangs. Then send to General Jackson, requesting that some of Hood’s heavy guns be passed forward and posted to Haynie Hill. And send word down to the brigade commanders: reinforce the skirmish line to the strength of three companies.”

8 a.m.

XV Corps, Army of the Tennessee, USA

Oak Ridge

McPherson found Logan observing from the extreme left of the Oak Ridge line, just above where the ridge came down to the farming country beyond. Dismounting, McPherson went over and shook hands.

“Good morning, Jack” McPherson said. “I heard you have some activity on the left. I came to have a look for myself.” He pulled out his field glasses.

“Yeap. It’s cavalry out there, thick as flies in a hog’s waller. You can see infantry marching around behind them, between the farms and wood lots. Two batteries have unlimbered out there too, and I see more rattling around.”

“I see them,” McPherson said quietly, calmly. “It’s busy, but thin out there. No sign of a concentration yet.”

Logan nodded. “I know. I’m not worried. If they mass for an attack, we’ll see it for two miles off. That is plenty of time to bring up Osterhaus.”

McPherson smiled. If he had a man who won’t holler for reinforcements until he absolutely needed them, that was John Logan.

“There is one other thing, Mac. Confederate batteries are playing merry hell with my work details. Sharpshooters too, what with those long-ranged, British-made rifles they have. My axe men are taking heavier casualties than my skirmishers.”

Sweeney’s having similar troubles, McPherson thought. Only Veatch is making real progress with fashioning his abatis. There is quite a brisk engagement going on down there in the valley. The Rebels have thrown forward a heavy skirmish line. And this artillery. Lots of smoke, but nothing heavy yet. Maybe the Bishop can’t decide what to do?

“Keep your skirmishers out, but pull your work details in,” McPherson ordered. “Send that to Sweeney too. No sense in paying for work we aren’t going to finish.”

9 a.m.

Red Jackson’s Division, Army of Tennessee, CSA

The Pulaski Road

Upon assuming command of all of the army’s cavalry, Forrest detached one brigade from his old command, now under Abe Buford, added them to Red Jackson’s Division, making that into his striking force. He then instructed Buford to demonstrate against the left of the Federal line, as Forrest regarded his old troopers as the more experienced in his particular style of military theater.

Setting out before dawn with four brigades, Forrest followed a circuitous route that took them several miles east of Lawrenceburg, before heading back toward town. Coming up from due east, the scouts reported sighting Federal cavalry in the fields south of the Pulaski Road, about four miles from town.

Forrest set out to have a look for himself, and grinned maliciously at the sight of the 3
^rd
Indiana, a regiment that had gotten away from him at Holly Grove.

Forrest hissed “Bring up the lead brigade. And do it quietly!”