Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) (25 page)

Ross’s Texas Brigade came up at the trot and formed behind the stand of woods sheltering Forrest and his scouts. Forrest hurriedly gave Ross his orders and launched him straight into a mounted charge at the passing blue cavalry.

The Texans thundered out from behind and through the woods in three converging columns. Instantly recognizing their predicament, the Hoosiers turned tail and ran for the road. Ross’s troopers tore after them, only to charge headlong into a concealed roadblock.

As soon as the Hoosiers galloped past, dismounted blue troopers rose from swales on either side of the road and laid down a terrific fire with their mix of muzzle-loading carbines, Spencer repeaters, and Sharps breech-loaders. Dozens of men and horses at the front of the charge fell in a matter of seconds, the charge stumbled to a halt, and the Texans turned their horses about in disarray.

Watching from a short distance to the rear, Minty ordered “Signal the charge.”

The bugles sounded, and a pair of fresh, mounted regiments sprang out from concealed positions at an outlying farm. Pounding down rapidly over the fields, they were upon the disorganized Texans within minutes.

Forrest found himself in the midst of a confused melee. A Yankee came up beside him and swung with his saber. Forrest ducked forward, the saber removing only his hat, instead of the top of his skull. He quickly seized the trooper by the sword arm before it could be pulled back for another blow, and yanked him forward. Snatching the musketoon from his saddle holster, Forrest stuck the gun into the man’s chest and pulled the trigger. The Yankee was knocked from the saddle in a blast of buck and ball.

After holstering the musketoon, Forrest drew both of his pistols, spurred his horse forward, and shot his way out of the battle. The Texans were already withdrawing from the Yankee ambush. A few hundred yards back down the road, the Rebel cavalry reorganized.

Riding up to Ross, Forrest drawled “Don’t you worry now, General Ross. My oldest rule about being in a fight is if you can’t win, skedaddle.”

Ross, a veteran Indian fighter from the Texas Rangers, nodded. “Can’t say I disagree. What are your orders, sir?”

Forrest smiled “That’s where we get to my second oldest rule. After you skedaddle, hit them back hard as you can, soon as you can. Don’t let that other fellow get no airs.” Forrest commanded an aide to bring up the rest of the division.

A few hundred yards to the west, Minty ordered his men back to their mounts. They were fine feather, having started the day by getting a good, clean twist on their rivals.

Minty sent them back to a more defensible position. “When the Rebs come back, let them hit empty air, and then lunge forward to find us, putting them off-balance again. Then we’ll try hitting them again.”

10:30 a.m.

Hood’s Corps, Army of Tennessee, CSA

Redding Ridge

The head of Hood’s column reached the area behind Redding Ridge with suitable fanfare, a fife and drum band leading the way and playing “The Campbells Are Coming.” Hood soon spied the seedy, familiar form of Jackson, sitting on a tree stump and sucking on a lemon.

The bugles sounded “Halt.” Fletcher watched as Hood, Cheatham, and Maney all rode over to greet the scruffy, one-armed man in the colonel’s coat and crumpled, threadbare kepi.

Fletcher glanced over his shoulder. “Willie, is that him?”

Willie was grinning, “Yessir!” Nathan stood next to him, chuckling.

Fletcher turned his attention back to the generals. Jackson stood over some bald ground, sketching something in the dirt with his sword. Cheatham and Maney were on their feet, but Hood remained mounted. Probably because of Old Pegleg’s straps, Fletcher thought. Too much fuss and bother to get him down, not for mere decorum.

Minutes later, Maney returned, calling in his staff and the regimental colonels. After a brief discussion, the brigade was led off the road and into the woods neighboring it. Fletcher turned out his company as the regiment formed a double line of battle, two rows of two ranks each. The rest of the brigade formed on the regiment’s right. Then orders came to fall out, but stay in formation.

No sooner had the Tennesseans sat down and begun rummaging through their haversacks when Old Jack himself rode up, in company with Old Frank and Old Pegleg, plus staff. Most of the regiment was instantly on its feet, waving their hats and pumping their muskets in the air, but remaining completely quiet as per their orders not to cheer.

Jackson smiled and tipped his kepi. He said to Cheatham “I want these lines spaced a further 60 paces apart. And when your other brigades form on Maney’s rear, General Cheatham, space them accordingly. I don’t want these men crowded together, so put plenty of room between them all. Sam, the same dispositions for Cleburne when he gets here. Understood?”

Both generals nodded. “Good. General Hood, would you accompany me to your artillery?”

The generals went their separate ways. The Grimes brothers plopped back down. A few minutes later, Colonel Tillman ordered the regiment’s second line to retire 60 paces, leaving Fletcher’s company and the front line in peace.

Nathan rooted through his haversack. Willie leaned forward hungrily. “What you got in there, Nathan?”

Nathan raised an eyebrow. “Boy, I thought I told you not to eat all your hoecake this morning. You know I ain’t got so much.” The regiment had been issued three days rations and told to cook them up after crossing the Tennessee, and that was three days ago.

“I know, I know, but that ain’t stopped a good boy from being hungry yet, ain’t it?”

Willie was always like that, Nathan thought. Give him three days rations and they were gone in two, if not one. He took out his last hunk of half-stale, pan-fried cornbread, broke it in half, and gave it over to his brother.

Standing nearby, Fletcher’s own belly was cold and devoid of appetite as he stared up the wooded slope before them. He couldn’t relax, and wondered how anyone could. They could all hear the ringing of the cannon in the distance, and they all knew they were sitting in an attack formation. More tense than actually nervous, he fidgeted by rubbing his hands, sipping from his canteen, and fussing with his sword.

How can any of them eat and joke, Fletcher thought, knowing the elephant was just past that ridge there, waiting to trample them.

11a.m.

Army of the Tennessee, USA

Oak Ridge

As he stood behind the lines watching the artillery duel, oblivious to the odd bursting shell or bounding solid, McPherson marveled at the industry of his men. Though the effort to cover the front and left flank of his entire position with abatis had been abandoned, details of troops took their axes and saws into White Oak Hollow, in the army’s rear, and began felling trees there. Osterhaus’s men, standing in reserve there, joined the effort. A steady stream of timber for head logs and braces, improvements for the entrenchments, had been trickling up to the front ever since, and all of it without orders.

The Confederate artillery worried him, however. He watched through his field glasses as another Rebel battery limbered up and retired off Haynie Hill, just to be replaced by a fresh battery minutes later.

It’s all too damn efficient, McPherson thought. Rumor had it that A.P. Stewart was over on the Confederate right, which coincided with intelligence from before the campaign started. He could credit those rumors. The cannon over there were handled very smoothly, and matching his artillery gun for gun. It had all the hallmarks of a former gunner turned mathematics professor.

Another problem was the loss of the battle of skirmishers that had been going on all morning, a point that annoyed McPherson. Unwilling to feed any more men into the firefight that had smoldered and sparked all morning on the valley floor, he had pulled his skirmishers back to the main line under mounting Confederate pressure. Now the butternuts were sniping at his main line, but at least his boys could shoot back from the protection of solid earthworks.

McPherson was about to return to his headquarters when a dusty courier on a foaming, sweaty horse arrived, bearing a message from Minty:

Morning of May 5, 10:00

To: Maj. Gen’l James B. McPherson

Cmnd’ing, Army of the Tennessee

As previously reported, Rebel cavalry now block the Pulaski Road to the east, and assault my front with dismounted troopers, supported by 12 guns. They are working around both my flanks. I am compelled to withdraw two miles to a new line closer to Lawrenceburg.

I urgently request infantry support. Without reinforcements, I am uncertain of my ability to hold my new position or keep Rebels out of the wagon park for more than two hours.

Your Obedient Servant,

Robert H.G. Minty

Colonel, US Cavalry

“Forrest,” McPherson thought aloud. “It has to be Forrest.” He knew Forrest was out there, and such a determined attack by mounted infantry and dismounted cavalry could only mean him. He also knew how highly Sherman rated the Memphis cavalryman, considering him at least as much of a threat as Stonewall Jackson.

McPherson rode back to his headquarters, and swiftly wrote out orders for General John E. Smith, the middle-aged Swiss immigrant, Galena, Illinois jeweler, and Grant crony who had surprisingly turned out to be quite a good soldier. Smith was to march to Minty’s relief and take overall command, leaving behind adequate guards for the wagon park.

That will bring the force west of Lawrenceburg to about 7,000, McPherson thought. Smith and Minty ought to be able to stop Forrest’s advance cold with that much.

11 a.m.

Headquarters, Army of Tennessee, CSA

Jackson’s Headquarters

Polk rode to army headquarters at the head of an entourage of staff officers, all nattily turned out in clean uniforms with sparkling gold braid and trim.

Standing off to one side, Sandie chuckled and whispered to Dr. McGuire “One wonders why he left the marching band at home.” The doctor nodded, grinning. Polk had the most spit and polish staff either man had ever seen in any army, east or west, north or south.

Dismounting from his horse, Polk prepared his emotions for the meeting with Jackson, carefully tucking away the foul temper aroused by the commanding general’s arrogant and overbearing conduct. Not only had Jackson sent Loring to attack Wildcat Ridge and then sacked him without even so much as a “by your leave,” but then that man had sent Stewart and not Polk to decide whether that attack should go forward. It was as bad as any of the slights perpetrated by Braxton Bragg, but Polk knew he had to proceed carefully and remain the good cleric in his chief’s eyes. For now.

Sandie greeted Polk, and led him into Jackson’s tent. After some brief pleasantries and questions about Featherston’s status on the left, Jackson began issuing orders.

“General Polk, you will commence the attack in one hour, at 12 o’clock, by advancing Featherston’s Division en echelon, by brigade and to the right.”

Polk understood. He was to commence a rolling attack down the line, one brigade after the other.

“Sir, begging your pardon, but Featherston’s three frontline brigades have been in a vicious little fight all morning with Yankee skirmishers. It ended only a short while ago, and they have shot off half their ammunition. The men must replenish their cartridge boxes before making a major attack. If I could have but an additional hour to do that...?”

Sandie expected Jackson to tell Polk to redistribute ammunition from his reserve brigade, bringing everyone up to an acceptable level, or even that Featherston should charge with pikes if he had to. Instead, Jackson quietly nodded, giving his assent.

Behind his serene smile, Polk was satisfied, if only slightly. He didn’t actually know how much ammunition Featherston’s men had used or how much they needed, let alone how much time would be required to top up their cartridge boxes. What mattered was that he had gotten his say in, and it stuck. That was a start.

Jackson continued. “When Featherston’s last brigade goes forward, General French is not to move. Instead, he is to remain where he is and wait for a passage of the lines.”

“And just who will be passing through French’s line, General?”

Jackson ignored the question. “Featherston is to keep the pressure on. He is not to break contact with the enemy, not without direct orders from me. I want you to keep a close eye on him, General Polk. He is new to division command.”

Polk realized the interview was over. He stood and saluted. “Yessir.” Sandie handed him a set of written orders, one for himself, one for Featherston and one for French, and sent him on his way.

1 p.m.

Headquarters, Army of the Tennessee, USA

McPherson was reading the latest report from John Smith, indicating the situation east of town had stabilized, when he was approached by his chief of staff, Colonel William T. Clark.

“Mac, I have the initial reports from those prisoners we took earlier this morning. They confirm the identity of the four secessionist divisions posted opposite. I think the presence of Stevenson, Clayton and French are beyond doubt. It’s definitely Polk’s Army of Mississippi infantry, plus Stewart’s Corps.”

McPherson nodded. Clark was an eastern-educated lawyer, and was very good at sorting through papers and reports. It was why McPherson had brought him up to his present post.

“There is something else, sir.”

The fretful tone in Clark’s voice caused McPherson to give him his full attention. “Yes? There is a problem?”

“Many of the prisoners boast that Stonewall Jackson is over there, and he has Hood’s Corps with him. Now it could just be loud, no account talk. You know how the Rebs are. But the other fellows cussed and hushed the braggarts up quick.”

“But that isn’t all, is it?”

“No, General. The prisoners from what we think is Loring’s Division. They say it’s now Featherston’s Division, on account of Jackson putting Loring under arrest.”

That aroused McPherson’s curiosity. Rebel prisoners were often full of bluster and balderdash, and sending out false deserters with orders to spread equally false information was an old Confederate ploy. Even so, that last detail was a little too elaborate. It had the whiff of truth to it.