Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) (29 page)

“God dammit!” Dodge cried. It was his worst fear. Veatch’s Division was cut-off, or damn near it.

Dodge began turning his horse. “Don’t fuss about it!” he cried. “Run, by God! Run!”

Govan’s flanking skirmishers were alert, and were already firing on the men clustered around the flapping guidon emblazoned with the Canterbury cross. More Johnnies jumped out of the column and began firing at will. First the guidon-bearer fell, and then Dodge himself seconds later, struck in the cheek by a ball.

6:15 p.m.

Maney’s Brigade, Cheatham’s Division, CSA

The Captured Entrenchments

As he sat in the trench, Nathan Grimes rubbed fistfuls of grass on his face, trying to remove the thick grime of blood, dust and gun smoke, when he saw Willie making his way down the line. He jumped to his feet. Willie had his arms outstretched for a hug, but Nathan waved him off in favor of taking close look at Willie’s face.

“Go on, Nathan. Get off a me” Willie cried, shoving his brother back.

Nathan laughed, relieved. “Aw, ain’t nothing be ashamed of. The ladies like scars. Bet you get your pick when we get back home.”

Willie blushed a little, and the pair sat down. Nathan asked “How’s Fletcher?”

“He’s alive. Sawbones ain’t had at him yet. Orderly stitched me up. Didn’t have to wait so long.”

Nathan nodded. He pulled a flask out of his jacket and drank.

“Where did you get that?” Willie demanded.

“I liberated this here from a Yankee officer, who ain’t going need it no more. Couldn’t find any of them Yankee biscuits, though.”

Willie looked around. Six faces were gone, including Captain Fletcher. They hadn’t had any lieutenants since Chickamauga, so the company was now run by the first sergeant, Halpern. Corporal Marks was there too, so most of the old hands were still around. That was something. All except the Captain.

Nathan recognized what Willie was doing. “Major Miller got shot too. General Cheatham’s wounded.”

“I reckon that must have been a God awful fight.”

Nathan shrugged. “Yeap. Day ain’t over yet.”

Colonel Tillman stepped out of the trenches and ordered the regiment to fall in. No bugles were sounded, and the officers avoided shouting. The men lined up in relative quiet. The regiment shook out a company of skirmishers to screen their advance, and then stepped off with the rest of Cheatham’s Tennesseans. Now led by George Maney, the division marched in line of battle, down into the woods of White Oak Hollow, leaving the golden, late afternoon sunlight behind them.

6:30 p.m.

Featherston’s Division, Polk’s Corps, CSA

Featherston was contemplating his growling belly when he saw riders approaching his position. Leading them was a dark man wearing the insignia of a Confederate general.

The rider came up to him and saluted. As Featherston returned the salute, the unfamiliar general said to him in a sing-song, Cork County accent “General Featherston, I presume? We’ve never had the pleasure. I am Patrick Cleburne.”

Featherston was nonplussed. “General Cleburne. Wha... why are you here? Why are you not with your division, sir?”

Cleburne was in a foul mood, and ignored the question. All afternoon, he had hammered away at Veatch’s Division, battering their lines back into a U-shaped salient at great cost. All afternoon, he had been waiting for Polk to coordinate his attacks with those of Featherston, and all afternoon nothing had happened.

The devil take any more waiting, Cleburne thought. He would take action himself.

“Brigadier General Featherston, you are to advance your division at once and assault the Federal lines.” Cleburne looked at his pocket watch. “My division will renew its attack on the enemy in 20 minutes. If we all go in together, we’ll drive those people into Shoal Creek.”

Featherston blanched. “General Cleburne, sir, have you seen the ground? The Yankees have turned that ravine into a death trap! Furthermore, you have no authority to give orders to me.”

“General Featherston!” Cleburne snapped, his patience exhausted. “I am your senior in rank and present in person on this field. I care not even a thimbleful of dog spittle for your problems. Advance your men, by God, and do it now!”

Featherston shrank. He had been a lawyer and a politician before the war, not a solider. He wasn’t sure if Cleburne’s interpretation of his authority was correct, but he suddenly felt no desire to dispute the matter any further. He sent Loring’s former aides scurrying forward with orders for an immediate advance.

Cleburne dismounted and went forward, Featherston following behind him. The pair found a nice spot with a good view, and watched as thousands of men poured through the gaps in the abatis, weaving their way forward through the maze of sharp wooden points. They were once again met by a fusillade of bullets and canister balls upon reaching the bottom of the ravine and splashing across the waters of Coon Creek.

After that initial firestorm, the Federal onslaught slackened rapidly. All the cannon from before were still in place, but only one regiment, Yates’s Sharpshooters, remained on the line. They were armed with Henry repeaters, but had been firing all day, and were reaching the end of their ammunition. When Featherston’s Division crossed the last line of abatis, the sharpshooters shot off their few remaining rounds in one sharp burst of fire, and then made ready to defend their log barricades hand to hand.

Yet several hundred Illinoisans could not hold back a few thousand southerners, not with mere musket butts. The butternut tide was held at the wall for a few minutes, and a few minutes only. At first, a handful of Johnnies jumped over the barricade, brandishing their pointy bayonets, swinging musket butts, and driving blue bellies before them. One by one or in small groups, more butternuts hopped over the wall, howling wildly. Yates’s Sharpshooters faltered, broke, and ran. The bulk of Featherston’s Division came over the wall in their wake.

By then, Cleburne’s own soldiers were assailing the bulk of Veatch’s Division. When Featherston’s men appeared in their rear, the Federals turned and fought in both directions for a short time. These men were proud, tough veterans of Grant’s campaigns, and for a while that pride helped them stand firm. But after some minutes, they began to crumble, in dribs and drabs at first, and then in a torrent. Many raised their hands and surrendered on the spot. A few groups of stubborn men held out to the bitter end, giving up their arms grudgingly and from cold, dirty fingers. Others ran in the only direction left open, to the west.

When Cleburne went to commandeer Featherston’s Division, he left his senior brigadier, Lucius Polk, in command of his troops. A nephew of Leonidas Polk, Lucius had turned into an able citizen-soldier at the head of the Irishman’s old brigade, and was Cleburne’s protégé in many ways. It was Lucius who led a bayonet charge across the path of the fleeing Yankees, cutting them in two.

“Follow those men!” Lucius Polk cried, jabbing his sword at the fleeing bluecoats. “Hound them! Hound them, drive them and hound them!”

A mob of Confederates leapt at Lucius Polk’s order, and chased hard after the running Yankees, who soon came upon Raven’s Bluffs. Some climbed and scrambled down, finding their way to the banks of Shoal Creek. Some threw down their muskets and gave up, and others leapt from the bluffs into the creek bed below. Many of the jumpers broke their ankles or worse, but there were still dozens upon dozens of men who somehow made it down and fled across the wide, meandering bends of Shoal Creek, hoping to reach safety at the foot of Wildcat Ridge on the other side. Most of them were shot down long before they got there.

Veatch’s Division ceased to exist.

7:30 p.m.

Maney’s Brigade, Cheatham’s Division, CSA

White Oak Hollow

After advancing about a third of a mile, Maney’s Brigade found themselves in a fight with a brigade of blue belly Missourians, “homemade Yankees,” at a range of about 30 yards. Men on both sides took shelter behind trees and rocks, and stood in to trade bullets for a full hour.

Nathan and Willie shared a thick oak tree, Willie loading while Nathan fired. After an hour, the front of their tree had been chewed up by musket balls, and Nathan was merely shooting in the general direction of the Yankees. A thick pall of smoke hung between the trees, and the failing light could not even begin to penetrate it.

The brothers knew from experience that fights of this kind were grappling rather than slugging matches. Given time, one side would tire or run low on ammunition, and then withdraw. Yet that took two, three or even four hours. Time was not on their side, and before long the word came to cease firing and withdraw to the shelter of their starting line.

7:30 p.m.

Field Hospital, Army of Tennessee, CSA

Bryant’s Barn

Behind Redding Ridge

Fletcher had been waiting his turn outside the barn for hours, listening to the moans and screams, in his grim, private struggle to hang on to the last shreds of his courage. At least they had the merciful sense to pile up the severed limbs somewhere out of sight, he thought.

Finally, a couple of negroes came and put Fletcher on a stretcher and brought him into the barn, laying him out on a table. The interior of the barn was lit by lanterns and the day’s last light. He saw that the sawbones was the army’s chief surgeon, the same man who thought the regiment didn’t have good enough latrines back in January.

Hunter McGuire said “Captain, how long have you been in the army?”

“Since the November of ‘61.”

“Well, then, I don’t need to tell you what I’ve got to do here tonight. I must amputate, below the knee. You understand?”

Fletcher nodded. He had been preparing for that obvious, terrible confirmation all afternoon.

McGuire continued “Now we need to be quick, so this will be an open amputation. We have no chloroform, so all I can offer you is some strong whiskey.”

“Can I go home?” Fletcher asked, almost croaking. The army didn’t keep captains who couldn’t walk.

“As soon as you are well enough to travel, Captain. Your stump won’t heal completely for several months, mind you, but as soon as you are well enough, you can go home. You are from hereabouts?”

“40 miles from here, give or take.”

McGuire nodded, and motioned for the tin cup of whiskey. Fletcher gulped it down nervously. Already weak from blood loss, the strong spirits sent his head reeling.

A piece of leather-bound wood was placed in his mouth, and the negro orderlies held him down. Fletcher twitched a little, but he didn’t push back. Instead, he bit down hard, and fought even harder not to scream. He did not need to fight for long. In a few minutes, the operation was over.

Fletcher was carried out the front of the barn, and set down beside other recent officer amputees. The remains of his leg and foot were carried out the back of the barn, and dumped onto a ghastly rubbish heap.

9:00 p.m.

Headquarters in the Field, Army of the Tennessee, USA

Confederate Post Office

Lawrenceburg

McPherson waited until it was dark and quiet, and then sent out the call for all corps and division commanders to report to the town post office for orders. The tavern he had been using was now dangerously close to the front lines, and while he would have preferred the courthouse, that building, the surrounding houses, and all the lawns in-between were crammed with his wounded. The county jail had been burned in a skirmish the previous November, so that left the post office. McPherson arrived there first, went inside, and slumped into a chair.

It had been a very near run thing. The Confederates had hammered at him up and down the line all evening, raking for any sign of weakness. On the left, Morgan Smith had a hand-to-hand fight with the Rebels. Logan put in his slender reserves, just a few regiments, but it was enough to throw them back. The right had been wide open for a time, but that gap had been plugged. There was still no word from either James Veatch or Grenville Dodge. Both men were probably lost, and Veatch’s entire division along with them.

Stonewall Jackson almost certainly is in command, not Polk, McPherson thought. No way to know for sure right now, but it is beyond doubt that there are at least six Confederate infantry divisions over there. Without Veatch, I have only five, and their divisions are always bigger than ours anyway. We’re lucky to have survived. Most of us survived.

Sighing, McPherson called for pen and paper. He had sent a dispatch for Sherman that morning, but much had changed since then. It was time to tell Uncle Billy that he had been beaten, and would be retreating to Nashville. He described his intentions with as much detail as brevity allowed, and then handed the message a courier.

“Get that to the telegraph office in Columbia, quick as you can. Ride that horse to death, if you have to.”

That done, McPherson collected himself for the meeting to come. It was to be no council of war. His mind was made up about the necessity of his chosen course of action, and his generals were coming to receive orders, not discuss them.

One by one, McPherson’s seven senior commanders arrived: Logan, Sweeney, Harrow, Osterhaus, Morgan Smith, John Smith, and Minty, the latter the only one without stars on his shoulder straps. The army’s senior staff officers were present as well. McPherson started the meeting not by asking for reports, but by flatly declaring “Gentlemen, we are leaving.”

No one was surprised. Every man had heard by now that Stonewall Jackson was in command of the Confederate army, an army that plainly had them outnumbered. Even so, the words weighed heavily on the gathered generals, if only because they were so unused to hearing them.

“When you go back to your outfits,” McPherson continued, “you are to order your men to light camp fires, as many as possible. You know the drill. Let’s put on a good show, and make the Rebels think we’re all still here. Minty, beginning at midnight, your cavalry will relieve the infantry on the line one by one, starting with John Smith’s Division and moving down the line, ending at Sweeney. Then you bring up the rear. Understood? Everyone understands?”