Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) (6 page)

The Johnnie line opened up when the Federals came up to 70 yards, firing a hard, almost simultaneous volley down the ranks. The blue line went on unfazed by the men who tumbled out of its ranks, advancing a few dozen more yards as each Confederate reloaded and fired at will, coming up very close to Kettle Run. The Billies halted, leveled their own muskets and returned a tight, disciplined volley.

The two lines took to firing away at each other from across the creek at a distance of only 50 yards, the grey moderately better protected than the blue. Then the last Federal brigade fell into place at the end of the line, opposite the Confederate left flank. It gave a loud, deep-throated roar, and shot forward at a run.

Early had sent forward his reserve too late. The last brigade in the Federal line, the hard fighting Irish Brigade from Caldwell’s Division, surged across Kettle Run, scrambled up its muddy banks, and rose on the other side almost unopposed.

Once across, the Irish wheeled to face the Louisiana Tigers on the Confederate left, as well as the three Virginia regiments then being led up by Pegram. The Irish ignored the shot and shell falling on them as they dressed their ranks, and then fired a massed volley into the approaching Virginians. Many of the Irish carried old percussion smoothbores, and their buck and ball wreaked havoc at that murderously close range. The Rebels staggered in shock, and General Pegram fell from his horse, his guts perforated with buckshot.

Warren watched with satisfaction as the next brigade in line charged forward, leaping down and over the creek, and scrambling up the other side. This time, however, the men who climbed out of the creek bed were met with a steady rain of musket balls from the Louisianans, and were soon forced back down and behind the cover of the creek bank. Each brigade in turn surged forward, but each got only so far before taking cover in the creek bed. By the time the rolling, en echelon charge had reached the last brigade by Kettle Run bridge, those men didn’t even try to push past the creek, and instead immediately took up positions to return fire from behind its banks.

Warren cursed and swore as his attack ground to a halt before the makeshift Confederate earthworks, but Webb reached out and grabbed his arm.

“Wait, sir, look,” Webb pointed to his men, who were lying and kneeling in the creek, and firing back at the Rebels. “The Johnnies can’t fire down into the creek from where they are. They’re too far back. Our men now have the better cover!”

Warren could see Webb was right. Except for the odd Rebel shell that hit the creek bed, sending up a geyser of water and silt, his men looked well-protected, the Rebs more exposed. They could stay in that creek and fire away all afternoon if need be. He turned his horse and rode back to where his reserve, his very last uncommitted brigade, was posted, just outside of Rebel artillery range.

“General Caldwell,” Warren shouted. “I want you to bring take your last brigade forward to support the Irish Brigade. When you are in position, signal back to me and I’ll send the entire line forward. Once they are committed, strike from the right, and roll that line up. You lead the attack in person, General.”

Caldwell saluted, drew his sword, and called on his men to follow him. Warren then rode forward to find General Hays, who was supervising the center, and give him his new instructions.

4:30 pm

A.P. Hill’s Division, Army of Northern Virginia, CSA

The Greenwich Road

A.P. Hill stood alongside the Greenwich Road, watching the progress of his column as it continued off the road and on its overland advance to what was supposed to be the Federal left flank. Short-but-leonine, he always cut quite an appearance dressed up for battle in his bright red shirt, and his men cheered as they turned off the road, passed him and marched on.

Hill was in high spirits. He was in touch with Old Baldy now, and away from the overbearing Jackson on the sort of independent mission he craved. Artillery was audible in the distance, battle had been joined, and soon he and his men would pitch in.

An aide from his lead brigade galloped up and gave him a verbal message: the advance guards beyond the head of the column had seen Yankees, lots of them.

Hill sent him back with a simple order: “Attack at once.”

5:00 pm

Kettle Run

It was now or never, Warren thought. A message from Gregg arrived just five minutes before, reporting infantry on his front. More Rebels were emerging from the woods on his left. Webb went over and helped see them off in person, but they would be back, and in greater numbers. Warren reckoned if he didn’t break loose soon, he would be surrounded before nightfall.

On the other side of the lines, Early sat grimly, bracing himself for the renewed Yankee onslaught. Behind him, Allegheny Johnson was now under attack too, and Jackson had gone to look into the situation on that front. Early grumbled under his breath that he still hadn’t been reinforced, although it looked like some of Hill’s Division had at last begun to arrive

The line has taken a beating these last two hours, Early thought. Fucking yeller bastards carrying the wounded to the rear, never coming back up to the firing line only makes it worse. But the damn Yanks must be tiring too. I just need to hang on a little longer. Hang on until nightfall or when Hill gets here in force, whichever comes first.

A courier arrived with a short, scribbled message from Jackson:

I expect you to hold.

T.J. Jackson

Early crumpled up the note, threw it away with malice, and muttered “Shee-it.”

On the opposite side of the field and peering through his glasses, Warren saw the signal. He sent word to Hays, and within minutes the deep-throated shouting of several thousand men drowned out all the other noise on the battlefield. The bulk of II Corps rose from the creek bed, ripped off a thunderous volley, and charged forward.

Early’s men tore hard at the attackers, gunning them down and sending parts of the blue line reeling backwards into the creek. Other Billies charged home, and sent the butternuts flying from their breastworks. On the end of the line, Caldwell brought three Union brigades, Irish immigrants, New Yorkers, Pennsylvanians and Delaware men, smashing into the Louisiana Tigers and dead Pegram’s Virginians. Early watched as Pegram’s leaderless boys streamed to the rear, but most of the Louisianans held, and resisted stubbornly.

Early ordered the last of his reserves, that slender pair of Pegram’s remaining regiments, out to plug the Yankee penetrations in his center, and then galloped away to shore up his left. He rode among the broken Virginia throng, once his own brigade, waving his sword and even striking some with the flat of his blade, calling out “Cowards! Bastards! You shame Virginie! Get your yellow asses back in there and kill them fucking blue bellies!”

Most stopped and turned around, shamefaced and angry. Early didn’t bother with putting them back into order, but instead led them at a dead run as a mob, back into the fray. Caldwell’s attack was swept back into the shelter of the creek.

On the western side of the battlefield, Hill was feeding his men into the attack piecemeal, committing each individual regiment into the fight as it arrived. Leading the Federal left, Webb had steadily adjusted to the growing pressure, but now he had two full brigades facing his firing line.

Early’s westernmost brigade, posted on the other side of the railroad embankment and all but forgotten by him, was heretofore engaged only slightly. It came forward on its own initiative, and joined in the assault on Webb. Vastly outnumbered and attacked on three sides, the Federal left caved in, sending men fleeing over the railroad embankment, who then turned and ran headlong for the rear.

Hill’s soldiers advanced in the wake of the fleeing Billies to the top of the railroad embankment. Once there, they halted and poured fire down into the Union troops sheltering behind the banks of Kettle Run, causing great slaughter. Blue-coated troops instinctively began to move around, looking for protection from the crossfire, and finding none. Hays desperately tried to refuse his line and shield his left, but was shot down amid the fusillade, and his effort came to naught. Men abandoned the creek bed, first singly or in pairs, then in larger groups, and ran away from the carnage. The II Corps line visibly teetered on the brink of a collapse.

Early rode up behind his line, shouting “Forward! All regiments forward! Charge!” His soldiers gave a piercing yell, jumped over their pile of rocks, fence rails and dirt, and charged forward. Men in blue were shot, stabbed and clubbed down, and standards seized. In a matter of minutes, the center of the II Corps dissolved into a rout. The exultant men of Hill’s and Early’s Divisions chased, killed and captured in the light of the setting sun.

Jackson returned to the scene. Finding Early, he declared “You see, general. I told you. I knew you would hold.”

Confederate newspapers were not quite accurate in crowing that the Yankee II Corps had been “annihilated” at the Second Battle of Kettle Run. Caldwell had led away the three brigades on the corps’ right wing in good order, escaping after nightfall. Baxter’s Brigade was off guarding the wagon train and was never even engaged, and while Gregg’s Division of cavalry had been mauled, it had escaped destruction. 

Yet the claim had enough truth to it to raise depressed spirits throughout the South. Second Kettle Run cost the Army of the Potomac roughly 7,000 dead, captured or missing. Warren was captured, Webb wounded and captured, and Hays killed. The losses in Lee’s army amounted to one-third that figure, and many of these were wounded who would eventually return to duty.

Whereas the summer of 1863 brought the South defeats at Vicksburg, Gettysburg and Middle Tennessee, the autumn saw the Yankees under siege at Chattanooga and whipped in Virginia. Stonewall Jackson had returned, and perhaps the war was not lost after all.

In the North, the witch hunt began from the day after the battle. Republican radicals in the Congress howled for the scalp of General Meade, but the facts of the case swiftly shifted attention to General Sykes. The V Corps commander was charged with disobedience and dereliction of duty, court martialed, and dismissed from the service in such quick succession that the entire business was over before Christmas. Disgraced, Sykes committed suicide in February.

Following the battle, Meade’s army entrenched and remained in Centerville, its morale at low ebb. Lee retired back to his starting point on the Rapidan unmolested, destroying the Orange and Alexandria as he went. Prodded by the War Department, Meade eventually followed, slowly and laboriously, rebuilding the railroad as he went.

Yet the tide of the war turned again, and it became the turn of newspapers in the North to trumpet victory, and those of the South to offer thin explanations and bitter recrimination. Less than two months after Second Kettle Run, the siege of Chattanooga was lifted, and the Confederate Army of Tennessee sent packing. It was the war’s now three year old formula: while the Confederacy won victories and held the Union at bay in the East, it steadily lost the war in the West.

General Braxton Bragg, with his spirit broken by defeat and poor health, and long harried by his own senior officers, resigned command of the Army of Tennessee on November 29.

December 2, 1864

Evening

Richmond, Virginia

Jefferson Davis rode home, stiffly erect in the saddle. He always preferred a formal, military posture, as it suited both his character and his painfully severe features. Yet in trying times, he retreated even further into such poses, taking his natural bearing to extremes, and so he rode home looking very much like a bronze equestrian statue.

His private meeting with James Seddon, his Secretary of War, had not gone well. Seddon had not attended the Cabinet meeting held earlier that day to discuss a replacement for Braxton Bragg, the ex-commander of the country’s second major field army, choosing instead to remain at home and tend to his ailing children.

That discussion had focused mostly on the Confederacy’s two available full generals: Joseph E. Johnston and P.G.T. Beauregard. Davis was disgusted with both choices, and his Cabinet indecisive about picking one or the other of them. Worse, the Secretary of State, Judah P. Benjamin, refused to offer any opinion at all. Davis had gone to consult with Seddon, who had nothing to offer beyond the unpalatable pair of Johnston and Beauregard. It wouldn’t do.

Davis was bound and determined that Beauregard would never again hold an important command. The frenchified peacock had thrown away the victory Davis’s dearest and most admired friend, Albert Sidney Johnston, had died earning at Shiloh, and then had to gall to reward himself afterward with sick leave at a spa. The Louisianan was arrogant, vain, always proposing ludicrous schemes, and then sitting back smugly and criticizing what others did when his flights of fantasy were not adopted. He was utterly unfit for the western command, so Davis was content to let him stay in the Carolinas and rot.

The alternative, Joe Johnston, was secretive, quarrelsome, obstinate, and just as vain as the frenchified peacock. Instead of proposing outlandish schemes, the Virginian was fond of either doing nothing or retreating, and then blaming the disasters that resulted on the failure of Davis and the War Department to supply him with reinforcements that simply didn’t exist. He was at least as overrated as Beauregard, and just as unsuited for command of the country’s second largest army.

Of the Confederacy’s other generals of suitable rank, Samuel Cooper was too old and infirm, and Robert E. Lee was not interested in a transfer to Georgia. Even if he had been, sending Lee west would only shift the problem of finding a new commander from the Army of Tennessee to the Army of Northern Virginia.

If only Hardee had accepted the job, Davis thought, things would be greatly simplified. William J. Hardee was a respected professional and the senior corps commander within that army, so in lieu of sending a more senior general, promoting Hardee was the most logical course. Yet Hardee had begged out of commanding the Army of Tennessee.