by Bob Mayer
The musket fire was quicker, fiercer, beckoning. Sergeants were stirring, shaking awake men still slumbering. Ben put the rifle down and grabbed his shoes. He put them on and began to tie the laces. He wondered, a fleeting thought, if this were the last time he would ever do that. And whether someone else would remove them from his feet. He’d heard tell the Secessionists needed shoes. He’d had the same thought every day for the past couple of months, every time he put his shoes on.
Perhaps he should have gone to Europe. Ben shook his head and glanced at the Henry, decoding the message and implicit approval from his ‘father’. The Bowie knife dangled from his belt in its sheath; more legacy from his birth father. Shoes ready, he stood, cradling the Henry in his arms.
Everyone was moving strangely. Long faces, tight, drawn. None of the usual early morning tomfoolery. Ben met the glance of the man next to him, a private from Cincinnati as best he could remember. The man’s eyes had a shadow in them. Yesterday he’d been boasting of killing rebs.
“You don’ look so good,” the man said.
“A touch of something,” Ben said.
“Been touched for a while,” the man muttered, taking a step away.
“Lookie there!” Someone cried out.
To the south, wraiths were moving through the distant trees, tall, angular, dressed in gray and butternut. Hats pulled low over their eyes. They were close, less than three hundred yards away and there were a lot of them.
“We have to fall back and form!” the captain yelled in a voice that had a hitch in it as he reversed the proper sequence of the orders. “Mount up and pull back!”
Ben ran for the horse-line along with the rest of the men. On the left there was fire from a Union Infantry regiment, a ragged volley, and then they too began to scramble to the rear, camp fires still burning, breakfasts left uneaten.
The 5th Ohio had pulled the horse-line dozens of times in training, but this was different. As if they’d never done it before. Some men hopped on horses without saddles, galloping off. Others were grabbing the wrong gear in their haste.
Ben forced himself to do it right. Saddle. Bridle. His hands were shaking. Not from fear.
The firing was closer. Something buzzed by, like an angry hornet.
Then came that sound. Ben knew that he would never forget that sound as long as he lived: the Rebel Yell. It cut through his illness and spurred him to move faster.
Lucius Rumble paced the high porch of the house Grant had commandeered for his headquarters. It wasn’t as grand as Palatine House, and overlooked the Tennessee River, not the mighty Mississippi, but it was similar enough in design. That did not give Rumble any comfort. His rifle and telescope were gone and he had no doubt who’d taken it. Damn Cord. Always thinking of himself. At least Rumble still had Tiberius’ shotgun. He’d make Cord account for the Henry and scope the next time he laid eyes on him.
“You’re going to wear a rut in the wood,” Grant called out through the window from the table where he was eating breakfast. It was a sitting room, not a dining room, but Rumble knew better than to tell Grant that. The General was in a foul mood, his leg paining his body and the uncertainty of where exactly Buell’s army was, weighing heavy on his mind.
Rumble reached the end of the porch and turned on his heel. He started to head back, but paused. Thunder in the distance, but the early morning sky was perfectly clear.
“Sam,” Rumble called out.
“Yes?”
“Artillery.”
“Crump’s landing or Pittsburgh landing?” Grant asked.
Rumble cocked his head. “Hard to tell.”
Hobbling on crutches, Grant joined Rumble on the porch. He leaned against the railing, perfectly still for several moments. Several staff officers, surprised by Grant getting to his feet, came onto the porch and joined them.
Grant tucked the crutches under his arms. “Gentlemen, the ball is in motion. Let’s be off.”
Rumble leaned close. “Sam, it will be easier if you let me help get you to the boat.”
Grant nodded. While an aide grabbed the crutches, Rumble wrapped an arm around his old friend and half-carried him downstairs, out the front door and to the landing where Grant’s steamer waited. Smoke was already coming out of the Tigress’ stacks. Before boarding, Grant issued several orders, the most important of which was to Buell, wherever he was, directing him to come to Pittsburgh Landing with all haste. As soon as they were on board, the ship set out up-river toward the sound of the firing.
Crump’s landing was closest and it became clear as they approached, that the cannon fire was further away. A steamship was tied up there, General Lew Wallace’s command ship. Grant had the captain of the Tigress slow down a bit and pass close by.
“General,” Grant called out to his division commander, “get your troops under arms and have them ready to move at a moment’s notice.”
“Already in motion, General,” Wallace yelled back.
Grant acknowledged that with a nod and the Tigress picked up speed. They could now hear musket fire mixed with the belch of cannons. The symphony of all out combat, indicating this was not some skirmish.
A few inexperienced staff officers let out exclamations of shock as the Tigress turned a bend in the Tennessee and Pittsburgh Landing came into view. Thousands of men, so many they seemed to be a roiling mass of blue worms on the riverbank beneath the bluffs. There were even a few men trying to swim across the river in their desperation to get away. As the ship got closer, Rumble could see that many officers and sergeants had torn off their rank insignia, abdicating their duty on top of running away from the battle.
“Damn cowards,” someone muttered.
“Easy, gentlemen,” Grant said. “It must be hard fighting to cause this and we’re going to need these men before the day is through.”
The Tigress slid into the landing. Rumble helped Grant off the ship. With another officer, they got Grant up in the saddle, tying his crutches off to the side, where a rifle might have been mounted.
One of the division commanders galloped up. “Prentiss is attacked and falling back, trying to reform another line. Sherman’s also falling back. My men are up on the bluff as a central reserve awaiting your orders, sir.”
“Sergeant Major,” Grant said to Rumble. “See that regiment formed up over there? Get it to form a straggler line. And that battery yonder? Move it up to the bluff and point it down the road. It’ll give any fleeing men second thoughts and if need be, hold the final line.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then meet me on top of the bluff.”
With the division commander, Grant rode toward the battle.
The first waves of Confederates had smashed into Prentiss’ and Sherman’s camps, routing the Yankees, but gone no further. No amount of cussing and exhortation could get the men moving forward. There was simply too much Yankee food still hot on the cooking fires and the men’s bellies were just too empty. They were soldiers, true, but they were also human.
Sally Skull watched the frustration play across General Johnston’s face as he issued order after order, trying to get the stalled attack moving. They weren’t far from a small church in the center of the lines.
Just before the sun had come up, Gabriel had escorted St. George around the Union left flank. St. George was somewhere ahead now on his mission of mischief and murder and Skull had decided to stick close to Johnston, figuring that was the best place to keep track of events. The general had acknowledged her presence with a tip of his hat, but there was no time for more of a greeting.
In desperation, Johnston began issuing orders to the follow on divisions, not yet engaged, shifting their assault in echelon to the left, to capitalize on the initial successes of the morning. But in doing so, he was negating Beauregard’s grand Napoleonic plan, as the right flanking movement to cut the Union forces off from Pittsburgh Landing was now turning into a frontal assault into the Union center.
As they rode forward, they passed throug
h one of the many Yankee camps. A group of soldiers were looting the tents. A lieutenant saw the general and held up an ornately engraved pipe. “A Yankee colonel’s, sir! For you.”
Johnston drew up stiffly. “None of that, sir. We are not here for plunder.”
The lieutenant’s head dropped as if he’d been pole-axed. Johnston leaned forward in the saddle and picked up a tin cup from a table. “Let this be my share of the spoils today.” Then he moved on.
Skull nudged her horse forward, pushing past staff officers and the cluster of men who always seemed to gather around a commanding general. She saw a cow wandering lost across the battlefield and recognized her brand on it. One of the many she’d double-sold, first to the Confederates and finally ending up in the Union camp.
There were matters of more concern now.
Skull saw a cluster of blue in some bushes. Wounded Lincolnites. It seemed that men, like animals, crawled into bushes when mortally hurt. There were bundles all over the place, looking like clusters of rags, but they were bodies.
A courier came galloping up from the left, blood streaming from his forehead. “General! We have their right. We’ve knocked them off Owl Creek.”
Johnston absorbed this information, then ordered more troops to press that success, the exact opposite of what Beauregard’s plan called for. There was a clatter of musketry to the immediate right and everyone turned in that direction. A gaggle of Union cavalry was galloping across a field. Not charging. Retreating, some of the men shooting wildly, others wielding sabers, but most hell bent on getting away.
Skull drew her pistols and began firing.
Ben held the reins in one hand, the Henry in the other, letting the flow of his company take him away. No orders had been issued after a musket ball straight through the heart had killed the Captain. Everyone had just started riding hard, trying to get away from the unstoppable wave of Confederates. Ben knew it wasn’t right, that they should be doing something other than running. The thought bounced around his brain, but couldn’t find purchase on a course of action, struggling through the dullness that made any effort to think slow and painful.
To his left he saw a cluster of Confederate officers near a church. And in front of them was a woman, of all things, blasting away with a pistol in each. Ben registered her just as a bullet struck his horse in the head, right through the ear, into the brain and the beast dropped like a stone, sending Ben tumbling forward, reins held tight.
He hit the ground hard.
Cord rode north, across Owl Creek, searching for Wallace’s Division. The sound of the fighting behind him was growing louder, fiercer than anything he’d ever heard, even in Mexico.
So much for the war being about over.
He felt some comfort that Ben had the Henry. He grabbed the telescope case and pulled out the instrument. He scanned west as far as the device could reach and saw no sign of movement.
Where the hell was Wallace?
St. George didn’t think much of Skull’s plan. No one knew where the 5th Ohio Cavalry was and how the devil was he supposed to find two needles in this huge, tumbled bale of blue? Seemed like most of the Yankees were heading toward the river, their bodies hunched, their eyes distant. Many looked half dead already, their faces so pale. Damn bluebellies were just as he’d imagined: weak and not worth a lick in a fight.
“This way.” Gabriel pointed down a narrow path through the trees.
“What’s that way?”
“Savannah Landing to Corinth Road,” Gabriel said. Her voice was so low, St. George could barely make out what she was saying. “Main road.”
“So?” St. George demanded.
Gabriel remained still, pointing at the road. St. George finally sighed and rode in that direction. Within a couple of minutes, they did indeed reach a wider thoroughfare. Troops and riders were moving in both directions.
“So?” St. George repeated.
“We wait,” Gabriel said.
“For what?”
Gabriel shrugged and pulled her hat lower over her eyes.
St. George fidgeted, anxious to do something, anything, but having no better plan than waiting here. Although he wasn’t quite sure what plan this was.
After about twenty minutes, a group of riders came hustling up the road, fighting against the tide of retreating men. St. George recognized the man in the lead, despite the years since he’d last seen him. The horse jumper. Grant. He was cool and calm, with the slightest frown of concern on his forehead, just like he’d been when he jumped that huge horse. He was issuing orders left and right as he rode forward. So he was indeed a Yankee. St. George’s hand drifted toward his sash, knowing, in the way predators did, that the elder Rumble wasn’t going to be far away from his friend Grant.
And there the elder boy be, on the trail, riding hard to catch up.
St. George edged his horse closer to the muddy road, pulling the Le Matt out of the sash. He started when Gabriel grabbed his hand.
“Not here!” she hissed.
“Damn you—” St. George began when a rider in a hurry banged into his horse. St. George jerked his head about and looked right into the crazed eyes of a Yankee general with flaming red hair, riding hell bent for Grant. They made eye contact for the briefest of moments, then the general was past and his staff swarmed by St. George.
“Cump!” Grant reined in his horse as Sherman arrived at the same time as Rumble.
“General.” Sherman saluted. Other than his eyes, he was as calm as a stone. “It’s been a bit hot on the field. One of my brigades, well, it’s gone. Shot all up. But the rest of the boys are fighting hard. We’re giving some land, but making them pay for every step forward. I sent Elijah to find Wallace and bring him forward with all haste.”
Grant pointed. “You’re wounded.”
Sherman held up a hand dripping blood. “It’s nothing. Got hit in the shoulder too, but the bullet was spent. Didn’t even break the skin.”
Grant looked past Sherman at the smoke covered battlefield. “Lew Wallace’s division is coming. And Buell should be here tonight. We’ve got to hold until then.”
“My only concern,” Sherman said, “is running out of ammunition.”
“I’ve got wagons moving forward,” Grant said. “Don’t concern yourself with that.”
Sherman pointed to the southeast. “I’d be worried about Prentiss. He’s holding the center and it sounds like hell’s furies have been let loose over there.”
“I’ll see how he’s doing,” Grant said. He pulled a cigar out of a pocket, cut the end off and fired it up. He clenched it between his teeth. “Let’s ride, Lucius.”
They galloped off, leaving Sherman with his division.
Grant turned to Rumble. “That’s one commander we don’t have to spend much time with.”
“He’s in his element,” Rumble acknowledged. Their focus on the battle, neither noticed St. George shadowing them.
The Union front was not smooth and several times they came perilously close to Confederates. They rounded a thicket of blackberries, surprising a half-dozen men in gray taking turns at a pot of Union coffee they’d scavenged. Grant spurred his horse and they rode right through, Rumble firing both barrels of the shotgun, scattering them like so many geese. One of the men got a shot off, hitting Grant’s scabbard, breaking his sword.
Grant didn’t pause and Rumble rode close by his friend’s shoulder. They found the remains of Prentiss’ division spread along a half mile of old wagon trail, the ruts sinking down one to three feet, giving the men some protection. A large field fronted them. Across that field, wounded and dazed soldiers were straggling back, many coming out of a peach orchard where the sound of battle was fierce. Their faces were black from powder, the sign of men who’d fired often.
“Perfect position,” Grant said to Prentiss when they found the 6th Division Commander.
Prentiss was grim. “This is the line, General Grant. We’ve held in the peach orchard as long was we could, but it’s too expo
sed from the rest of the line.”
Grant gave him the same news about Wallace and Buell. Looking about, Rumble could see the hard set to the shoulders of the men already in the sunken road. Their faces had the same distinctive black smear from biting off the tips of their power cartridges before pouring into the barrel. Their eyes glittered as they peered across the open space. Now veterans, no matter what they’d been this morning, they knew they had a perfect field of fire in front of them and a river to their rear.
As Grant conferred with Prentiss, Rumble went over to one of the staff officers. “Where is the 5th Ohio Cavalry?”
“What’s left of them is about a quarter mile down the road,” the man said. “They came back here in a hurry.”
Rumble fought the urge to search for Ben, as Grant wound up his visit with Prentiss.
“How many men do you have?” Grant asked.
“Six or seven thousand,” Prentiss replied. “Hard to tell. We lost many a man over the morning.”
“Artillery?”
“Twenty-five pieces.”
“Maintain this position at all hazards,” Grant ordered.
Prentiss nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Damn it!” Nathan Bedford Forrest cursed.
With his scouts he’d just ridden the battlefield from east to west. It was all going wrong. The Yankee right was giving way, not the left as planned. And the divisions were so intermingled, Confederate generals were simply taking command of the section of the battlefield they could see, rather than the units they had started the day in charge of. Which made getting orders down to the men who actually had to do the shooting that much harder. And the success in the west was getting wasted as many of those officers were marching their men to neither flank, but toward the torrent of gunfire in the center just like Napoleon had preached: always march to the sound of the guns. Something hellacious was going on there.
Forrest spotted some dead horses in a field and turned toward them, supposing they might be from his cavalry. When he got close enough, he saw that the bodies amongst the horses were Yankee.
