The South won that battle, but they lost Stonewall Jackson, which was a grievous loss indeed. No one can know if Gettysburg would have been any different, if this giant among men had been there, standing sure and true “like a stone wall.” He was not there, and Robert E. Lee was defeated, though the Army of Northern Virginia was not decimated. Still they fought on.
But then came the turn of the tide, a point in time that fated the South to a full and final defeat. Abraham Lincoln chose Ulysses S. Grant to be commander-in-chief of all the Union armies. This sealed the fate of the Confederate States of America. Unlike most of the commanding generals before him, Grant was very unimpressive to look at and was not much of a one for talking, nor parades. His uniform was usually scruffy, and at times he even wore the uniform of a private, with the general’s stars, denoting his rank, only showing on his collar.
His choice to succeed him as commanding officer of the Military Division of Mississippi, which was the command of all the troops in the Western Theater, was a general named William Tecumseh Sherman. These two men spelled the death of the Confederacy. Grant told Lincoln, “I’m going to go for Lee, and Sherman is going to go for Joe Johnston. That’s the plan.”
The first battle Grant engaged in with Lee was a bloody affair called the Battle of the Wilderness. As usual, the Northern troops suffered great losses.
Always before when this had happened, the Northern generals had retreated to Washington and built up their forces again. But Grant was different. He and Sherman both were men who believed in total war, with no mercy shown, to bring a quick end to a foe. Grant was determined to wear down the South, and if he had to lose three men for every death the Southern army incurred, so be it. Behind him lay the immense numbers in the North, while the South was already sending sixteen-year-olds and fifty-year-olds into battle. Sherman was a cold-eyed realist, and his most famous statement was, “War is hell.” And he set about to make it so. He set out for Georgia, and the South has never forgotten the cold-blooded and terrible devastation that followed in the wake of Sherman and his men.
With the appointment by Lincoln of Grant and Sherman, it was as if a steel door had suddenly slammed on the South and their army. For after this there really was little hope.
It was October 9, 1863, and Jeb Stuart stood beside the bed where his wife, Flora, lay. He was holding the newest Stuart, a daughter. He looked down at Flora, reached over, and put his hand on her hair. “You choose a name, dear, and I’ll choose one.”
Flora was exhausted from the struggles to bring the child into the world, but she answered, “I’ve always wanted a daughter named Virginia.”
“Excellent! That’s who she’ll be.”
“And what name will you choose?” Flora managed a weak smile.
“Of all the men I’ve known, my gunner Pelham was the most noble. He was indeed the gallant Pelham as everyone called him, and to this day I miss him terribly. I’d like to call this child Virginia Pelham Stuart.”
“A fine name, Jeb.”
Jeb walked the floor, looking into the face of his new daughter, smiling, taking her tiny hand in his strong one. Finally he gave the child back to Flora and then sat down beside her in a worn walnut rocking chair. As he rocked, he grew strangely quiet.
Flora saw that he was grieved. “What’s the matter, Jeb? You look troubled.”
“I guess I am, my dear Flora.”
“Can you tell me what it is?”
“It’s hard to say. I feel, Flora, that I let General Lee down at Gettysburg. All the papers say so, and some of my best friends in the army accused me of not being a good soldier.”
Flora shook her head and extended her hand, which he took. She squeezed it and said, “You mustn’t grieve, dear. You did what you thought was best. If you made a mistake, others have made theirs.”
“I’ve told myself that many times,” Jeb said in a subdued tone. “I don’t know what made me act as I did. At the time it seemed as if I was following orders, doing exactly what General Lee had asked me to do. But now, looking back, I can see that I made a terrible mistake and should have come back to him days earlier.”
“Jeb, you are a man of God, and you put your trust in Him,” Flora said steadily. “Don’t look back with useless regrets. As you said, you were doing your best, your utmost to perform your duty. That is all a man can do, even the great General Jeb Stuart. Now, let’s talk about something else, something cheerful. What are we going to do when this awful war is finally over, do you think?”
Stuart looked up at her with surprise. It was as if he had never given a thought to that time. “Why, I suppose I’ll stay in the army. Get a nice, comfortable command. I can sit behind a desk, and then every night I will come home to you and the children. Maybe we can have two or three more.”
Flora smiled and said, “Right now I just want to hold Virginia Pelham Stuart. She is precious.”
“Yes, she is. I think she’s going to look like you, Flora, and I hope she does. And I hope she is loving and kind like you. You’ve been the best wife a man ever had.”
Tears came to Flora’s eyes, for Jeb was often jocular and paid her many light, sometimes silly compliments, but this, she knew, came from his heart. “Thank you, Jeb. You can’t know how much that means to me.”
“It’s true, Flora. I thank God for you every day. With His help and your love, I know I can fight on.”
Clay and Corporal Tyron dismounted, took off their hats and gauntlets, and wearily threw themselves down to lean against a big spreading oak tree. The tree was on a small rise, and because of its deep shade, it had minimal undergrowth. It stood like a sentinel, its branches sketching a graceful silhouette against a shroud-gray sky. The two men were silent for a while, taking sips from their canteens, savoring even the tepid, gritty water.
Idly Clay said, “You know, Corporal, I had some funny ideas about battle before I saw one.”
“And what is that, sir?”
“Well, I’d seen pictures in books, you know, of armies out on open fields all neatly lined up with their rifles all held in the same position. Not a man was out of step, and they squared off facing each other, and then they marched right toward each other.” He rubbed his eyes. “It’s not like that. It’s nothing like that.”
Corporal Tyron said, “That may have happened in Europe, but when those lobsters came over here fighting for old King George, they found out that that nonsense won’t do over here. We’re not strutting fools. We’re soldiers, and we fight hard. We fight any way we can, anyplace we can.”
“It’s especially true here in the South,” Clay observed. “Too many trees, too many forests, too many rivers. It’s hard to find a place to have a review, much less to put two huge armies together.” He looked out over the desolate landscape.
The sky was a death-gray caul, and a layer of stinking gray smoke hovered over the ground. They had just fought for two days in what was to be called simply the Battle of the Wilderness.
Ulysses Grant had begun his relentless push toward Richmond as soon as he had taken command of the Army of the Potomac. He came straight on, 122,000 strong, crossing the Rapidan and heading due south.
Lee, with his army of 66,000, chose to meet him in the middle of nowhere, miles of empty fields and dense woods just south of Fredericksburg. He counted on the bewildering trackless forest of stunted pine, scrub oak, and sweet gum, with their impenetrable thickets of wild honeysuckle vines and briars, to keep the Yankees from bringing artillery to bear. It worked.
But still the woods caught fire from the hot shot of thousands of muskets.
Tyron said, “I have to say, Lieutenant, that I have seen some bloody Indian massacres, but this was much, much worse. No such thing as a battle line. It was just men by themselves hiding behind trees and under rocks, and the bluebellies were the same. And then”—he sighed—“the woods caught fire.”
Looking out over the scorched earth, Clay remembered horrific scenes from the last two days. “Men just burned to d
eath,” he murmured painfully. “They were wounded and too weak to crawl away.”
Clay and certainly Max Tyron were, by now, battle-hardened veterans. But on this dark day they were both literally exhausted. Their uniforms were filthy, as were their faces and indeed their entire bodies.
The battle had been a nightmare. After the first volley, the black powder had thrown a cloud of smoke over the thick woods, and a man could not see five feet away. He did not know at times whether he was firing at his fellow soldiers or an enemy.
Jeb’s cavalry had tried to front the infantry, but scouting was impossible. In the woods, even when they could find a trail, it was merely a path, with undergrowth so thick on either side a whole division of Yankees could have been five feet away and they never would have seen them. Finally they had dismounted and joined in the killing field.
Clay started out in good formation with his company, but in the massive tangle of men in the wilderness, he and Tyron had gotten completely separated from any recognizable command, and that morning they had found themselves alone, so they had ridden to the live oak for some welcome shelter.
Clay had thought that he might never sleep again; the scenes in his mind were so fresh and vivid that he hated to close his eyes. But then he woke up with a start and realized that both he and Tyron had fallen asleep sitting straight up. “Corporal,” he said, shaking Tyron’s shoulder. “Wake up.”
Tyron’s eyes flew open, and he was alert immediately. “I hear it.”
They listened, and Clay nodded grimly. “That’s 1st Cav’s bugle call,” he said. “Just over to our left. Not too far either.”
They struggled to their feet. Lightning and Tyron’s horse had remained standing under the tree, not even grazing. As they mounted up, Tyron said, “Hope there’s something left of us.”
“And I hope,” Clay said grimly, “that we’re going to ride out of this wilderness and never come back.”
The two armies regrouped, leaving twenty-five thousand casualties in the Wilderness. The Federals lost almost eighteen thousand men, killed, wounded, and missing. Always before, such losses sent the Union generals scuttling back to Washington. But Grant pressed on mercilessly, and Lee had to use all of his considerable military genius to move about his numerically inferior forces to counter him. Of course, Jeb’s riders were all over the country, scouting out the lines and dispositions.
On May 11, Jeb was in the saddle early, and the weary 1st Virginia Cavalry rode out, heading south. As usual, Clay managed to work himself around until he was riding with Stuart. As always, Stuart was jovial, laughing, his manner as carefree as if they were going to a ball.
They had had several run-ins with Federal cavalry, which seemed to be crawling all over the countryside. Clay remarked, “I think this is the most fighting we’ve done one-on-one with bluebelly cavalry.”
“Grant took the leash off Phil Sheridan,” Jeb told him. “No Union general has ever used the cavalry like they should. They keep nibbling away at the commands, using them to guard supply trains, escorting prisoners, and standing pickets. General Sheridan is a little bitty spitfire, ’bout as tall as an upright musket, with a temper like a mad dog. But he’s a smart man and a good officer. That’s why all of a sudden they’re everywhere we look. They’re out ahead of the main body of the army, but not just to scout. They send out enough to form a fighting force.”
“Guess we’ll fight them then,” Clay said.
“That’s what you joined the cavalry for, Tremayne,” Jeb said cheerfully.
They passed a pleasant oak arbor with a fresh spring bubbling up and running downhill in a fast-running, cold stream. Jeb called a brief halt for the men to refill their canteens and water the horses. As usual, he stayed in the saddle, right leg thrown over it, studying a map. Clay stayed mounted and idled near him. “Right here,” Jeb said, mostly to himself. Then he looked up at Clay and said, “A little nothing place named Yellow Tavern should be right ahead of us. I figure that’s where we’ll find some Yanks to shoot.”
“We’re ready, sir,” Clay said confidently.
Jeb took off his hat, smoothed his hair back, then settled it back on his head. The long ostrich plume waved airily in a light dusty breeze. “You know, Lieutenant, we’re only about six miles north of Richmond.”
“Yes, sir, I know,” Clay said.
Jeb’s blue eyes clouded, and he grew unusually grave. “I never expected to live through this war. But if we are conquered, I don’t want to live anyway.”
Clay stared at him. It was so unlike Stuart, and Clay had never suspected that his general felt that deeply about the war. Before he could think of a suitable reply, Jeb suddenly grinned and yelled at the men to hurry up. It was time to get moving again.
Yellow Tavern was named after an ancient inn that was painted a sickly yellow, and what town there was didn’t look much better than the inn. It was a shabby, mean little bunch of old houses and storefronts all huddled together. To the north were thick woods, clearing nearer the tavern. Fenced-in fields almost surrounded the small settlement.
They reached it about 10:00 a.m., and there was not one blue coat in sight. Stuart made dispositions of his men; because the cavalry corps had been split up to counter Sheridan’s numerous units, he had only about eleven hundred men with him. Basically they just took what scant cover they could find and then waited.
At about noon they saw the first Yankees, and by about two o’clock they knew they were badly outnumbered. Stuart had sent to Richmond for reinforcements and expected them at any time. The first attack came before any reinforcements reached them.
In the blue ranks of the 5th Michigan, a trooper named John A. Huff rode along, one in a sea of blue coats. He was forty-two years old and in 1861 had joined the 2nd U.S. Sharpshooters, a crack regiment that had become famous as Berdan’s Sharpshooters. He had won a prize as the regiment’s best shot, an expert among hundreds of crack marksmen.
Huff had been wounded and had gone home but had returned later and reenlisted in the Michigan cavalry. He was a good soldier, though he was not spectacular. He was married and had been a carpenter before the war. Huff had mild blue eyes, brown hair, and a light complexion, and stood only five feet eight inches tall. Late in the morning of May 11, he was moving toward a battle, but he, no more than the rest of his fellows, knew whom they were to fight.
Jeb Stuart’s cavalry, along with the rest of the Confederate Army, were accustomed to being outnumbered. But by four o’clock, they had taken some heavy losses, and though the Yankees had, too, it seemed the distant woods never stopped crawling with more oncoming men. Every squad, every company, had wounded men.
Blithely Jeb Stuart rode here and there, whistling a tune, encouraging them. “Stay steady, boys,” he shouted. “Give it to ’em! Shoot them! Shoot them!”
Clay stubbornly followed him everywhere, and he grew more and more nervous. The fire was heavy, and he said, “General, there are men behind stumps and fences being killed, and here you are out in the open.”
Stuart turned, and there was laughter in his light blue eyes. “I don’t reckon there’s any danger, Lieutenant,” he said.
He turned and in a canter rode to a placed cannon on the near side of the road from the town. Every trooper manning it had been injured. On his big gray horse Stuart called out to them, “Steady, men! Line it up and give it to them!”
Suddenly a group of Federal cavalry that had gotten through the line of battle filed along to the left of the fence on the far side of the dusty road. They were passing within ten or fifteen feet of General Stuart. One blue-coated horseman who had been dismounted in a charge trotted along with them. Clay saw him pull his pistol, take what looked to be a casual aim on the run, and fire. The man was John Huff.
Just in front of him, Stuart reeled in his saddle.
“General, are you hit?” Clay asked.
“Yes.”
“You wounded bad?”
“I’m afraid I am. But don’t worry, boys. Fitz wi
ll do as well for you as I have.”
Clay and several other troopers surrounded Stuart. One of them, Captain Dorsey, rode very close and steadied the general so he could stay in his saddle. They rode toward the rear.
Jeb said, “No, I don’t want to leave the field!”
Captain Dorsey said gently, “We’re taking you back a little, General, so as not to leave you to the enemy.”
Stuart relented and said, “Take the papers from my inside pocket. Keep them from the Yankees.”
Two troopers dashed off to get an ambulance and to find General Fitzhugh Lee, Robert E. Lee’s nephew, who served as divisional commander of the 1st Virginia under Stuart. Under fire, Clay, Captain Dorsey, and the other men surrounding Stuart had to keep falling back. Stuart said, “You officers need to leave me and go back and drive them.”
Clay said, “No sir, just a little farther in the rear now, and we’ll wait for the ambulance.”
“I’m afraid they’ve killed me, Lieutenant. I’ll be of no use. You go back and fight.”
“I can’t obey that order,” Clay said. “I’d rather they get me, too, than leave you for them. We’ll have you out of here.”
Very soon the ambulance, General Fitz Lee, and Jeb’s doctor, John Fontaine, arrived. As soon as Lee arrived, Stuart said, “Go ahead, Fitz, old fellow. I know you’ll do what’s right.”
They loaded him into the ambulance, and not a single word, not a groan, crossed his lips. But just before the ambulance pulled out, he raised himself up and called out in his booming voice, “Go back! Go back! Do your duty as I’ve done mine. I would rather die than be whipped!”
Last Cavaliers Trilogy Page 66
