No Better Place to Die- The Battle of Stones River

by Peter Cozzens

  Farther to the left, Randall Gibson was having similar problems. Gibson had left the front for a moment to redirect the Thirteenth and Twentieth Louisiana Consolidated, on a collision course with the river. In his absence, the confusion mounted. As Stones River meanders toward McFadden's Ford it curls westward, then loops abruptly to the north. At that point a nearby belt of timber and parallel high ground channeled any unit approaching from the southeast; consequently, the brigades of Hanson, now led by Colonel Trabue, and Pillow intermingled badly as they neared the river. “The peculiar nature of the ground and the direction of the river and the eagerness of the troops caused the lines of General Pillow's brigade and this brigade to lap on the crest of the hill,” explained Trabue. Ed Thompson was more direct: “In the madness of pursuit all order and discipline were forgotten.”

  That madness was contagious, infecting even the regimental mascots. Gervis Grainger, hugging the ground with his comrades as their regiment prepared to charge Price's second line, watched as Frank, their canine companion, leapt after a rabbit. A few of the Kentuckians raised a cheer of encouragement, then more, until the entire line was yelling wildly. Believing they were about to be charged, the Federals unleashed their first volley, which passed harmlessly over the heads of the Kentuckians but which caused the rabbit to double back toward the Sixth Kentucky. As he darted through the ranks, with Frank close behind, one soldier reflected aloud: “Run, cottontail, run! Had I no more reputation to sustain than you, I would run too!”7

  Meanwhile, Sam Beatty was beginning to see that, unless the Confederate advance were arrested, his first engagement as a division commander would be remembered as a rout. So he turned to Colonel Grider, whose three remaining regiments were resting in the ravine near McFadden's Ford, and ordered him to counterattack. Grider turned in the saddle and galloped back to his command.

  Actually, Beatty already had sent a staff officer directly to the commander of the Nineteenth Ohio, the nearsighted Charles Manderson, with the same instructions. As this was “contrary to rule and custom,” Manderson contemplated ignoring them; but, “presuming the occasion to be an emergency requiring such a deviation,” he thought better of it and obeyed. In one of the few recorded instances of hand-to-hand combat during the battle, the Nineteenth bested the Fourth Kentucky. At the same time, Grider appeared with the Ninth and Eleventh Kentucky (Union), which cleared their fronts with just four or five volleys.

  Grider was elated. “Colonel, we have them checked,” he told Beatty. “Give us artillery and we will whip them.” Beatty promised it, and Grider felt confident; that is, until he looked to the right and saw Manderson's regiment coming apart. Grider called to Manderson as he rode by: “Major, the Ninth is still standing: let us rally the Nineteenth and sustain her.” “We are flanked on our right,” Manderson answered. “We had better fall back and rally at the foot of the hill, if we can.” Grider accepted Manderson at his word, and the Ninth and Eleventh Kentucky joined the rearward tide.

  Manderson may have been premature. The units he had spotted beyond his right were merely fragments of the Second and Sixth Kentucky that, having been crowded against the river bank, splashed across without orders and scampered up the east bank. Gervis Grainger was among them. He and several others from Company I crossed together, then scattered. Grainger darted behind a large sycamore and opened fire on a handful of Federals clustered in a cabin sixty yards away. Looking back for a moment, he saw only a dense cloud of smoke where his regiment had been.8

  It was 4:45 P.M. The sun had set, the temperature was falling, and the sleet continued to slap at the soldiers. In the gathering darkness, Breckinridge's men fixed their gaze on flashes of cannon fire from across the river and pushed on.

  There was little on the east bank to stop them. In spite of Beatty's best efforts, Price's shattered regiments had swarmed past him toward the river. “Their flight was down the river, whither we pursued them for nearly half a mile, dealing fire and death in their backs…. In the rout hundreds of them fell…with their faces…upon the field,” observed Palmer. And with Fyffe down (his horse having thrown, then dragged him), his brigade swarmed rearward through Grose's lines.

  Preston was right behind. The commanders of the Twenty-third Kentucky and the Twenty-fourth Ohio, not expecting an attack from the southeast after Pillow deviated toward the river, were as surprised to see Preston as he was to be leading the attack. After only the feeblest attempt to hold their positions, both regiments fled toward Grose's line. Sergeant Louis Simmons of the Eighty-fourth Illinois watched their disordered approach and Preston's determined pursuit: “Out of the woods into the open fields in our front…they came, in the greatest possible confusion. The whole division was in full retreat, and apparently taking one of those terrible stampedes which any troops will, when routed and pressed by the enemy. Each man seemed to be looking out only for himself, and making every possible effort to get out of danger. Out of the woods, pursuing them came the brigades of the enemy in most splendid lines of battle, their colors flying and apparently secure of an easy and complete victory.”

  Simmons's Eighty-fourth Illinois, the Sixth Ohio, and the Thirty-sixth Indiana rose in unison from behind their breastworks to engage the Floridians, now within three hundred yards. They halted, and a brisk exchange followed.

  Just as he had been on the thirty-first, Rosecrans was in the thick of the fight now, scraping together idle units with which to bolster the flagging left. The general was in only slightly firmer control of his emotions than he had been on Wednesday. “Old Rosy came galloping down the pike where we lay, the sweat pouring down his face, and sent for Colonel Carlin,” Colonel Hans Heg wrote his wife after the battle. Heg quotes Rosecrans's impassioned command: “I beg you for the sake of the country and for my own sake to go at them with all your might. Go at them with a whoop and a yell!” Carlin saluted and led his command toward the river.9

  While Rosecrans begged Carlin to save the country and his career, Captain John Mendenhall, Crittenden's chief of artillery, was less dramatically but more effectively striving to concentrate all available guns to meet Breckinridge's assault. His efforts were decisive. By the time Breckinridge's infantry crested the hill above McFadden's Ford that was their objective, Mendenhall had collected forty-five pieces, enough to blow the Butternuts back to their line of departure.

  Although Mendenhall gathered the guns at Crittenden's request, his success most certainly exceeded the general's expectations. Mendenhall and Crittenden had been riding along the Nashville Turnpike when Breckinridge struck Beatty. Riding to the sound of the guns, they drew rein alongside the Seventh Indiana Artillery in time to witness the rout of Price and the abortive counterattack of Grider. “Now, Mendenhall, you must cover my men with your cannon,” Crittenden ordered.

  Mendenhall obeyed. The Seventh Indiana already had opened fire, so Mendenhall left them where they were and called on Parsons to bring his four three-inch ordnance rifles alongside the Hoosiers. Riding up the turnpike, he found Lieutenant Estep, who had pulled out of the duel with Polk's artillery that morning. Estep went into action beside Battery F, First Ohio. Next, Mendenhall sought out Morton, whose Pioneer Brigade was resting in reserve. Morton committed the Chicago Board of Trade Battery and also advanced his brigade. As Battery B, Twenty-sixth Pennsylvania Artillery, lay near the ford, Mendenhall permitted its commander to remain where he was, ordering him merely to change front to the left and open fire. Battery B, First Ohio, laying in the field where Rains's assault had been shattered two days earlier, moved to cover the ford itself. Returning to supervise the deployment of his collected guns, Mendenhall ran across the Sixth Ohio Artillery on the railroad. Captain Bradley had his pieces trained on the enemy, and Mendenhall left him with orders to commence firing at the first opportunity.

  Mendenhall deployed his guns perfectly, arraying them hub to hub on a slope at least ten feet higher than the highest point on the east bank, so that their crews would have unobstructed fields of fire.
/>   Breckinridge's Confederates crested the hill above the ford, and Mendenhall's guns roared their greeting. The destruction was terrific. “So it was here, if a soldier ever saw the lightning and heard the thunder bolts of a tornado, at the same time the heavens opened and the stars of destruction were sweeping everything from the face of the earth, if he was in this charge he saw it,” wrote the historian of the Twentieth Tennessee. Lieutenant Colonel Buckner of Breckinridge's staff agreed, writing simply: “A more terrific fire of artillery I have never been under than in this position.” Ed Thompson's recollection of the last moments of the attack are particularly poignant: “The very earth trembled as with an exploding mine, and a mass of iron hail was hurled upon them. The artillery bellowed forth such thunder that the men were stunned and could not distinguish sounds. There were falling timbers, crashing arms, the whirring of missiles in every direction, the bursting of the dreadful shell, the groans of the wounded, the shouts of the officers, mingled in one horrid din that beggars description.” As the initial shock of the barrage wore off, the men regained their composure—the “composure of despair,” recalled Thompson. First individually, then by squads, finally by entire regiments, the Confederates recoiled. “Some rushed back precipitately, while others walked away with deliberation, and some even slowly and doggedly, as though they scorned the danger or had become indifferent to life.”10

  The suddenness and completeness of the Confederate collapse surprised the Federals. They “cannot be said to have been checked in their advance—from a rapid advance they broke at once into a rapid retreat,” remembered Crittenden. But their surprise in no way prevented those troops gathered along the west bank, among them Stanley's and Miller's brigades, from spontaneously splashing across the river in pursuit. The Seventy-eighth Pennsylvania crossed first. Walking behind his Nineteenth Illinois as it lay among the limestone outcrops near the bank, Colonel Joseph Scott noticed the Pennsylvanians wading across beyond his right; drawing his sword, he yelled, “Follow me!” and sprinted down the bank, his regiment trailing after him. Colonel Miller decided against recalling those already across. Instead he supported them with the remainder of the brigade, and into the waist-deep waters went the Twenty-first and Seventy-fourth Ohio and several companies of the Thirty-seventh Indiana. Miller himself was already on the east bank, exhorting his men as they fired into the backs of the fleeing Confederates, when a courier from General Palmer brought a startling message: He, Miller, was not to cross; the enemy had gained his right rear. Before Miller could react, a second rider arrived with a peremptory order cancelling the one just received. Miller shrugged: “Having no inclination to turn back, I ordered the troops forward.”

  Palmer's strange orders emerged from the continued presence of fragments of the Second and Sixth Kentucky, joined now by the Sixteenth and Twenty-fifth Louisiana Consolidated, in the belt of timber along the west bank, beyond Miller's right. Determined to dislodge them, Palmer called upon Cruft, whose brigade lay behind Mendenhall's guns, to provide him with two regiments. They arrived, and Palmer led them forward with fixed bayonets to sweep the bank clean of Butternuts.

  Gervis Grainger was still absorbed in his private war with the Yankees in the cabin when Palmer approached. A Union brass band blaring to his right drew his attention to the larger struggle around him. Glancing “in the direction I had left our men, not one was to be seen. Our army had retreated, leaving me alone to fight the Federal forces single-handed.” Not quite, but one can imagine Grainger's fear. The Kentuckian leveled his rifle for one final, defiant shot (which he claims dropped a Federal color sergeant), then jumped from the bank and into the river. Bullets peppered the water around him, but Grainger reached the east side and began running. He tried to grab a riderless horse, but a shell fragment carried away its head. Continuing on foot, he passed four men carrying a wounded soldier on a litter. Another shell struck the litter, killing two bearers and their charge. The remaining two joined Grainger, and together they sprinted toward the rear, not stopping until they reached the belt of timber behind which the attack was first organized.11

  By the time Grainger reached the east bank, most of his comrades had succumbed to panic. Hundreds surrendered. Corporal Joseph Johnston of the Nineteenth Illinois wrote his mother that many, overcome with fear, simply fell to their knees and begged mercy, claiming to be conscripts compelled to fight in the Confederate army. Private Nourse of the Chicago Board of Trade Battery, bouncing across the field on a limber, swore that the enemy “fled faster than our men had done before, throwing away everything that impeded their flight, and muskets and equipment covered the ground.”

  Captain Robertson told Bragg substantially the same story: “I have never seen troops so completely broken in my military experience. In more than one instance I found it necessary to cock my revolver and level it in order to bring men to a realizing sense of their duty.” Major Pickett took exception to Robertson's remarks. No troops had ever displayed greater valor, he replied: given the circumstances, retreat was the only alternative to slaughter—and the retreat was orderly. Others, aware that Robertson penned his report as Bragg wished it to read, also dismissed the captain's remarks as invective. But more than one troop commander attested to the veracity of Robertson's account. Colonel Joseph Lewis in his report admitted the impossibility of restoring order to his Sixth Kentucky once Mendenhall's guns were trained on them; Preston had only slightly better luck with his troops and those of Pillow. Grabbing the colors of the first fleeing standard-bearer he encountered, Preston used his free hand to beat everyone within reach with his sabre, until he had gathered a corporal's guard around him. Finding that he had snatched the colors of the Forty-fifth Tennessee, one of Pillow's regiments, he called for its colonel, gave him the standard, and together they restored a semblance of order to the unit. “My persuasions were not very effective, but the blows were, and finally by an appearance that I was going to take them to a place of safety, I got a good many together and left them with their colonel.” Preston then turned his attention to his own brigade, which he rallied only after it reached the safety of the woods.

  Breckinridge's artillery was wholly unprepared for this sudden turn of events. Lieutenant W. C. D. Vaughan had led his Washington Artillery dutifully forward to occupy the ground abandoned by Price and Fyffe. From there he opened on Mendenhall's massed batteries. The results were predictable: Vaughan expended all his ammunition in dismounting just one Napoleon twelve-pounder belonging to Parson's battery. The Washington Artillery delivered its final volley as Pillow's shattered regiments streamed past. By the time Vaughan limbered the last of his four guns, the Federals were a mere fifty yards away.

  Wright's Tennessee battery was less fortunate. Wright scarcely had deployed his guns when Breckinridge's retreating infantry poured through his position. Nevertheless, Wright held his ground, covering the withdrawal until the Yankees were within seventy-five yards and a bullet killed him. At that point, Major Graves stepped in. He barked the order, “Limber to the rear,” but just as the pieces were fastened he countermanded the command and directed the battery to unlimber and ram the guns with double charges of canister. They fired, a cloud of smoke swallowed the Federals, and Graves repeated the order to limber up. It came too late. Lieutenant John Mebane, the senior section commander, could only write: “Had our battery gone to the rear when the other batteries of the division did, we would have saved our guns; but being under the immediate supervision of the chief of artillery, we did not move without orders from him.”12

  As Confederate resistance dissolved, more Northern units joined in the pursuit. Grider grabbed the colors of the Ninth Kentucky (Union) and led his brigade in on Miller's left. Hazen crossed the river with his brigade at about the same time. Leaving three of his four regiments near the ford in reserve, he took the Twenty-third Kentucky, Thirty-sixth Indiana, and Twenty-fourth Ohio of Grose's brigade and, forming them in column, advanced beside Grider.

  The counterattacking Federals were now cl
osing on the woods from which Breckinridge had launched his attack only an hour earlier, just forty-two minutes earlier by Ed Thompson's calculation. For a time, it appeared as if Miller, Stanley, Grider, and Hazen might roll on into Murfreesboro. But Wharton's troopers galloped over from the right and dismounted across the field, and the Washington Artillery and Semple's Alabama battery (minus one gun lost to Grider's Ninth Kentucky) rallied on Robertson's battery, which had never advanced. Although it was a scratch line, it was enough to halt the Federals who, in the gathering twilight, assumed they had struck a much larger force. Stanley pulled his men out of the briar-laced sward, where they were badly exposed, and back behind a hill north of the woods. Miller did the same, although he attributed the halt more to “the disorder which follows such success” than to the Confederates’ patchwork defense. Grose's troops and Hazen's single regiment stopped earlier, a mere five hundred yards from their original position. Grider appears to have followed the example of Miller and Stanley.

  Although Wharton's troopers undoubtedly contributed to the success of the covering action, they had been invisible during the attack. Neither Wharton nor Pegram had advanced to protect the right flank of the infantry. Pillow told Bragg that they had remained on the ridge beyond his right, watching as Hazen turned his flank but doing nothing. Brent wrote in his journal that “the cavalry on the right were ordered to cooperate, but they were mere spectators.” Nonetheless, it is unlikely that their participation would have made any real difference in the outcome of the assault.13

  Deeply shaken by the disaster that had befallen his division, Breckinridge raged “like a wounded lion” as he passed the remnants of each command. But it was the sight of his beloved Orphan Brigade that reduced him to tears. Nearly one-third of the twelve hundred engaged had failed to return: thirteen of twenty-three officers in the Fourth Kentucky had fallen; in the Second Kentucky, four standard-bearers had been killed carrying the colors thirty feet. Riding among the survivors, Breckinridge cried again and again: “My poor Orphans! My poor Orphans!”14