by R. E. Thomas
With the care of the one-handed, Jackson put his field glasses back in their case. His eyes sparkled brightly, and he aggressively scratched his thigh as if chasing a painful itch. He turned about as if to leave, but then stopped and returned.
“I wish I had some lemons, Pete. A lemon would be very pleasant, very settling.”
Stewart still had his binoculars raised. “Message from Forrest. I can see the flags on Indian Mountain.”
In just a few minutes, the message was transcribed and decoded by Stewart’s staff. The clerk was about to hand it to Stewart, but he shook his head slightly and tilted it towards Jackson, who received it instead.
Jackson read and became even more animated, snapping his words out in small barks. “It’s Forrest. Reports strong Federal column working around Clayton’s flank. From Scales Mountain. But we can see that. Also, Red Jackson under heavy attack. About to be out-flanked too. Will withdraw soon.”
“Then it’s time,” Stewart said. “With your permission, I will tell Clayton to pull back, as per his instructions. And I want to put that counter-attack in myself.”
Jackson nodded vigorously. Stewart had already explained to him his specific plan: to speed up the withdrawal, Clayton’s brigades would let go of Stevenson’s left flank and keep only loosely aligned with each other. To prevent the enemy from pouring through the gap that would open up between Stevenson and Clayton, Stewart would punch right into that gap with his reserves.
“Good, good.”
More hesitantly, Stewart said, “Tom, may I suggest you leave this place. I know I have some artillery up here, and Polk’s whole corps is supposed to come through here, but if something goes astray… this little hill will become an island in a sea of Federal troops. You should go on back and join the Bishop.”
Jackson looked annoyed, and said testily, “Yes, yes. You are right, of course. I’ll not tarry here.”
Stewart mounted up and rode away, taking his immediate attendants with him. Jackson watched as the party cantered across the fields, the road, and into the woods at the base of the Burnt Knob escarpment. Right about the time Jackson saw Clayton begin his withdrawal, he also saw Holtzclaw’s and Pettus’s Brigade’s, practically an improvised demi-division of Alabamians, move forward.
Jackson looked back over his shoulder, although all he could really see was the black and brass cannon lined up behind him. Polk is three miles away, Jackson thought, but the enemy would see him coming up from about two miles away. He decided to wait a little while longer before calling on Polk. So he sat down on the grass, watching and waiting.
After about twenty minutes of this, a courier galloped up. He swung over and off his horse and almost leapt the final steps up to Jackson. “Message from General Cleburne, sir!”
Jackson didn’t get up, took the message, and started reading it without saying a word.
Wednesday, June 22
Noon
Headquarters, Cleburne’s Corps of the Army of Tennessee
Patrick R. Cleburne Commanding, Brevet Lieutenant General of Foot, CSA
To General Thomas J. Jackson
Commanding General, Army of Tennessee and Western Department
Sir,
General Buford reports his position severely tested by Federal infantry, and that the enemy has captured and been driven from the Murfreesboro Pike Bridge once already. I went north to personally inspect Buford’s circumstances myself, and believe the Federals will make another attempt to force a crossing of Stewart’s Creek north of the position of my corps, in Buford’s territory. For this reason, I have instructed General Buford to fire the Mufreesboro Pike Bridge, and dispatched my reserve of Granbury’s Brigade to bolster his line.
I may require reinforcements should the enemy press my front and the far right under Buford in greater strength. Please advise.
Your obedient servant,
Patrick Cleburne
Jackson folded the message up, put it in his pocket, and said, “Inform General Cleburne that the main Federal effort will be here, on the left, and not on the center or right. I condone his actions, but have no reinforcements to send him. He must hold with what he and General Buford have.”
The courier saluted, and as he turned and sprinted back to his horse, Jackson checked his watch and noted that it was quarter to one o’clock. He then returned to his vigil, and broke into a broad smile as he saw Clayton’s planned withdrawal had begun.
Clayton’s Division had once been Stewart’s and labored and fought in accordance with Old Straight’s methodical style. Each of the three brigades on the firing line left behind a single regiment, spread out loosely, to keep up a masking fire from behind the earthworks. Then went those batteries assigned to directly support Clayton’s line. Torn up by Federal counter-fires, the gunners left behind them scenes of dead horses, dead crewmen, and shattered limbers.
Only when the cannon left did the Billies of Sweeny’s and Williams’s Divisions begin to realize that the butternuts might be pulling back, and even then some blue field officers believed the guns were withdrawn only so as to replace them with fresh artillery. It was several minutes after even the skirmishers were gone that they went forward, leaving their trees and rocks, crossing soft, damp fields pock-marked by bombardment, working their way around felled trees that had been carved into abatis, and finally into the abandoned earthen embankments themselves.
Upon reaching this point, the profane and fiery Irish general, Thomas Sweeny, sent back word to his superior, the XVI Corps’ commander A.J. Smith, that Mower should throw his men forward in an attempt to storm that end of Stewart’s Creek, because he would soon be assailing its flank and rear. Sweeny pivoted then his line to face north and northeast, while the hard-eyed, bristle-whiskered Alpheus Williams drove his division forward due east in pursuit of Clayton’s graybacks.
Sweeny sent Rice’s Brigade straight up the east side of Stewart’s Creek, where they almost immediately ran into Cumming’s Georgia Brigade, their line refused through a dense copse of trees and into headstones of the McClaren family cemetery. There they stood for twenty minutes, until Bane’s Brigade came around and poured a volley into their side and rear.
Riding along with Bane, Sweeny was exultant. To an aide, he said, “Go back and tell General Smith that I’ve seized Johnny Reb by the neck, he’s gone and pissed himself, and I’m cutting his balls off! If Mower comes down now, we’ll kill every last God damned traitorous, sister-loving bastard on this field!”
The aide was looking to the rear, studying the busy flapping of the XVI Corps semaphore station. “Yes, sir, I’ll leave right now, sir. But General, you should look to the wig-wags…”
“Damn the wig-wags, Captain! I’ll attend to those fucking wig-wags when I’ve got this line rolled up like a plug of tobacco. Now move!”
In the same instant Sweeny’s aide put his spurs to his horses, blue flank guards came in hasty flight from out of rows and copses of cedars and scrub oak to the east, followed by the densely packed ranks of Stewart’s reserves, the “demi-division” of Alabamians. With a resounding crash, a massed volley slammed directly into the backs of Bane’s Brigade, causing an instant rout. They fled directly into the right flank of Rice’s Brigade, throwing it into confusion. In a matter of minutes, thousands of Illinoisans and Iowans were recoiling in confusion.
The blue torrent carried a violently distraught Sweeny along with it. Slapping fleeing bluecoats with the flat of his saber, the one-armed Sweeny screamed, “Rascals! Blackguards! Scoundrels! Yellow bastards! Get back in there. Don’t you see we have them whipped!”
Sweeny’s protests were to no avail. Some of his men fled as fast as their feet could carry them, while others withdrew with more dignity and order, but all ignored the demands of their officers, right up to the swearing, spitting, flailing Irishman with the single star on his shoulder straps. Disgusted, Sweeny put the spurs to his horse and rode off to find Burke’s Brigade, then coming up in support.
While Sweeny strug
gled restore order to his muddled ranks, Stewart rode out between the two Alabama brigades, where he could be seen by all. Pointing his sword west, he shouted, “Forward my Southrons! Chase them! Drive them! Give them hot fires and the cold steel!”
Almost four thousand Alabama men cheered back at him, “Old Straight! Old Straight!” and surged forward in pursuit. Stewart steadied his horse, and once the thick rows of butternuts passed him by, made to ride back to the rear, but he encountered Carter Stevenson first.
“Well handled, General Stewart, well handled! General Cummings is already reforming those men who ran,” Stevenson said.
“Thank you, Carter. Now, what I need you to keep on with the good work. You can have Pettus back, but tell Holtzclaw to march back into the rear, back into reserve. Use Pettus to lengthen and partly refuse your line. I’ll bring Clayton back on your left. Understand?”
Stevenson nodded. Stewart said, “Good. Now go,” and rode off in search of Clayton.
After the generals concluded their brief conference, the Alabamans stepped out of the trees that fringed almost every field in the county and into the open, only to discover Burke’s Brigade lying in wait on the other side of the embankments of Clayton’s abandoned field fortifications. In the center of Burke’s line was the 66th Illinois, the Western Sharpshooters, a regiment several hundred strong and armed with Henry repeating rifles. The torrent of fire felled dozens in a matter of seconds. Shocked, the Alabamans halted on the spot and scurried back to the cover of the nearest row of trees and brush, despite their greater numbers. Stevenson arrived shortly thereafter and set about stiffening his line.
1:15 P.M.
The Hillock by Stewart’s Headquarters, CSA
The Confederate Left
From his vantage point on the low hill, Jackson beamed as he watched Stewart’s counter-attack ambush and smash Sweeny’s advance. Without taking his binoculars from his eyes, he called out, “That is the hand of Providence, Sandie! Providence!”
Sandie, who stood just behind and to the right of Jackson, was also watching the fighting through field glasses. “Yessir. The Lord surely smiles on us.” More nervously, he said, “But shouldn’t we be bringing General Polk up now?”
Jackson lowered his binoculars and gave Sandie a reproachful look, but then softened. That was the second time Sandie had asked that question, on top of Stewart saying as much before his leaving. But his chief of staff was right. The enemy blue closely pursued Clayton’s brigades even now, and heavy columns of blue were just then emerging from the forested hills to the southwest. It was time.
“Very well. Have those written orders sent to General Polk. Bring him up.”
Sandie said, “Yessir, at once. In fact, General Jackson, by your leave, I will deliver the message personally.”
Jackson stared quizzically at Sandie for a time, but finally nodded and said, “If you think it so important, then alright.”
Sandie got into the saddle and rode back towards Overall Creek, relief and determination replacing anxiety. He had absolute faith in Old Jack’s plans, but little or none in Bishop Polk’s ability or willingness to carry those plans out. Sandie had heard the camp gossip, studied and followed up on the field reports from Lawrenceburg, and decided Polk was a bungler and just possibly a troublemaking font of insubordination as well.
Jackson wouldn’t hear of it, Sandie thought as he went on. Of course he wouldn’t. Piety mattered most to him. It would never occur to Old Jack to make sure his orders were obeyed, because he would never believe a Christian soldier like Leonidas Polk wouldn’t obey to the best of his ability, divine blessings showering down upon his works and all. Well, this time I’m going back and making sure things get done.
Back on the western slopes of the hillock, Jackson watched the enemy pursuit of Clayton’s brigades with rising alarm. The bluecoats followed aggressively, coming on at the double quick. Half a mile from the hillock, the pursuer’s finally came to grips with the rearguard of one of the retreating Confederate brigades, forcing it to turn and offer support. But Jackson could see what his infantry could not, namely a loose, fast-moving mass of enemy troops coming up behind a thick belt of cedars to their south.
Jackson spun around and snapped at the gunners behind him, stabbing violently at the flanking Yankee mass almost 900 yards distant. “Open fire! I want fire placed on that enemy brigade, that one right there!”
The artillery crews set about loading and aiming their pieces, and even before Jackson had reached his horse, all eight of the Napoleon smoothbores and three-inch rifles on the hillock had fired their first shots. As he mounted his horse, Smith came up and seized his mount by the halter.
“Sir! I know your intent. You must not endanger yourself in such a manner!”
Jackson bent over the neck of his horse, eyes burning, and snapped, “Jimmy, those boys are going to break. If they do not break, I’ll be in no danger at all. If they break and fail to rally, then our whole line is in danger. Let go of this horse.” When Smith did not obey, he shouted “That is an order, Captain!”
Smith reluctantly let go of the halter. “I’m coming with you.”
“Very well.” Jackson put the spurs to his horse and galloped off as quickly as the sturdy old mare would carry him, with only his guidon bearer following immediately behind him.
A quarter-mile out, Jackson met a mob of fleeing Johnnies in an open field. He turned his horse, pacing back in forth before the oncoming rout.
Over the din of shells bursting just a few hundred yards away, Jackson roared, “Men! Stand your ground! If you will rally and stand your ground with me, I will stand this ground with you!”
They stopped, but rather than rally, they approached and surrounded him, pleading, “Leave! To the rear! Leave!” One man, a hatless, sweaty sergeant, gently placed his hand the shoulder of Jackson’s horse and looked up. “We’ll stand, sir. Wherever you tell us, we’ll hold that ground. But we cannot afford to lose you, General. This is no place for you, so get back at once.”
A general rode up at the head of a formed body of men, whom Jackson recognized as Alpheus Baker, promoted to brigadier only three months before.
Jackson commanded, “General Baker, reform your men at the foot of that hillock yonder, under the guns. Reform them now.” Looking down to the sergeant, Jackson said more quietly “I shall do as you ask, Sergeant.”
Leaving the men behind, Jackson trotted back towards the hill, and was met by Smith and another aide about halfway there. He was about to call out to Smith when several cannonballs shrieked overhead, smashing into and exploding about the artillery positions on the hill beyond. An instant later, Jackson was deafened and flung from his horse.
Dazed, he pressed himself from the ground with his one arm. An explosion, Jackson thought. A bursting shell. But when his vision came into focus, it was no longer day, but dark, which left him more confused. Have I been unconscious, he wondered.
Then he noticed he was no longer in an open field, but in a thick, overgrown wood. Before him, propped up against a tree was Keith Boswell, sitting there with two dark, red stains plainly visible through his butternut coat. Jackson stared at his pale, smooth face, youthful and lifeless. Jackson shook his head as he rose clumsily to his feet. When he looked again, it was not Boswell, but Smith who was lying there.
Jackson rushed to him, dropping to his knees. Smith’s neck lay open, his head resting in a puddle of blood, but he gurgled and blinked. He was still alive, but Jackson knew he would not be for much longer.
Not again, Jackson thought. More fine young men killed on account of me. As the tears came to his eyes, he scorned his guilty regret. I mustn’t do this now, he thought, not when Jimmy needs me.
Jackson took Smith by the hand, and said softly, “It’s alright, Jimmy. Go across the river and lie down in the pasture. Our Heavenly Maker awaits you there.”
Smith blinked at him, and then he was gone. Jackson gently passed his hand over Smith’s face, closing his eyes. At the same
moment, he heard Captain Quintard shouting behind him, “General! General! Are you alright, sir!?”
Rising painfully to his feet, Jackson turned and mumbled, “No, no. I believe I am unhurt.” He dimly realized that Baker and his aides were galloping to him as well, with hundreds of men sprinting up behind them.
I must act. I must act now, he thought, urgency further clearing his head.
Gently pushing Quintard aside with one hand, Jackson stepped into view. “I am unharmed! Unharmed!”
That brought the mob of alarmed soldiers to a relieved halt, and their officers set about putting them back into order. Baker rode on though, and as he came up, he called out to Jackson.
“General Jackson, with all due respect, I must insist that you retire to a place of greater safety at once! What a calamity nearly befell our country this hour! I say it again, this is no place for you!”
Jackson frowned. Still wracked with guilt, his lips quivered. “Yes, you are more in the right than I think you know, General Baker. A calamity has befallen us just now.”
Baker looked confused, but Jackson did not explain himself. “General Baker, if you would assign some stretcher bearers to assist Captain Quintard here, I would be grateful.”
Looking to Quintard, he said, “You see Captain Smith’s body back to General Stewart’s tents, behind that hillock yonder. And Quintard, I fear I must ask for your horse. I cannot accompany you. When you have seen Captain Smith to shelter, make your way as best you can either to rejoin me with General Stewart, over by the creek, or to army headquarters.”
Quintard nodded, slightly, gravely. “Yessir. If I may say, sir, I always liked him. He was a good man.”
Jackson nodded, biting his lip, saying nothing.
Chapter 12
1:30 P.M.
