by R. E. Thomas
XX Corps, USA
The Federal Right
Hooker sat on his horse in the open field, watching Williams’ troops march away and a battery of guns unlimber, when Dan Butterfield rode up. He grinned like a schoolboy at the sight. Besides being one of the few general officers in the Army of the Tennessee that Hooker genuinely liked, Butterfield was a brave, intelligent man, as handy at the head of troops as he was wielding a pen. Hooker thought him the perfect man for the task ahead.
“Dan!” Hooker cried. “You’ve come at a good time!”
Bringing his horse to a halt, Butterfield saluted and said, “How goes, Joe?” He was a broad-shouldered man, but that part of his appearance was overshadowed by his bulging, egg-like forehead and bushy moustache.
“Marvelous, Dan. It is marvelous. Old man Williams has bent the Confederate line back into a big wedge. That wedge is anchored there,” he said, thrusting his gauntleted finger northeastward with so much force his horse had cause to steady its footing.
Butterfield followed the finger to a hillock, the top of which was visible above the trees lining the field. He could see several Confederate guns below the crown and that those guns were already taking fire.
“They are hoping to keep me down, Dan, Sherman, Halleck, and all the rest of them. They are hoping I’ll blunder into something insubordinate, something they can charge me with, so they can hook my backside and hoist it up a flagpole. But I won’t give them the satisfaction, no, I will not. I’ll beat them on the merits. I’ll get what’s coming to me because I’m the better soldier.”
As Butterfield, his old crony, nodded in agreement, Hooker thought how it was all so ridiculous. He knew the reason Sherman insisted on accompanying the army was because Sherman hated him, had hated him since California, and was determined to ruin him. Just as the U.S. Army’s chief of staff, Henry Halleck, was determined to ruin him. He wouldn’t give them the chance.
“Take that knoll, Dan. Take that knoll, and we can enfilade the whole damn Rebel line. We’ll push them back on that big damned mountain there, or onto the creek, and break up the whole lot. Take that knoll, and we destroy Stonewall Jackson’s army.”
Grinning, Butterfield said, “And you want me to have that honor?”
“You have it, my good man. You have it. Mass your men here. I’m going to see about bringing Geary up to cover your right flank now, but I’ll be back shortly. I want to say a word to your boys, but don’t wait too long. If I’m not back soon, you go on in.”
Butterfield spent the next twenty minutes making his dispositions, putting the brigades of Ward and Wood side by side in double line of battle, a phalanx of roughly 4,000 men from northern states stretching from Wisconsin to Massachusetts. By the time Butterfield was done, Hooker had returned.
He rode out in front of what was the bulk of Butterfield’s Division. “Boys, you’re hard-fighters and life-takers. Many of you fought at Gettysburg and Chancellorsville, but you don’t get any credit for it, do you?”
“No, no!” the men loudly groaned back.
“And they scorn us out here, don’t they? They call us all tin soldiers, jealous because we can march straighter and wear real uniforms, don’t they?”
“Yes, yes!” the men shouted.
“Now is your chance to shut them up. Shut them all up, once and for all. Take that hill up there, and no one will say anything about the 70th Indiana, or the 55th Ohio, or any of us ever again. They won’t talk about Gettysburg or Chancellorsville, but only about the day Butterfield’s boys took that hill and whipped Stonewall Jackson!”
“Huzzah! Huzzah!” the men roared. Some shouted in broken English, “We fights mit Hooker!”
Hooker moved his horse out of the way, Butterfield taking his place to lead them into the attack. Bugles sounded the advance, and the men stopped their cheering and began steeling themselves for the carnage they knew lay ahead. As Hooker watched Butterfield go forward, McPherson rode up.
Hooker quickly explained his situation to his superior. McPherson approved of Hooker’s intentions, his only comment an admonition to bring Geary up as quickly as possible.
As McPherson rode away and the cannon in the field boomed, Hooker leaned over and said loudly to an aide, “He’s too cautious for my taste, Candler. A good man, McPherson, but too cautious for an army commander. Not that it matters. I’ll win the day for us here, and that done, we’ll see if they still want James B. McPherson in command of this army after Joseph Hooker covers himself in a fresh coat of glory.”
1:45 P.M.
Headquarters, Polk’s Corps, CSA
Blackman Schoolhouse
Three miles behind the Confederate left
After a hard dash, Sandie and his mount arrived at Blackman, both gasping for air. Sandie jumped down, spent only a moment composing himself, and then strode right up and into the schoolhouse, pushing past the aide who tried to stop him for a proper announcement. Bursting through both the door and Polk’s staff, Sandie went directly to the Bishop, who turned away from his camp desk and serenely met his urgent stare as the young colonel came rushing forward.
“General Polk, your corps is ordered forward, sir. I have your written orders, but briefly, Clayton’s Division has pulled back towards the north. You are to advance your corps directly west and counter-attack the Yankee right.”
Polk seemed unmoved by Sandie’s urgency. “Thank you, Colonel Pendleton. You have obviously applied great energy to delivering this message to me in a timely fashion. Rest assured that I will apply myself with matching vigor, my corps shall advance, and we shall smite the enemy with all our might.”
Sandie stood waiting, while Polk looked back placidly. Finally, Polk said, “You may go now, Colonel. My staff and I have much to do. In private.”
Sandie placed an envelope on Polk’s desk, drew himself up, and saluted. “Yessir.”
Once the army’s boyish chief of staff was gone and the door closed, Polk turned his chair back to face his desk. His own chief of staff asked, “General, shall I pass the word to Generals French and Maney, putting them on notice…”
“Silence!” Polk snapped, as he pondered what to do next.
The Bishop had been in a sulk ever since Jackson had rejected his proposal for a stand on Overall Creek and refused to share his plans for battle. He had fretted that Stewart’s Creek was too easy to turn, had been half-certain that a stand there would lead to disaster, and now it looked as if that might be happening. Polk imagined that if he stayed where he was, perhaps the army could still fall back on Overall Creek, or rally behind him there if it came to the worst.
Yet at the same time, Polk knew he was too close at hand to simply ignore his orders. The army’s chief of staff had delivered them in person. Even more important, what would the people say if he stood by and did nothing after receiving such orders, even if his actions saved the army and the country? He knew such choices had a way of turning rotten, regardless of intention or outcome. The slanders needn’t be true to mire his post-war political ambitions.
Polk opened the envelope Sandie left on his desk, and slowly leafed through the pages. He read each line carefully, not to look for extra guidance, but to buy extra time before the eyes of his waiting staff while he fretted over what to do.
Outside the schoolhouse, Sandie pulled himself into the saddle, where he waited, watched, and worried anxiously for several minutes. When no aides or couriers emerged to relay the orders and begin the advance, he turned his horse and rode straight to Maney’s Division.
2:15 P.M.
XX Corps, USA
Hell’s Hillock
The Federal Right
Baker’s Alabamans had sufficient time to form and steady themselves on the lower slope of the hillock, soon to be spoken of as Hell’s Hillock, but not enough to dig in. They laid down in the tallish grass, still wet on the humid, overcast day, so as to avoid the worst of the careening solids and ripping bits of iron from exploding shells. Behind them, their own artillery fired b
ack, flinging metal at the guns massed on the eastern spur of Scales Mountain, about a mile to the southwest. There they waited, but not for long.
The Yankees came forward, out of the cedar thickets that covered a low ridge 300 yards away. First to emerge from the dark green of the cedars were the skirmishers, coming on in a loosely ordered mass stacked three deep. These men advanced in small groups, hid in the tall weeds and grass of the abandoned field, taking turns snapping off musket balls at the gray line on the hillock, reloading, and sprinting forward. Ignoring the skirmishers, the Alabamans waited out the preliminaries, waited for the true elephant to come out of the woods before them.
After the skirmishers had closed half the distance, the main Federal lines stepped out of the trees, a picture of trim, well-ordered ranks crowned with serried rows of bayonets. The butternut gunners stopped firing at the distant Northern cannons, reloaded their pieces with canister, and turned to chopping at the advancing blue coats, each boom of a gun spewing dozens of inch-wide iron balls. Baker, riding behind his brigade, ordered his men to stand up. Almost as one creature, they rose, brought up their rifles, squeezed their triggers, and unleashed a wave of flame, smoke, and lead.
That was where the Billies stopped, instinctively responding to the aggression heaped upon their persons by returning it. From a distance of 75 yards, the front ranks of Northern infantry stood in the open and exchanged blows with the graybacks on the hillock. The space between the fields and the hillock filled with a dense smoke, and men steadily fell from their respective firing lines, groaning, screaming, or deathly quiet. Southern cannoniers on the hill suffered badly from overshooting musket balls, which fell among them like a light rain.
On both sides, brave men stood in their places, ignoring the familiar dangers and intent on the mechanical process of seating powder and ball down barrels, capping gun nipples, and pulling triggers. As the minutes ticked by, bravery gave way in some, and those who felt they had endured enough began helping wounded comrades off the field. The truly craven did not bother with pretense and scurried away, sometimes under the curses of their sergeants, barely audible under the din. The ranks of both attacker and defender were remorselessly torn down, shred by shred.
Colonel Wood and General Ward spent the time hard at work, shifting some of the men from their second, supporting lines out onto the flanks. Butterfield brought his third brigade, Coburn’s, up onto his far right, leading them into position in person. Federal artillery continued to hammer their rivals at the top of the hillock, and one by one the Rebel guns went silent, either smashed by a conical rifle shot or because there were too few surviving crew to man them.
Half an hour into the fight, Coburn’s Brigade charged Baker’s left, crashing into it at a dead run, bayonets leveled. Baker, his horse shot out from under him, ran to his left and tried to steady his men, but to no avail. The Alabama brigade’s already tattered left collapsed and fled. The rest of Butterfield’s division surged forward, yelling and screaming with triumph. Outnumbered by more than six to one, the Johnnies were chased off the hillock and into the woods beyond.
Sherman, McPherson, and Hooker had watched the fierce but lop-sided contest from the shelter of the wooded ridge. Now they rode out into the fields, among the wounded, the dead, and the detritus of battle.
“See what my boys did!” Hooker crowed. “Are they not fine? Are they not magnificent?”
McPherson replied flatly, “A solid victory, General Hooker. But I do worry that Geary’s Division hasn’t come up yet.”
Hooker couldn’t restrain himself from snorting. And that is why I need to take charge of this army, he thought to himself. Too much caution. Some fighting spirit, that is what is needed here.
While Hooker issued a fresh set of orders for Butterfield to a courier, McPherson chose to overlook Hooker’s bad manners and focused instead on studying the bluecoats advancing up the hillock. All the while Sherman sat in his saddle, no longer fidgeting, chain-smoking, or chattering like a runaway telegraphy machine. He sat stock still, all his senses tuned what was going on around him, even as he swallowed his personal distaste for Hooker.
Finally, Sherman said to Hooker, “Congratulations seem to be in order, but General, I think there is a party of men over there bearing up a prisoner.”
The trio went over and found three soldiers and a lieutenant escorting a Confederate general, who shuffled along unenthusiastically and needed a periodic shove from one of the rankers. He had high cheekbones, a largish nose and a bushy goatee, and the fact that he was hatless revealed a prominent forehead and a prematurely thinning crown of hair.
The three Union generals all looked to each other, none of them recognizing the man. Finally, McPherson politely introduced himself and his colleagues, and asked, “Who are you, sir?”
“Brigadier General Alpheus Baker, sir. Volunteer, Confederate States Army.”
“Baker. Baker,” murmured Sherman. “Ah, yes. Are you the same Alpheus Baker who was listed as colonel of the 54th Alabama? I believe the record indicated you were wounded at Champion Hill.”
Baker stood up straight and tried to muster an air of defiance. “That’s right.”
McPherson looked to his friend, astonished by the feat of memory. Noticing this, Sherman gestured as if it were of no importance, saying, “Just something I read in a captured newspaper.”
Hooker jumped in. “Well, General Baker, your brigade put up a good fight. Don’t worry yourself about your capture. By nightfall, you shall have plenty of company.”
Baker shot back, “By nightfall, General Hooker, I hope to see that Old Jack has whipped you. Whipped you, I say, just as he did at Sharpsburg and Chancellorsville.”
Hooker snapped, “He did no such thing in that fucking cornfield, damn your eyes, you ignorant rascal!”
Sherman burst out laughing, and even McPherson smirked, bringing a halt to the conversation. Hooker told the lieutenant to go on taking Baker to the rear. Sherman and McPherson accompanied them, along with their people, while Hooker left to find Geary’s Division.
Over on Hell’s Hillock, Butterfield had finished his horseback inspection of the captured Rebel cannon, as well as supervising the collection of fallen Alabama standards, and turned his attention to getting his men regrouped. He rode up and over the top of the rise and found some of his troops organized and chasing off routed butternuts to the north and south, but to the east Wood’s Brigade was milling about a cluster of tents.
He was about to go down into the captured camp and order Colonel Wood to restore order to his men and consolidate the position when a shocking blast of musketry flared from the thick woods just 50 yards to the east of the camp. Wood’s men recoiled out of the camp and onto the foot of the hill in shock, and for a few seconds there was silence, as a dense belt of powder smoke drifted in the space between the camp and the woods. Then came the Rebels, advancing from the trees with a piercing shriek.
3:45 P.M.
Maney’s Division, CSA
Hell’s Hillock
The Confederate Left
“I owe you some thanks, Colonel Pendleton,” Maney said, beaming. “Another 15 or 20 minutes, and the Yankees might have pulled themselves back together and gotten artillery up here. Should that have happened, it would have been much harder for me to retake this ground. And more costly.”
Sandie reddened. “I merely did my duty, sir. I reckoned that since I had to ride by your direction on the way back to army headquarters, I would deliver General Jackson’s orders to you personally.”
“So you say.” Maney smirked. “But I do declare, things have had a way of going astray in this army. At least they did until recently. So once again, thank you.”
Sandie nodded thoughtfully. He had met George Maney years before, during the ill-fated Romney Campaign. Sandie was a junior lieutenant on Jackson’s staff, while Maney was the colonel of the 1st Tennessee and was one of the few who did not conspire with the now disgraced W.W. Loring to undermine Jackson’s command.
Sandie had known if anyone in Polk’s Corps could be relied upon to act, it was Maney.
A slight drizzle started to come down, prompting Maney to pull the brim of his hat down. “Now, if you’ll be good enough to excuse me, Colonel, I need to see about placing my division. The Yankees will be back soon enough.”
“You’ll not continue the attack?” Sandie asked.
“I will not,” Maney said emphatically. “I surprised the bluebellies and caught them separated just now, and they withdrew. Might have been a disorderly withdrawal, but I didn’t break them. They are over there in those woods reforming right now, and I ain’t in contact with Clayton yet, nor has French come up. So, I’m bringing up some fresh batteries and staying right here.
Maney grinned. “I like it here. Reckon I’ll dare the Yankees to throw me off this hill. Now, you get back onto Old Blue Light and relate that to him.”
“Yessir.” Sandie saluted, leaving Maney to his business.
3:45 P.M.
Headquarters in the Field, Army of the Tennessee, USA
The Federal Right
McPherson trotted his horse up to join Sherman and A.J. Smith in the open field, near where Thomas Kilby Smith’s Division lay in reserve. Smith saluted and Sherman nodded by way of greeting.
McPherson said, “I think we’ve got a good hold on the Confederate right and center. All along Stewart’s Creek, we’ve moved up, dug in, and have the Confederates in a long range firefight. Jack has probed the far right in force and gotten troops over the creek twice and through the screen, only to be thrown back. Now, he says if we could reinforce him…”
“And he can’t do that from his own corps?” Sherman asked.
Shaking his head, McPherson replied, “No, not if he is to keep his grip on Cleburne’s Corps. He might be right, you know. The Confederates are very strong here on the right, and they are relying on that God damned creek like a moat to strengthen their center. They must be weak on the left. It’s simple logic. Now if we were to give over to Jack either Minty or Kilby Smith, or simply tell him to go over with his whole corps…”
