by Jeff Shaara
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
SEELEY
For most of the day, he had watched the great assaults commence while perched up on horseback, standing in line with the rest of Forrest’s men. But their job was simply to keep to the rear, none of the corps commanders seeking out Forrest’s cavalry, as though the infantry and artillery were perfectly adequate for the job. From Seeley’s perspective, the series of attacks had seemed like thin waves, repeated assaults that washed noisily into the Federal center, mostly Polk and Bragg launching their troops into dense thickets of brush. But that brush had proven to be a far stronger wall of Federal power than the generals had realized, and the effects, particularly on Bragg’s men, had been clear enough. Throughout the day, Colonel Forrest mostly chafed impatiently, a growling temper Seeley had seen before. With nowhere in particular to go, and none of the senior commanders paying much attention to Forrest at all, the horsemen had spent most of the afternoon maneuvering through various parts of the field, seeking out opportunity or crisis, or finding at least one general who might authorize Forrest’s cavalry to do their own kind of work.
The horsemen shared their colonel’s frustration, especially as they witnessed the slaughter of too many lines of infantry. To his own men, Forrest preached what he saw to be obvious, that his horsemen could accomplish far more than the foot soldiers, that rapidly moving cavalry could slice a gap through the stubborn enemy defenses, and possibly re-create the chaos that had swept through the Federal lines that morning. But no matter. No one Forrest could find would authorize anything of the sort. After suffering through hours of furious frustration, Forrest had finally seen enough, and he accepted the responsibility for leading his men all by himself, orders or not. Seeley had been a part of that, the horsemen launching a screaming attack alongside the infantry of Benjamin Cheatham’s Brigade, part of Leonidas Polk’s Corps. The charge had punched into the Federal position to the left of the ground where Prentiss had eventually offered his surrender, but Forrest could take no credit for Prentiss’s collapse. Whether any general besides Cheatham even noticed, the cavalry charge had proven as frustratingly ineffective as most of the piecemeal attacks made by the infantry. The difficulty came mostly from the ground itself, soft earth giving way to mud and thickets that halted the horsemen far more effectively than anything the Federals had thrown in their way. Worse, Federal artillery batteries had observed the cavalry attack rolling into motion, and the horsemen had endured punishment from guns they could not even see. Though one Federal battery had fallen into Forrest’s hands, that was, after all, not their primary goal. Scavenging for Federal equipment was hardly satisfactory to the ambitions of their colonel, and unless they could carry a strong position and hold on to it, thus giving serious aid to their beleaguered infantry, the horsemen were too vulnerable to the enemy’s big guns to slog their way slowly forward through deepening muck.
For the rest of the afternoon, the cavalry had pushed and probed, mostly toward the river, where the activity remained hottest. Even there, the opportunity for driving some attack into a vulnerable Federal position had been thwarted by the ridiculous difficulty of the ground, and then by the setting of the sun. But with darkness came opportunity, and once more Forrest was inspired to take responsibility for issuing his own order. Near the day’s end, the cavalry officers had observed the army’s bizarre withdrawal, Beauregard’s order obeyed by every other commander on that part of the field. To Forrest and his men, what seemed at first to be a mystery soon began to feel like someone had backed away from a fight that was all in their favor. There was no counterattack from the Federal position, no sudden burst of reinforcements driving the army back from the captured Federal campgrounds. Like so many of the other field commanders, Forrest had driven closer to the river believing the final fight would come there, that with one rapid shove, the Federal army could be driven hard to the swamps to the north, or, as had happened to Prentiss, once the bluecoats were surrounded, they would have no alternative but surrender. It was there, close to Bragg’s final assault, that the cavalry had heard the devastating news that General Johnston was dead. Every effort had been made to keep that news from the troops, but no army keeps its most brutal secrets for long, and that rumor was seeping through most of the units near the river. From all that Forrest could see, it was clear that Beauregard was giving the orders, a graphic confirmation of the rumor. Still, Forrest had kept his men in motion, had tried to avoid the retreating infantry, men whose glorious victory seemed to have been stripped away from them by what must have been a storm of confusion at the army’s highest levels. All through the fields south of Dill Branch, Forrest had rejected this new rumor, passed hotly between regimental commanders, that somewhere back there, a general had lost his nerve. All Forrest could do was keep his men moving forward, avoiding any kind of contact with the enemy, thus obeying the order.
But the cavalry’s great advantage was mobility, and the one advantage of the miserable geography was that a scouting party could move close to their enemy and, if they were cautious, remain undetected. And so there would be another mission that no one had authorized, another responsibility that would fall solely on Nathan Bedford Forrest. No one among his command questioned the wisdom of that, and every man seemed eager to volunteer, to see firsthand just what was happening along the Federal position. The last great fight had broken off very close to the river, just south of Pittsburg Landing. To Forrest and his officers, that seemed to be the most logical place for the cavalry to go. Though some of his officers made meager suggestions that word should be sent back to someone higher up the chain of command, informing them just what they were planning to do, Forrest had no intention of making any noise, either toward the enemy or anyone in the rear. For now, all he wanted to do was see what the enemy was up to. And besides, with the darkness fully over the field, it was unlikely any of his couriers would have the first notion just where any of those generals might be.
SOUTH OF DILL BRANCH APRIL 6, 1862, 9:00 P.M.
They crept forward slowly, soft leaves on soft ground, no sounds at all but the nervous breathing of two dozen cavalrymen. The horses had been left behind them in a thickly wooded ravine, caution against accidental discovery by some Federal patrol. Seeley led one of the four squads, moving through thick darkness in the deep crevice of what could only be a muddy trough, high banks on both sides, thickening mud on his boots. He felt the tension from them all, knew that what they were doing was supremely dangerous.
Forrest had provided them with captured blue coats, and they wore them now, for one very good reason. If the Federals had indeed shifted forward, farther from the landing, they could be anywhere at all. At least these men would have the single advantage of hesitation, should they stumble into the unexpected Yankee outpost.
The blue coats emerged from the saddlebags only when the men were low in the deep woods. Seeley welcomed that, had begun to feel the chill of the damp muddy bottoms, their own coats left behind. But that didn’t do much to aid the tension. Seeley knew, as did all of them, that capture in a blue coat meant a very brief and very brutal interrogation, likely followed by their execution.
The ravine was thicker now, low brush, a creek flowing alongside him, and Seeley kept his men in line behind him, using the water as his guide. Parallel to him, more men stepped slowly forward, mostly invisible, few sounds at all. To the front the ground seemed to flatten out, yawning wide, and he could begin to see reflections. He halted his men, stepped forward with the other officers, knew that Captain McDonald had led the way, would be somewhere in the dark waiting for them, would already know what they were supposed to find. Seeley was breathing heavily, pulled at the dark coat, had avoided thinking who might have begun the day with this coat on his back, if there were any telltale holes, or where that enemy soldier might be right now. He kept his stare to the front, the reflections more obvious now, dancing and rippling on the wide expanse that was the Tennessee River. He took a few more steps, realized that where the ground
flattened out, the deep draw hadn’t been so deep after all, the surface of the river well below him. The reflections of light on the water came from the left, and he looked that way, downriver, a vast spray of lanterns and torches, the lights of Pittsburg Landing.
He was surprised to hear a whisper above him, knew the voice of the captain.
“Climb up!”
Seeley tried to make out the shape of the ground close to him, realized it was a distinct mound. The distant lights showed more of those close by, spread out in the flat ground. He turned back to his own squad, a soft command to remain in place, their job more to serve as guards for the few officers who were there to make the observations, who would answer the questions posed by the colonel. Seeley dug his boots into the soft ground, climbed a half-dozen steps up the side, the crest of the mound only a few feet square. But the perch was perfect. In front of him lay the river, and farther downstream, a far better view of the strings of lanterns that marked the wharves at the landing. Captain McDonald was kneeling, stood now, close beside him, staring through field glasses, and Seeley waited, knew the captain would tell him what to do. As he waited, he touched the grassy ground beneath his feet, no mud, the hilltop nothing like he had seen in these swamps. His curiosity took over now, and he whispered to the captain, “What is this? The river do this?”
“Indians.”
Seeley absorbed that, had no idea what McDonald meant.
“Indians? Where? At the landing?”
McDonald lowered the glasses and Seeley could feel the captain staring at him, had seen enough of that in the daylight to know he must have suggested something stupidly obvious. Or just wrong.
“Indian mounds, Lieutenant. These are Chickasaw most likely. This whole bottom area is covered in ’em. Right now it’s a good vantage point. Indians did us a favor.”
Seeley stared down, nothing to see, felt suddenly uncomfortable.
“They buried here? Like tombs? We standing on bones and such?”
McDonald stared through the glasses again, and Seeley heard a low laugh.
“No, Lieutenant. These mounds are usually ceremonial places. Probably had their meetings here, weddings, promotions, whatever else Indians do to each other. No ghosts here, son.” After a long moment, McDonald’s voice came again, higher, a hint of excitement. “Holy Mother of God.”
Seeley waited for more, was completely confused.
“You … uh … praying, sir?”
“Look out there, Lieutenant. That’s why we’re here, ain’t it? Watch those boats.”
Seeley obeyed, still shuffled his feet, not altogether certain McDonald knew enough about Indians to know this hill wasn’t somebody’s grave. Chickasaws. They the good kind or the bad kind? He brought the glasses up, stared toward the lights, saw a boat in motion, crossing the river, moving away from the far bank on the right, a short trip to the landing itself. His attention was all that way now, making out shapes, catching movement, trying to identify just what he was seeing. That was, after all, the assignment. Below him, the other lieutenants had come up close, and McDonald acknowledged them with a sharp whisper: “Move out over there. There’s more of these mounds. Every one of you, get a good look. Make note of any details you can see. This is exactly what the colonel wanted to know.” He turned now, called out in a hard whisper, “Evans?”
There was a scramble down below the mound, a voice responding, “Here!”
“Go back to Colonel Forrest. He needs to see this for himself. I’m not taking responsibility for this … too damn important. Move fast. Bring him back to this spot!”
Seeley could see the shadow of Sergeant Evans, the man McDonald most relied on for his own missions. It was a short jog to where the horses were being held, and Evans was gone quickly, Seeley knowing that McDonald’s confidence was well placed. His own sergeant, Gladstone, was somewhere with Seeley’s squad, standing watch, and Seeley wondered if Gladstone knew about Indian mounds. He certainly knew enough of swamps.
McDonald seemed to be talking to himself, making his own observations, and Seeley began to feel the man’s excitement, still wasn’t sure why. He stared out again through his own glasses, another boat crossing the river, several more seeming to sit in a line to one side, spread along the far, eastern shore. He caught a flicker of motion, much closer, from the center of the river, realized now there was another boat there, dark and very large, realized with a jolt it was one of the Federal gunboats. He wanted to say something to McDonald, but the captain was looking that way as well, said in a low voice, “There they be. Like two she-devils, spittin’ fire. Wonder when they’ll start shootin’ again. Those boys ain’t sittin’ out there catchin’ catfish.”
Seeley’s heart was jumping. He knew exactly the power of those craft, so close offshore. By now the entire army knew that the Federals had anchored two of their powerful gunboats, the Lexington and the Tyler, with their heavy artillery sending enormous shells out toward some part of the fight, usually with more fury than effectiveness. He scanned each of those, saw only a hint of lantern light from inside, glimpses of movement on the decks, sailors going about their nightly routine. He felt an itchiness, whispered to McDonald, “We could pick those boys off from here. Never know what hit ’em.”
McDonald was staring again toward the landing.
“You cannot possibly be that dense, Lieutenant. They’d see the flashes of our muzzles, and we’d have barrel-sized shells falling on us in a half second, and a regiment of Yankees hustling down here to chase us away. I don’t care a whit about those two gunboats. Look at the landing, and across, the other side of the river. Those boats are going back and forth, like some kinda ferry crossing. The colonel’s gotta see this. He’ll know exactly what this means, and he’ll bust a horse’s gut to tell the generals about it.”
Forrest knelt on the peak of the Indian mound, stared out through his glasses toward the landing. Beside him, McDonald crouched low, Seeley just behind both of them. They could hear bells now, different tones, rhythms, and Forrest said, “They’re signaling each other. Easier than shouting your lungs out. Something like, make way or I’ll ram you.” Forrest lowered the glasses. “That’s the only thing we didn’t want to see.”
Seeley couldn’t contain his curiosity, said, “Sir, forgive me. What are they doing? They pulling their people out of here? Everybody says we’ve got ’em whipped.”
Forrest seemed to have much more tolerance for the lieutenant’s questions than McDonald did. He sat, let out a breath, seemed to stare out toward the river, the gunboats still anchored right offshore, the bustle of activity continuing downstream at the landing. Forrest turned toward him slightly, said, “Not leaving. They’re arriving. Those are Buell’s men. The Army of the Ohio. They’ll be crossing over to this side of the river all night long, until every one of them is planted in line next to Grant’s people. We whipped some of Grant’s boys, no doubt about that.” Forrest stood now, a tall shadow outlined by the distant lights. “We had our chance. By God, we had our chance.” He paused, seemed lost in thought for a long silent moment. He looked around, began to ease his way down the side of the mound, said, “Captain, pull your men back to our camp. I have to get word of this to General Beauregard.”
Forrest slipped down the side of the mound, moved to a waiting horse, and quickly was up and gone, soft hoofbeats in the wet creek bottom. McDonald started down as well, the men gathering, a shadowy line, waiting for their orders. Seeley heard pattering taps on his hat, looked upward. He blinked, water in his eyes, lowered his head again, heard the others reacting as well, and now the patter became heavier, the trees around them peppered with rain, a whistle of wind beginning above, the rain spreading past them, spreading out into the river. Seeley gathered his own squad, heard the cursing, the grumble from Sergeant Gladstone. He still had questions, wondered about Buell, the same bluebellies they had harassed weeks before. Now … they’re here. I guess … that’s really bad. But he had only one job now, lead his men out of the swampy groun
d, mount up and pull back to the south.
As they reached the horses, the rains grew heavier still, the ground beneath them already churning into mud. McDonald led them away from the river, but not far, the men on a trail that led them along higher ground, a ridgeline. The captain kept them just below the crest, no outlining the men in silhouette, even though, as the rains grew heavier, Seeley knew it was unlikely anyone could see or hear them coming. They trusted the captain’s instincts for direction, followed in column, the horses moving at a slow pace, the trail parallel to the river, McDonald keeping them out of the deeper ravines.
Farther inland, the Confederate troops who had been ordered to sleep on their arms struggled mightily to find any kind of cover. The fortunate ones had been positioned directly in the captured Federal camps, and even the wrecked tents offered some kind of shelter. But many more of Beauregard’s army had nothing to shelter themselves but their own coats and the limbs of trees, and so thousands of men curled themselves into whatever small space they could make, beaten down by the kind of storm they had seen before, cold and relentless. Fires had been forbidden, the commanders knowing any light could draw sniper fire, and that surely the Yankees had slipped sharpshooters out close to their position. But that mattered very little now, since any Federal soldier who intended to remain in these woods would be as miserable as the men he was sent to observe. Those men had certainly withdrawn to the relative luxury of the camps at Pittsburg Landing, where many found shelter beneath the cannon, the limbers, and wagons, many piling into the hastily arranged tents, brought onshore from the boats that ferried the Army of the Ohio to their side of the river.
