Talons of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  Jamie rode over to meet with Wheat. He could look Wheat straight in the eye, for both men were over six feet, four inches tall, although Wheat outweighed Jamie’s two hundred twenty-five pounds by a good seventy-five pounds. Major Roberdeau Wheat was a very imposing figure of a man.

  “We’re slightly outnumbered down there, MacCallister,” Wheat remarked, after lowering field glasses.

  Jamie smiled. “About twenty-five to one, I’d say. But I have a plan.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’ll charge!”

  Wheat roared with laughter. “You’re damn right, we will. I’ll get my boys ready and wait for your signal.”

  Jamie rode back to his Marauders and told them what he planned to do. His men grinned at him. Jamie, at the far point of the left side, watched for a time longer and then sent Ben Pardee racing back to Evans.

  “We’re being flanked, sir,” Pardee panted out the warning. “Just north of the Stone Bridge.”

  “What’s Major MacCallister going to do?”

  “Us and Major Wheat is fixin’ to charge, sir.”

  “What?” Evans blurted, but Pardee was already back in the saddle and galloping away, not wanting to miss the charge against the Yankees. His haste was uncalled for. The first charge would not come for a couple more hours.

  Colonel Evans was thoughtful for a moment; then he smiled. “That just might be a pretty good idea,” he said aloud.

  Evans then began moving very fast. He ordered out skirmishers but kept the bulk of his troops well hidden. He did not want the Yankees to know just how few men he really had and just how vulnerable he was.

  Then the Union troops came in a rush. Evans committed more of his Rebels, and they caught the Union troops in a blistering fire, pinning them down. The Yankee commanders started shifting troops around, somehow realizing how thin the Rebels’ lines were. Just as the Union commanders were shouting the orders to charge, a thundering pound of hooves and spine-tingling Rebel battle cries filled the air.

  The Federal troops must have thought somebody opened the gates to hell. On one side there were some two-hundred-odd gray-shirted and black-trousered men on horseback, screaming as they charged them, a horrible-looking black flag with a ghastly white skull and crossbones against the black flapping in the wind. The mounted charge being led by a black-shirted man who held the reins in his teeth, both hands filled with pistols.

  On the other side, there came what appeared to be a sea of red-shirted soldiers led by a huge man with a pistol in one hand and a Bowie knife in the other. Wheat and his men were screaming Rebel yells as they charged down the hill, straight into the startled Union troops. Jamie’s Marauders hit the Union forces from one side, and Wheat’s Louisiana Tigers slammed into them from the other.

  Jamie emptied both pistols, holstered them, and grabbed for the two on the left and right of his saddle and began firing. He charged Satan into the sea of blue, and the big horse knocked men spinning in all directions.

  The charge was costly for both the Marauders and Wheat’s Tigers. In Jamie’s unit ten men were killed and a dozen wounded. Wheat lost almost fifty men, dead and wounded, and was hard hit himself.

  Jamie’s and Wheat’s men retreated, having created chaos and confusion, giving Beauregard time to send in reinforcements. Wheat was badly wounded, so gravely the doctors told him he didn’t have a chance and to make his peace with God.

  Wheat, showing all the belligerence he and his Louisiana Tigers were famous for, was reported to have told all the doctors (among other things) to go right straight to hell; he had no intention of dying just yet. He turned over his command to his executive officer and was back on his feet in a month, once more leading the Tigers into battle.

  But it was the Union forces who took the greatest casualties: several hundred blue-shirted troops lay dead or wounded as Jamie and his Marauders and Wheat’s Louisianans retreated back over the ridge to safety, carrying their dead and their wounded.

  Their combined actions had bought a little time for Evans. But after assessing the situation, Evans decided it was time for a major pull-back; he had received word that another Yankee column was crossing the bridge at Sudley Ford. Evans ordered a withdrawal just as two Confederate brigades came running and riding up, bringing with them much needed artillery.

  “We’re out of here!” Jamie shouted to his men, swinging into the saddle. “Follow me!”

  Units from Alabama and Mississippi, under the command of General Bee, and units from Georgia, under the command of Colonel Bartow, formed a line facing the Yankees, some of the Rebels as close as fifty yards from the Union forces. The Rebels began alternately taunting and shooting at the Yankees. They would jump up, fire, fall down in the ditches or behind whatever cover they had, and reload and yell at the Yankees. Where they were, on the extreme left side of Beauregard’s line, looking at the Union troops over on Matthews Hill, there were approximately five thousand Rebels facing some fifteen thousand Federal troops. Even though, or probably because, they were outnumbered at least three to one, the Rebels charged the Yankee lines, the bold move surprising the Union commanders. General Bee’s troops quickly pulled out in front of the rest of the Rebels, leaving both flanks badly exposed. Bee ordered Evans and Bartow back and withdrew to Young’s Branch.

  Jamie sat on a ridge not far away and watched the action through field glasses while his men rested behind him. He could see no reasonable course of action for his men to take. Just as he was rising to his feet, a runner from headquarters reached his side.

  “Orders from General Beauregard, sir. You are asked to take your men up to the Warrenton Turnpike and try to prevent Burnside’s troops from flanking Evans.”

  Jamie smiled. “Less than two hundred lightly armed men against five thousand? Of course! We’re riding now.”

  It was eleven o’clock in the morning, the fight had been raging for several hours, and both sides had taken terrible losses, the dead and badly wounded littering the ground.

  General McDowell ordered General Tyler to mount an attack—to take his troops across Bull Run. Jamie and his Marauders and about three hundred other Rebels, men who had gotten cut off from their units, were gathering in a thickly wooded area along the Warrenton Turnpike. Jamie looked around for an officer among the regular soldiers; there was none.

  “What do we do, sir?” a badly frightened young Rebel asked. He was gripping his rifle so tightly his knuckles were white from the strain.

  Jamie looked at the lad; no more than sixteen or seventeen years old. He put a big hand on the boy’s shoulder as twenty or thirty others gathered around him. “First of all, men, we calm down and get our wits about us.” The group around him had swelled and now fell silent, listening, those men cut off from their units glad to finally have some leadership.

  Jamie had no way of knowing that more than five thousand men were bearing down on him, only minutes away. Had no way of knowing that two Union brigades, commanded by Sherman and Keyes, were heading directly toward his position.

  Command Sergeant Major Huske galloped up and leaped off his horse, pushing through the crowd to Jamie’s side. He whispered in Jamie’s ear.

  Jamie did not change expression at the news. Huske stepped away, and Jamie said, “Fall in and start moving back. And we will do this in an orderly fashion. You’re soldiers, so act like it. Sergeant Major Huske will take command of you men. Now move out.”

  The Union army had broken through the Rebel lines and very nearly put the Confederates in a rout. Jamie and his men were trapped.

  9

  When the news of the Confederate retreat reached the spectators behind the Union lines, they cheered and shouted and waved flags. Two divisions of Federal troops had now crossed Bull Run, and a third division was not far behind. General McDowell’s goal for this day was to cross the turnpike and head straight for the railroad and seize it. Once there, he believed, he would have a clear route to Richmond.

  For more than an hour, General McDowell rode up and
down the ranks of his advancing Federal troops, a smile on his lips. He would occasionally shout triumphant words to his men, who grinned and waved their caps at him.

  McDowell was certain the battle was very nearly won. Victory was his.

  However, the Rebels had other plans.

  Astonishingly enough, General Beauregard did not really know what was going on for some time. He was at his headquarters and could only occasionally hear some gunfire. But to his way of thinking, it was coming from the wrong direction. The bulk of his army was far to the right of the scene of the actual fighting.

  He finally sent an aide to find out what was going on, and the aide returned, pale and shaken. “Our boys are in a rout!” he shouted. “The Yankees are hard upon us, sir!”

  Beauregard was stunned into momentary silence. It was then that General Joe Johnston took over as commander of all Confederate forces in Northern Virginia. He grabbed the situation in a strong hand and began issuing orders.

  It was just after noon, on the 21 st of July, 1861.

  Jamie and his men, and the three-hundred-odd regular Rebel infantrymen with him were trapped in a pocket on the north side of the Warrenton Turnpike, with the stream called Young’s Branch behind them. Jamie quickly counted heads. He had just over five hundred men, all armed with plenty of ammunition. He thought fast, knowing he had to get out of this pickle.

  “Dupree,” Jamie said. “Take your company and act as vanguard. The infantry will be in the center of the column and Sparks’ company behind that. I’ll take ten men and try to plug up the hole that we make getting out of here. We’ll cross the turnpike and throw up a line. If anything happens to me, you’re in command. Now move out.”

  Jamie turned to Little Ben Pardee. “Ben, ride like the wind and find whoever the hell is in command and tell them what I’m doing. Go, boy!”

  Sparks’ company just barely made it out before Union forces came charging into the thicket after them. Bad mistake. Jamie and the ten men with him opened up with rifles and pistols, and those Yankees who survived that fusillade decided it would be a very wise move to get gone from that area of the woods.

  Jamie and his group found themselves alone and unchallenged as they crossed the turnpike and threw up a line on the south side. The heaviest fighting was about two miles away, to their right. Jamie and command found themselves with nothing to do. But that was not going to last long, for Little Ben came galloping back with orders from General Joe Johnston himself.

  “Our boys have abandoned the line, Major,” Ben said, leaping off his horse. “Some South Carolina boys under the command of Colonel Hampton is on the way up to the front, and they damn near got stampeded over by those retreatin.’ They’re all alone, sir. General Johnston says if at all possible, get over there and lend a hand.”

  Jamie turned to the infantrymen. “Shuck out of those heavy coats and tie them over a shoulder.” He looked at Sergeant Major Huske. “Top Soldier, double time them over to the fight. We’ll see if we can’t pull some Yankee stingers before you get there.”

  “We’ll be right behind you, sir.”

  But the Federal forces hesitated in attacking. They had suffered terrible losses that morning, due to the stupidity of their leaders. When the battle first began, Evans’ men were grossly outnumbered, and the Union leaders could have sent a division, or at least a brigade in to overwhelm the Gray by sheer numbers. They did not. They wasted human lives by sending small units in what amounted to suicide charges, instead of committing fully. Now they were simply unable to attack in anywhere close to full strength because their commands had been so badly mauled and chewed up.

  But McDowell could muster about ten thousand troops . . . some six brigades, holding one in reserve. Still, McDowell did not attack immediately.

  As Jamie and his Marauders were galloping toward the battle, General Jackson was moving there also, with five regiments of Rebel infantry. However, at the time, Jackson’s 33rd Virginia wore blue uniforms, and some Union troops wore gray. Jackson later said, “It was a hell of way to fight a war.” Jackson instructed his men to tie white pieces of cloth around their arms so they would not be shooting each other.

  One sage in the ranks got a withering look from Jackson when he called out, “You gonna tell them Yankees all dressed up in gray to do the same, sir?”

  History does not record Jackson’s reply, but it was probably rather salty.

  Jackson formed up his men just behind the crest of a hill and waited. By now, parts of five batteries of Confederate artillery were in place, commanded by an Episcopal minister turned colonel.

  He looked at the retreating line of Gray. “Give those gallant boys some support!” he thundered. “Fire!”

  “Where the hell is Jackson?” a captain shouted out.

  General Bee pointed to the crest of a hill. “Standing over there like a stone wall.”

  Jackson’s nickname was born.

  Bee rallied his men and urged them on to one more charge, riding among them, waving his saber. It was to be his last effort of the Battle of Manassas. He was shot off his horse and died a short time later.

  It was one o’clock in the afternoon.

  Johnston and Beauregard arrived on the hill just after General Bee was killed and just in time to see Jamie’s Marauders hit the Union troops on the left side of the line, firing their pistols point-blank and slashing with Bowie knives at the clearly startled Federal forces, who had not expected anything like this wild bunch of screaming men flying a pirate’s flag. About three quarters of a mile behind the Marauders, the two generals could see several hundred Confederate soldiers double-timing their way toward the fight.

  There was damn little for the commanding general to smile about that day, but he smiled at the battle flag of the Marauders and shook his head in disbelief at the bravery of the guerrillas and at the efforts of the battered men of Colonel Nathan Evans, who, with the action of the Marauders, was now able to regroup and fall back out of the Union trap.

  Johnston watched as Jamie hand-signaled Sergeant Major Huske to position his men between the Union forces and the hill. Then Jamie and his Marauders galloped away to safety. The Marauders had lost two men dead and five wounded in this latest action.

  Seeing what was happening right before their eyes, witnessing five hundred or so men abruptly stop the Yankee advance cold for a few moments, what was left of the Fourth Alabama once more surged forward, as Bartow managed to piece together what was left of his Georgia men and joined him. And the line held.

  Moments after Jamie and his men staged their daring charge, Colonel Jubal Early and General Bonham’s brigade rushed into battle, further strengthening the line. Within moments, Colonel Jeb Stuart’s First Virginia Cavalry put some more steel into the Rebel defenses.

  Jamie rode up the hill to Johnston. Johnston looked at him and said, “Fine work, Colonel MacCallister.”

  “I’m a major, sir,” Jamie replied.

  “Not any more, sir,” General Johnston said. “Pull your men back here to me and act as my guards while I set up a new HQ.”

  He looked more closely at Jamie. “You’ve been wounded, Colonel.”

  “In several places, General. But they’re minor.” He waved toward the battle below them, a battle which was softening in sound and fury now as the Union forces were beginning to understand that their earlier jubilation at victory was a bit premature. “Nearly every man down there has a cut or a tear.”

  “Indeed,” Johnston agreed. “Take over here, Pierre,” he said to Beauregard. “Come, Colonel.”

  Jamie turned to his color bearer. “Case that flag, Jones.”

  “Oh, no, Colonel,” Johnston said. “Let it fly. It helped to save the day. I’d feel proud to ride under its banner for a time.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Johnston found new quarters for his HQ about three quarters of a mile behind the front while Beauregard began repositioning his men as reinforcements arrived. The Forty-ninth Virginia marched onto the sce
ne, plus about a dozen other companies from various units. Beauregard stiffened left and right flanks and rode up and down the line, quietly talking to his men, urging them to stand and hold.

  By mid-afternoon, Beauregard now had about seven thousand men on the line and several batteries of cannon placed on the crests of hills, and the Union troops were ready for a charge.

  “That’s fine with me,” Stonewall Jackson said, and ordered his men to fix bayonets.

  Meanwhile, Jamie had pulled in his reserve to bring his two companies of Marauders up to strength. But Johnston ordered him to hold his people around his HQ, saying he had other plans for the Marauders.

  At the front, the Yankees began their charge against Stonewall’s position.

  “Let them come,” Jackson told his men. “Let them come.”

  Just as the Union troops were close enough to be almost eyeball to eyeball with the Rebels on the hills and ridges, Jackson ordered his men to stand and fire.

  It was slaughter for the Federal troops. Jackson’s men cut them down with volley after volley, and the Union troops broke and ran.

  The first reported civilian to die in the battle was killed by enemy artillery. Yankee gunners believed the house to be a stronghold of Rebels and poured round after round into the home, blowing a leg off of an elderly, bed-ridden woman. She died a few hours later. The man responsible for ordering the shelling of the civilian home was later made a general in the Union army.

  A Virginia regiment, one of the few whose uniforms were blue, began an advance on a Federal artillery and infantry position. The commander of the Union forces mistakenly thought they were Federal reinforcements. The advancing troops were less than fifty yards away when the Union commander realized they were Confederate troops. But it was too late. The Rebels swarmed over the position and slaughtered the Union troops, seizing valuable cannons, powder, shot, shells, and horses. What remained of the Union troops fled.

  Many of the Federal troops at the front began retreating, some in wild panic as the battle now turned. The Southerners, although badly outnumbered, had begun fighting with a ferocity that was frightening to the Northern troops. The fear spread as those retreating mingled with inexperienced fresh troops coming up from the rear.