They broke through the Federal lines, putting the Union troops into a retreat. Cresting the hill, Jamie stared at what seemed to be thousands of blue-coated men running to help plug the hole the Rebels had torn in their lines.
The Rebels thought they had the Yankees on the run. From where he sat his horse, Jamie knew better. “Fall back and take up positions on the hill!” he shouted.
“No!” a full colonel countermanded his orders. “By God, sir, we have them on the run.” Waving his saber, he ordered the charge to continue.
They charged straight to their deaths. The foolhardy colonel took a bullet in the head and was dead seconds after he ordered the charge, as were the color-bearer and all the other men in gray who had followed his orders.
That seemed to turn the tide for the Blue. They mustered up their courage and began pushing the Gray back on all fronts. As night fell, the Confederate officers managed to halt the retreat and turn their weary and bloodied men around. They were out of food, out of ammunition, and very nearly out of hope.
The Union forces on the other hand, as Jamie reported verbally to Bragg, “Have received several brigades of reinforcements and hundreds of wagons of supplies.”
Bragg brushed the report aside. Filled with anger, Jamie left the command post and returned to his men. “It’s over,” he told his company commanders. “Bragg doesn’t realize it, but it’s all over for us here.”
With the breaking of dawn, Bragg could see with his own eyes that the situation was hopeless. Jamie’s scouts had brought back prisoners who confirmed Bragg’s feelings.
“They’ve been reinforced all during the night,” General Wheeler told the man. “They’ve got almost eighty thousand men, and we’ll be lucky to field twenty thousand. It’s over, Braxton. It’s over.”
Bragg would later say, “I had the coppery, bitter taste of defeat in my mouth.” But that day he was forced to utter the hated words, “Retreat. Fall back. Chattanooga must be saved.”
Jamie’s Marauders and Wheeler’s Cavalry stayed to act as rear guard as the weary Rebels picked up their gear and began moving out toward the east. They left behind them over twelve thousand dead and wounded comrades. The battleground was still littered with the dead and the dying.
The Union forces did not immediately pursue the retreating Confederate army. Jamie and his Marauders were the last to leave Hell’s Half Acre.
Sparks twisted in his saddle for one last look at the still smoky killing fields. “What the hell did all that death and suffering accomplish?” he questioned.
“Nothing,” Jamie replied. “Absolutely nothing at all.”
* * *
Jamie had lost twenty men killed and fifteen wounded during the battle. But as usual, he was back up to strength within a week as volunteers flooded in to join the Marauders. Bragg ordered him to take his Marauders and roam from, “Border to border of this state, wreaking havoc on any Union soldiers who might dare to pursue us.”
“And in addition,” Captain Dupree added acidly, well out of earshot of the general, “we get to blow up bridges and tear up railroad track.”
“And raid Yankee supply wagons,” Captain Jennrette finished with a boyish grin.
* * *
Jamie had learned that Matthew had recovered fully from his wounds and was once more commanding a company of Union cavalry. Ian had been promoted and had his own command of cavalrymen. Jorge and Tomas Nunez were with Hood and were heading toward Chattanooga. Pat MacKensie and Sam Montgomery, Jr., had arrived as part of an advance unit and were in Central Tennessee. Swede and Hannah’s boy, Igemar, was with the Iowa Fifth.
But Jamie had other troubles that he was unaware of, in the form of one Colonel Aaron Layfield, a blue-nosed Yankee who hated all Southerners with something that far surpassed mere fanaticism. He hated anything and everybody south of the Mason-Dixon line. His idol was John Brown, whom he considered to be the second finest man to ever walk the face of the earth. The first was Jesus Christ. The third was himself.
Aaron Layfield was the organizer and commanding officer of something called the Pennsylvania Revengers, a unit of brigade strength made up of rabid anti-slavers and anti-everything Southern, and they were fast approaching Tennessee. Aaron Layfield considered himself to be a very religious man, a person who insisted upon his men praying before every meal and Bible reading before retiring for the night. Every man in his command considered himself to be an extension of the arm of the Lord, and of course they interpreted the Bible to suit their own bloody aims.
Aaron Layfield was not originally from Pennsylvania; no one knew exactly where he was born, but he had lived there for a number of years, where he had run a variety store six days a week and filled the pulpit on Sundays, where his church was well-attended. It was thought he was from New Hampshire, and it was rumored he had been run out of there for his radical views. Many in Pennsylvania felt the same way, but the town where he lived and worked and preached just loved the Hellfire- and Brimstone-spouting radical, and they filled his church every Sunday and Sunday night to listen to him spew hate toward the South in general and Southerners in particular. They came from miles around to shop at Layfield’s General Store, and there, they got the same message: hate. He was so loved that the citizens changed the name of the town to Layfield.
It was going to have a very short history.
As Layfield and his heavily armed brigade, complete with horse-drawn artillery, rode south they had information as to what towns were sympathetic toward the Southern Cause. So far the Revengers had burned and looted and sacked half a dozen towns, killed several hundred men, either shooting or hanging or dragging them to death, and terribly abused several dozen women—all in God’s name, of course.
During the long ride south, Layfield picked up several hundred more volunteers along the way, swelling his ranks with fanatics, all of whom waved Bibles in one hand and pistols in the other, shouting out hate to anyone who would listen; fortunately, not many did.
But enough did, and his ranks continued to grow as he pressed on through the mountains of West Virginia and Kentucky... gathering not only men and supplies, but pocketfuls of money from people who fell under his snake-oil charm.
Layfield especially hated one man in particular, a man who had lived with Godless savages (Layfield also hated Indians), and who had adopted many of their heathenish ways, and then had turned his back on the Union to fight for the Confederacy—Jamie Ian MacCallister.
Exactly why he hated Jamie so was never really established, but men like Layfield, and those who listened to him and followed his wild teachings, never really need a valid reason. They’re just real good haters. They live to hate; they love to hate. It fills them with meaning and gives them a purpose.
Layfield didn’t really have a great deal of use for Negroes, either; but he loved the Union, or so he said, and anyone who fought for the South, or supported the South, deserved to be punished. And Layfield was God’s appointed punisher. God told him so, personally and up close. And he really believed that he could talk to God and God would answer. And to prove it to any who might doubt that, during his services Layfield sometimes got the spirit and talked in tongues.
Most Pennsylvanians thought Layfield to be about as full of shit as a fattening Christmas turkey . . . but there were always a few who would follow.
In this case, a few too many.
* * *
The long, cold winter drifted by with only the occasional raid by one side or the other; the war on all fronts seemed to lag for a time. General Rosecrans’ Army of the Cumberland still had Chattanooga to wrest from General Bragg’s Army of Tennessee, but he seemed to be in no hurry to do so. Meanwhile, Bragg was slowly rebuilding his army while Grant was sending wire after wire to Washington, demanding more men be sent to him down at Vicksburg.
The only troops in Tennessee active during the winter months were the Confederate cavalry. Bragg had just over sixteen thousand men mounted, and he used them with great effectiveness. He sent Jo
e Wheeler, Nathan Bedford Forrest, Morgan’s Raiders, and Jamie’s Marauders on rampage after rampage all over Central Tennessee, especially against the railroad, which was busy night and day supplying General Rosecrans’ army.
As the warm breezes began to blow, signaling an end to the bitter winter, the commanders of the two great armies in Tennessee started making plans for attack.
Rosecrans knew that Chattanooga must be taken, for it was a vital railroad link; Bragg was not going to give it up without one whale of a fight.
Rosecrans knew nothing of Colonel Layfield’s reputation and his hatred of anything pertaining to the South; he was just glad to have the reinforcements of such a capable-looking group of cavalry, for more reasons than one. Rosecrans himself was a deeply religious man, a convert to Catholicism, and he was glad to have another man so firmly committed to the Lord in his command—even if the man was a Protestant.
“I want you to concentrate on finding and destroying Jamie MacCallister and his band of Marauders,” the general told Layfield.
“You can count on me, sir!” Layfield said. “The Union must be preserved and kept from the bloody and lawless hands of the brigands from the South. Tell me, sir, is it true that MacCallister actually worships the pagan gods of the red savages he once lived with?”
“I have heard that.”
“The goddamn heathen!” Layfield roared, causing Rosecrans’ aides in the next room to stop what they were doing and look up.
Rosecrans blinked at that but said nothing about it, figuring that every man has his own idiosyncrasies. “Good luck, Colonel Layfield.”
“I don’t believe in luck, sir. For I have God with me at all times.”
“I’m sure you do,” Rosecrans said drily. “I try to keep Him with me at all times, too.”
Layfield saluted smartly, wheeled about, and marched stiff-backed out of the room.
“The man’s a bit odd, don’t you think, sir?” a Union colonel asked.
“Oh, I suppose so,” the general admitted. “But he is committed to the Cause.”
Committed was a good choice of words, if only the connotation had been changed.
22
Vicksburg was a surrounded and besieged city, with only a few more days to exist as a Confederate stronghold—it would fall on July the 4th, after weeks of fighting, with the Confederate forces trapped there scarcely able to function, soldier and citizen alike staggering from sickness, exhaustion and hunger. Gettysburg would also be a major Union victory in July.6
But in Tennessee, the fighting had just begun.
“Do you know a man named Aaron Layfield?” Jamie was asked.
Jamie thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. I’m not familiar with that name. Why?”
“He has sworn to kill you,” Captain Malone said. “Says that if he only accomplishes one thing during this war, he will consider it a great event and a day for celebration if he kills you.”
“That’s odd. I never heard of the man. Who is he?”
“He’s from a town up in Pennsylvania named after him. He came South with a full brigade of cavalry. They’re called the Revengers.”
Jamie shook his head as he tightened the cinch on Satan. “Well, I have never met anyone named Layfield. This war is certainly producing some strange characters.”
“Including our beloved general,” Dupree said with a sour look.
Jamie couldn’t argue with that, for General Bragg was one of, if not the, most disliked man in all the Confederate army. He was a harsh disciplinarian, and constantly peevish. No tactician, to a man, his officers considered him incompetent, and more than one of them plotted, at one time or another, to kill him.
But still Davis would not replace him.
Jamie swung into the saddle. “I’m going to take a look around. I can’t believe that General Rosecrans has waited this long to attack.” It was June 23, and the sky was threatening rain.
The two great armies were lined up about thirty-five miles apart—the front was miles long, stretching north to south—and each side was constantly patrolling. Chattanooga was about ninety miles east of Bragg’s westernmost position, and Bragg was determined to hold the Yankees at bay. The Union forces under Rosecrans’ command now numbered around eighty thousand. Bragg’s troops had dwindled down to about thirty-eight thousand due to the shifting of much needed troops to various other hot spots, including Vicksburg.
Several miles out into no-man’s-land, Jamie spotted a small Union patrol and reined up in the timber, uncasing his field glasses and studying the patrol. He smiled, and then chuckled. Tying a white bandanna onto his rifle, he rode out of the timber and into the clearing. He was spotted immediately, and Jamie Ian recognized the rider as his father.
“Hold your fire,” he told his men. “I know who that is and we’re going to talk. Come on. I’ll introduce you to a living legend.”
“Who is it, Captain?” a sergeant asked.
“My father.”
“Howdy, boy,” Jamie said to his son.
“Pa.” The two men rode close, leaned out of the saddle, and hugged one another. “Matt told me he saw you some months back,” Ian said, wiping his eyes. “But his memory was sort of fuzzy about that night.”
“Is he all right?”
“Fiddle-fine, Pa. I got a batch of letters from Ma. Meet me here tomorrow and I’ll give them to you to read.”
“Best not, son. Your general might call that fraternizing with the enemy. You save them for me.”
“All right, Pa. Pa? You’re on the wrong side, damnit. You know what you’re doing isn’t right.”
“It is to my mind, boy. As well as Falcon and Jorge and Tomas.”
“All right, Pa. You seen my little brother lately?”
“Last week. He’s fine.”
“Who’s he ridin’ with?” the burly sergeant asked.
Jamie smiled at him, although he had taken an immediate dislike to the man. He returned his gaze to Ian and started to say something when the sergeant suddenly rammed his horse close to Jamie and said, “I asked you a question, Reb. And you’ll goddamn well answer it.”
Before Ian could order the man back, his father hit the sergeant, knocking him clean out of the saddle. The blow sounded like an overripe watermelon hit with the flat side of a shovel.
“Miller!” Ian shouted. “I’ll have you court-martialed for this. Colonel MacCallister rode up here under a flag of truce.”
The big sergeant got slowly to his boots, blood leaking from his smashed lips. He clawed for his pistol, and a corporal jumped his horse into the man, knocking him down. “Come on, Carl. You’re in the wrong and you know it.”
“Git off that hoss and I’ll kick your ass, Colonel Reb,” Miller snarled.
Jamie laughed at him. “You’re not worth the effort it would take, Sergeant. Now cool down before you get into real trouble.”
“I don’t take orders from no goddamn stinkin’ Reb!”
“You’re a fool,” Jamie told him.
“Place that man under arrest!” Ian shouted.
“Hell with you all!” Miller said, and jumped on his horse and galloped off.
“Chase him, Captain?” the corporal asked.
“No,” Ian said. “Let him go. We’ve seen the last of Carl Miller and good riddance. I never did like the man.”
“You’re not alone in that, sir,” another Union rider said. “No one liked him.”
“Sorry about that, Pa.”
“Forget it. I had a few men like him in my outfit at first. They didn’t last long.”
Ian could damn well believe that.
Father and son sat their saddles for a moment, looking at each other. Both of them had a lot they would have liked to say, but neither man could put their feelings into words.
“Going to start raining soon, boy,” Jamie finally broke the silence.
“Sure looks like it, Pa.”
There was another uncomfortable silence. Jamie sighed and said, “Well, boy, you take c
are of yourself and you be sure to write your mother whenever you have time.”
“I’ll sure do that, Pa.”
“I’ll tell Falcon I spoke to you.”
“Give him my best, Pa.”
Jamie turned his horse and rode slowly back toward his own sector. At timber’s edge, he turned in the saddle; Ian was leading his patrol back toward his own lines.
Father and son had passed no hard words, but the meeting had been a tad on the strained side. If they all came out of this war alive, Jamie felt it would take some time before the family was whole again. It would take a lot of healing.
For many families both north and south of the Mason-Dixon line, the invisible wounds would never heal.
* * *
The battle for Chattanooga began in a driving rain on the afternoon of June 24, 1863, when General Rosecrans threw his entire army at the Confederates. Rosecrans had armed many of his men with the relatively new seven-shot Spencer rifle, while most of the Rebels still used the older model single-shot rifles, and many of them had converted muskets and shotguns. The Confederate line broke at several points, and the Union forces swept through, cutting vital Rebel supply and communication links.
The rain did not stop. It rained almost constantly for three days, and for three days the heavily outnumbered Rebels took a beating from the Yankees.
The rain finally stopped, but the mud was knee-deep on many of the roads. Even that didn’t stop the determined Union forces; they marched on, taking only a few casualties, while inflicting some terrible damage on the Confederates. On the first of July, General Bragg ordered his men to start retreating into the mountains of East Tennessee, putting the Tennessee River between them and the slowly but steadily approaching Yankees.
Jamie and his men were on the north, or the right, side of the Rebel lines, and his scouts reported that a huge force of Union troops were fast advancing toward them, coming down from Kentucky.
“If we stay where we are,” Jamie mused, “we’re going to be caught in a trap.”
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