Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy)

by Thomas, R. E.

  Glancing at the boy, he added “Met him again at Gaines Mill, then White Oak Swamp. Stopped him too, held him fast. Yes, if you ask me, Thomas ‘Stonewall’ Jackson is an overrated man. He beat a gaggle of third-raters in the Shenandoah, it is true, men who were no soldiers, but the brains and the guts of the Rebels is Lee. Jackson just does what he’s told. Don’t you believe what the newspapers tell you about Jackson, because Robert E. Lee’s the real ticket.”

  French pulled out his pocket watch. The tail of his corps had left the Greenwich crossroads at a quarter after seven, he thought. No one would call him tardy today.

  8:00 am

  II Corps, Army of the Potomac, USA

  Auburn

  Warren had only just finished watching Hays drive back the last of the Rebel cavalry from his immediate rear when the musketry to the west, which had been crackling lightly all morning, tore open rapidly. He rode over to the west slope of the hill to find that Caldwell’s boys had started a whole new set of fires, and were finishing their breakfast of coffee and hardtack.

  Examining the woods about half a mile west of Auburn, he saw enough butternut lurking about to think that the forest must be crawling with Rebel skirmishers. That thick screen of butternut was pushing his own picket line back, and some were already running back on Caldwell’s position.

  Bearing the message, Warren thought. He rode down to John Caldwell, a burly man of about the same age as himself, and found Caldwell looking through field glasses, studying the Rebel-infested woods.

  “Well, General, it looks like you’re going to have your hands full in just a little while” Warren said.

  Caldwell nodded, “It might come to nothing, sir, but I’d best prepare all the same. I’ll put my division into line above the foot of this hill. I reckon I could use some artillery support.”

  “The action to the east is pretty much over,” Warren said. “I’ll put all three of those batteries on line here. If any Rebs come out of those woods, we’ll really get a good twist on them. Put down fire on them so hot, they’ll each get a score of blisters.”

  Warren gave the orders, and then pondered his next move. He was only supposed to stop here for a couple of hours, shield the army’s flank and rear, and wait for the traffic to clear on the creek crossings, especially Broad Run. If he withdrew now, that Reb cavalry would come right back and nip at his heels. Then that Reb infantry massing to the west would come up quick and smash his rear.

  I could order Caldwell to send out a reconnaissance in force, he thought, to see what really was brewing to the west. No, that would be one more thing to pull back in when I march out of here, more time lost. I also can’t put Webb on the march yet. His division is my only reserve, so it stays right here, with Caldwell and Hays.

  That made up Warren’s mind. What he needed to do was stay about Auburn until he either put the Rebel cavalry to flight or gave whoever was massing behind that wooded ridge to his west a bloody nose. Preferably both.

  The two generals dismounted, waited and watched, chatting idly over more coffee. They soon received confirmation by a written message from General Gregg of the cavalry, dated roughly an hour before. Warren read it and showed it to Caldwell: two strong Confederate columns were pressing on Gregg from the west, and one more had swung past him to the northwest. Warren and Caldwell agreed that the latter was what was behind the woods to Caldwell’s front.

  Warren had half-hoped for an engagement of some kind, since he knew if it went well, it would boost his case for a permanent command. On the other hand, he had only 10,000 men with him, and from the looks of it, an entire Confederate corps of 20,000 or 25,000 would be at Auburn before the morning was out. He had a good position here, but not that good.

  “Why don’t those bastards just hurry it up?” Warren muttered unhappily. He summoned a courier, wrote out a message to explain his delay to General Meade, and waited for either Hays to say the Rebel horsemen were gone or for a grey line of battle to come out of those woods.

  8:30 am

  Jackson’s Corps, Army of Northern Virginia, CSA

  Thoroughfare Gap

  Jackson stood on the banks of Broad Run, across from Chapman’s Mill, watching as the head of Early’s column cleared Thoroughfare Gap. The sun rose in a fog so thick he could not make out the men on the other side of his four-abreast column, but it was slowly thinning now, and turning into a gloriously crisp mid-October morning.

  “This is something I love about Virginia,” Jackson said to himself. My home, he thought. The foothills of the Blue Ridge on a morning like this one. The crisp, cool autumn air, the golden sunlight. I can’t see it all, but I know the hills are alive with colors, green and red, yellow and orange. The Almighty blessed us in making this place, truly.

  Jackson dutifully turned his mind back to the task at hand. By his accounting, they were three hours behind schedule, and most of his corps remained snaked back around behind the hills. But they were finally here, and he was confident the enemy remained in ignorance of his movements. Greenwich and the enemy right flank were just four miles east of their position.

  CHAPTER 2

  8:40 am

  II Corps, Army of the Potomac, USA

  Auburn

  Warren lowered his field glasses, looked to Caldwell, and said “Dammit, what took them so long?”

  The Confederates were in a line of battle, men marching almost elbow to elbow in two densely packed lines, filtering their way through the low, thinly wooded slopes on the edge of the forest. They stepped out onto the muddy fields, followed by a battery clattering out to the left, its four guns unlimbering alongside them. The butternut mass paused, ordered itself, and went forward.

  Warren took a dry swallow. “I’d say they have as least three brigades over there, wouldn’t you say?”

  Caldwell replied grimly “Yes. There might be another brigade or two back in those woods there. I reckon if there is a whole Confederate division here, they must have at least another brigade tucked away about here in some place or another.”

  Warren nodded, and then turned to Captain Ricketts, posted nearby with his Pennsylvania battery. “Open the ball, Captain.”

  Ricketts gave the order, and the Federal cannon boomed out, one gun after another. Each gun crew then set about reloading and firing at will, lobbing shell at the Confederate line roughly 900 yards away.

  The butternuts had almost no cover, only a stand of trees about halfway down the field and alongside Cedar Run or the odd depression in the fields, so they had to cross over half a mile’s worth of open ground under fire. Exploding shells burst over their heads, raining down jagged iron fragments, or in the muddy ground, sending up plumes of earth. The Rebels left a trail of wounded and dead as they advanced. When the grey line came up to 300 yards, the gunners changed from shell to canister, each shot flinging dozens of inch-wide iron balls into the Rebel ranks, cutting their targets down in swathes.

  Warren could see that the Confederates had Caldwell’s small division outnumbered by a margin of about three to two. When they got here, he thought, their line would extend from Cedar Run and lap around the hill, beyond Caldwell’s line. And then there was that reserve, menacing and unseen.

  He yelled to his aide “Send to General Webb. He is to bring his division up to behind the crest of this hill and stand in reserve. He is to exercise every precaution to avoid being observed from the west.”

  Riding over to Ricketts’s and Ames’s batteries, Warren issued more orders, telling them to concentrate their fire by the right, putting two-thirds of the artillery down on the danger.

  Warren looked on as Caldwell trotted behind his line, and when the Confederates came up to 150 yards, he drew his sword and shouted “Give them the blazes - fire! Fire!” Down the line, regiment after regiment leveled their muskets and fired a crashing, rolling volley. Caldwell shouted encouragement, but what he said was smothered by the din, as his men followed up the volley by firing at will.

  The butternut and grey line
still came on. Too soon, Warren thought. Caldwell fired too soon. I would have waited until the Rebs were closer. The rifled musket might kill at a quarter mile, but most of the boys couldn’t hit anything anywhere near so far as that.

  The Confederates marched another few dozen yards, stopped, leveled their muskets, and returned fire. The lines were now partially obscured by the pall of smoke clinging to the foot of the hill, but Warren could see the dozens of men falling out dead or wounded on his side well enough, along with the skulkers instinctively cringing from the danger, backing off up the hill and towards the rear. The latter were mercifully few.

  Warren watched the stand-up fight ensue as bullets flew all about him, his staff, the gunners, and the skulkers, over-shot misses from the Johnnies. Neither side was entrenched, but his men had the high ground, and they also had the artillery. This will be bloody for us, he thought, but bloodier for them. He looked to the right of his blue line with relief, for not only had Caldwell pulled it back and refused it to face the threat, but he saw that a green flag stood fluttering there. That was the Irish Brigade, and those stubborn micks weren’t going anywhere.

  Even so, through the smoky haze Warren could see the Confederates inch closer, especially on the right. He went back to Ricketts.

  Warren leaned down over the neck of his horse and yelled over the din “Captain, double shot your rightmost pair of guns and hold them back. When you see those Rebs over on the right get close, getting ready to charge us, fire. Tear them apart. You understand?”

  “Yessir!” Ricketts saluted and sprang into action. Warren watched with approval. Ricketts hadn’t been to West Point, but he was a fine gunner nonetheless.

  The lines continued to blaze away at each other, the Confederates moving step by tentative step closer. The distance between them was down to 50 yards, even closer on the critical right. The loud crash of a pair of guns firing in salvo came down, as Ricketts blasted double canister into the flank of the Confederate assault. Through the smoke, it looked almost as if the entire grey regiment posted there had been swept clean away.

  A piercing chorus of shrieks went up, as the Confederates on the right gave a yell and charged forward. Although he had heard it many times before, it still gave Warren a sensation of dread. How the rankers felt about it, he didn’t know, but he guessed the Rebel Yell didn’t hold much terror for at least some of them, as the Irish screamed in turn and leapt forward to meet them, stopping the Rebel charge almost as soon as it started, clubbing, stabbing, shoving and chasing the butternuts off the slope. The charging Rebels recoiled, almost tumbling back down to the foot of the hill. Caldwell sent down his own local reserve, the Irish quickly withdrew back into line, and together they fired at will, shredding the Rebel flank.

  The Rebels were soon in full retreat. More of their artillery had come up, and it now covered the butternuts as they skedaddled back to their starting line.

  Warren breathed a sigh of relief. The fight might have lasted only an hour, but it had been a real brawl for all that. He guessed as much as a fifth of Caldwell’s men were down. Yet whatever he had suffered, for the Rebs it must have been worse. He hadn’t even needed to put Webb in, which meant he still had a fresh division if there was any more trouble. He motioned for the corps chief of staff.

  “First, send to General Webb. He is to put his men on the road to Catlett Station as quick as he can. He leads the march. General Hays to follow, and General Caldwell to bring up the rear. Tell Caldwell he has my compliments, but I expect he has less than an hour to gather up his wounded.”

  11:00 am

  Jackson’s Corps, Army of Northern Virginia, CSA

  Greenwich

  Having left Early’s Division and the head of his column, Jackson rode into Greenwich, a small crossroads at the Warrenton Turnpike and the namesake for the Greenwich Road. It was a little place, marked only by a church and a few widely spaced farmhouses. He expected to find Colonel Owen and Wickham’s Brigade, and he was not disappointed.

  “The Yankees left here about three hours ago, sir” reported Owen. “I have sent scouts to the south and west. I told them myself they were to take every care to avoid being seen.”

  Good, good, Jackson thought.

  Owen continued “My scouts say there are no Yankees within a few miles to the south of us, but there is at least a division of them above Milford, on the other side of Broad Run.”

  “Have your men been as far as Cedar Run yet?” Jackson asked.

  “No, sir. But they should either find Yankees or reach thereabouts soon.”

  Jackson imagined the lay of the land, thinking the left of Ewell’s Corps should have passed by way of Auburn, only four miles south, give or take. With no battle noise, that meant there was no sizable Federal presence south of him. Owen’s horsemen should find Old Baldy, not blue. Milford and the bridge at Bristoe Station were ahead and only a mile apart. That was where the Federals were crossing Broad Run.

  Jackson’s eyes lit up brightly. Ahead are rolling hills and woods, he thought. Good cover. We shall deploy here.

  “Sandie, draw up written orders to this effect. General Early will come into town, turn south on the Greenwich Road, and deploy to the southeast, two brigades out front, two brigades in reserve, placed so as to put his right flank in contact with Kettle Run. General Johnson will come into town, turn north and deploy to the northeast. Two brigades in front, two in reserve, his left flank on Broad Run. Hill is to come into town and halt until he receives further instructions.”

  Pendleton watched his chief closely, nodding that he understood.

  Jackson went on. “Early will press on until he meets the Orange and Alexandria line. Johnson is to post one brigade to cover Milford, and push on to Bristoe Station.”

  11:30 am

  Lee’s Headquarters in the Field, Army of Northern Virginia, CSA

  Auburn

  Upon arriving in the village of Auburn, Lee found that every building in the modest village had become an improvised hospital, crammed with the moaning and screaming wounded from Wilcox’s Division. The acrid hint of gunpowder still hung in the air. Withdrawing to a quieter place near Cedar Run, he sent for General Wilcox himself.

  “We moved here as directed,” Wilcox began, “to press the Yankees and relieve General Stuart. The head of my column got here a little after 7:30, sir, and found a strong Federal force concentrated. There was at least a division posted on the west slope of that hill, yonder, with plenty of artillery, 18 guns by my count. More Yankees were situated nearby, and these were attacked from the northwest by a force I can only assume was General Stuart’s. I ordered the boys to deploy and sent back to General Ewell for confirmation, that I should attack such a superior force in a strong position, sir.”

  Wilcox was a professional soldier, a West Pointer and Mexican War veteran, who had written infantry tactics manuals before the war. He looked the part too, what with his barrel chest, burly mustache and neatly combed hair. But today he was a little shaken, and more than a little distraught.

  Lee replied softly “Do go on, General.”

  “Yessir. It was my intention to attack with my whole division once I had it ready, as per orders, even without Ewell’s confirmation. I had three brigades in line when word came to go in at once with whatever I had, that I was to force the enemy to stand his ground. Really kicked the hornet’s nest with that, sir. We stood in with those Yanks for an hour, but I am sorry to say, I was forced to withdraw. Very sorry.”

  “How long have those people been gone?”

  “The last of them left not more than half an hour ago. They marched on Catlett’s.”

  Lee pondered that. He had a message from Jackson, dated 8:30 from Thoroughfare Gap. The head of Jackson’s Corps ought to have reached at least as far Greenwich by now.

  Lee asked “Were you able to identify those people?”

  Wilcox nodded. “Yes, general. They were the clover leafs, the II Corps. I saw the guidon myself.”

  Lee checked
his watch, sat down at a camp table, and wrote out a message.

  Auburn, 11:50 am, 14 October 1864

  H’quarters in the Field, ANV

  Lt. Gen’l T.J. Jackson,

  The Federal II Corps was engaged at Auburn this morning, and retreated towards Catlett’s Station at 11 o’clock. Move on Bristoe Station to cut it off. Ewell’s Corps will press them from the rear.

  R. E. Lee

  Gen’l, CSA

  Lee dispatched his message by courier. Turning back to Wilcox, he asked “What about your casualties, General?”

  “I don’t have the exact numbers, but several hundred, at the least. Lane’s North Carolina boys, who were on our left and tried to get around the enemy flank, suffered worst of all. Lane guesses a third of his men are down.”

  Lee nodded. What he had seen with his own eyes told him it had been a bloody repulse. Several hundred men down from just three brigades in only one hour, but the attack had to be made. Ewell had followed his orders, had done the right thing. If part of the Federal army stood here for most of the morning, then that part might have become separated from the rest.

  1:15 pm

  V Corps, Army of the Potomac, USA

  North of Milford

  Even while enjoying a little dinner of hardtack, cheese and coffee in a camp chair under the shade of trees, George Sykes sat in an erect, military posture. He thought of himself as regulation as regular army came, fit at 41, and with a beard trimmed to an almost geometrical precision. Yet despite his attention to what he thought of as a stern, professional bearing, he nervously checked his pocket watch for the half-dozenth time in the last half an hour.

  Sykes had brought his V Corps to the Broad Run ford at Milford crossroads, on schedule at 11 o’clock, relieving Sedgwick and the VI Corps. Sedgwick marched on with the rest of the army, while he waited here for Warren and the II Corps to come up.

  More than two hours now, he thought. Here I am, badly exposed, no word from any damn one about any damn thing, and that puppy Warren is late. What the devil is keeping him?