It wasn’t all that surprising, Sykes mused bitterly. Warren had a brigade under him back when he was a division commander in this same corps, and goggle-eyed old George Meade was their corps commander. They had all moved up in the world, but none faster than Warren, who was one of those far too ambitious, far too clever fellows. He had been a good brigade commander and a good engineer, Sykes admitted to himself, but Warren had never handled a division, let alone a corps. Now he was out of his depth, behind schedule, probably muddled up in a jam with his wagons, and it was showing.
A lieutenant galloped across the river and rode up to where Sykes and his staff had set up a temporary headquarters. “General Sykes, may I report, sir?”
Sykes stood up and snapped “Yes, yes, yes. What is it?”
“I’ve seen a column, infantry and wagons, coming down the Orange and Alexandria. It’s II Corps, sir.”
At last, Sykes thought. “Very well,” he said. Turning to his chief of staff, he continued. “We’re relieved. Sound the bugles. We are moving out.”
The officer looked back at him, paused, and said cautiously “General, should we not wait until the head of Warren’s column reaches Bristoe Station? Or at least send someone over to have a word with those boys? See who they are, what the situation is? Bristoe is only a mile or so from here. The whole thing won’t take 20 minutes, sir.”
Sykes scowled slightly at the suggestion. “No, no need for that. If we wait for II Corps to arrive here in force, it will stuff up the roads. Warren’s boys have arrived, and you have your orders.”
The man saluted and went about his business. Within minutes, the camp furniture was being collected up, bugles were sounding, and a band was playing “Old 1812” to start the march.
Only two miles away, Colonel Baxter crossed the wagons under his care over the Kettle Run railroad bridge. The rest of II Corps, delayed by the morning action at Auburn, had been left far behind him.
2:00 pm
Early’s Division, Army of Northern Virginia, CSA
Milford
Jubal Early looked through his field glasses, down from his perch on a low, wooded hill. His front line was on the slope beneath him, advancing into empty air. Cracker boxes and other Yankee leavings were scattered all around the railroad embankment before him, but not a single blue belly was in sight.
Early was a wiry, scraggly man in his mid-40s, but it was widely agreed he looked much older. He pulled off his hat, shifted the plug of chewing tobacco in his mouth from one cheek to the other, and rubbed the bald forehead revealed by his thin, receding hair.
He mulled over his situation, of which he knew very little, because that was the way things were in Jackson’s command. Old Jack told you what to do, but never why, never a word about what might be transpiring elsewhere, and expected you to do exactly what you were told. Yet Jackson demanded some initiative of his generals as well, and that was the maddening thing, so simply occupying the Orange and Alexandria line and waiting for further orders wasn’t an option.
Damn the man, Early thought. Secretive son of a bitch. Most likely we’ve swung and missed, but damned if I know. If there are any blasted Yankees around, they must be coming up from the southwest, along that railroad.
Early studied the ground, already familiar to him from the Battle of Kettle Run, and liked what he saw. He had helped defend this place as a brigadier under Ewell the year before, and he knew its advantages. Above Kettle Run sat a pair of low hills, perfect for observation and placing artillery. Below the creek was nothing, just low, rolling county, and while the creek itself wasn’t much of an obstacle, it had steep, muddy banks for most of its course. Infantry could cross it anywhere, but guns and wagons couldn’t cross it at all, so the Yankees needed that railroad bridge.
He made up his mind, ordered his lead brigades to wheel and assume defensive positions on either side of Kettle Run bridge, sent the rest of his men to the rear, and called up his artillery. He had just finished making his dispositions when Jackson rode up, trailing staff officers behind him.
After a moment spent studying the situation for himself, Jackson turned to Early, his eyes shining. “General Early, you are to advance your division towards Cattlet’s Station.” Jabbing with his one hand for emphasis, he continued “There is at least one enemy corps there. Move forward and attack any Federals you find.”
Early shifted in his saddle, shifting the tobacco plug in his mouth at the same time. “Sir, if I may, I have good ground here. If the Yankees attack me in this place, they ain’t getting by. But if I move out and fight them in the open, I got just one division against a whole Yankee corps!”
No, no, Jackson thought. It won’t do. If they aren’t attacked, the enemy might move away unhindered to the east, and there would be only about a mile and a half between Johnson’s line, facing north, and Early’s line facing south. The enemy must be fixed, and his men needed more room.
“I have already ordered Hill’s Division to move down on your right,” Jackson snapped. “You have your orders, general.”
“Yessir,” Early replied. He was about to spit some tobacco juice, but glanced at Jackson, who bristled at him with disapproval. Early swallowed the juice instead, suppressing a grimace.
Turning to an aide, he said “Tell Hoke to get his North Carolina pig fu...” then stopped himself in mid-curse. Early had gotten out of the habit of minding his tongue during Jackson’s convalescence. “Tell General Hoke to cross Kettle Run on the bridge and advance. General Gordon to follow, resuming his place on Hoke’s left. The rest of the division will follow behind them.”
The aide was about to gallop off when a light crackle of musketry was heard from the southwest, down the railroad line.
Early called out “Lieutenant, never you mind. That’d be our pickets. The bluebellies are here.”
3:15 pm
II Corps, Army of the Potomac, USA
Kettle Run
Warren galloped to the head of his column in search of Alexander Webb and the source of the firing. Behind the corps, Gregg’s cavalry was dogged by Reb cavalry, and Ewell’s Corps was surely behind that. He had just arrived when the boom of artillery joined the crackling of musketry. Finding Webb, Warren demanded a report.
“We just drove in a Johnny picket line, sir. More of them are across the creek, where they have started to dig in, and are supported by at least two batteries of artillery on those hills behind it,” Webb told him, pointing forward. “They have more artillery coming up. I’m deploying both of my brigades forward, one on each side of the railroad.”
Warren nodded. While the railroad’s solid embankment was a ready-made breastwork, it was worse than useless in their present circumstances. If they put men behind it, their flank and rear would be exposed to enfilade fire from across Kettle Run. But if the Rebels put men atop that embankment, they would rake Webb’s left from a stoutly protected position. The only choice was to extend the line, along the creek and beyond the railroad, even if that railroad divided them.
The two generals looked at each other for a moment. Webb was a promising West Pointer and from a prominent New York family, much like Warren himself, but even younger at 28. He too was in an acting command, serving in place of another man wounded at Gettysburg, the steely John Gibbon. Outwardly, they both appeared calm, in control. Yet they both knew they were in a bad spot. They nodded at each other and went about their business.
Warren withdrew his field glasses from their box and studied the terrain, especially to the east. If there was a way out of here, it was that way. Buford’s cavalry was over there somewhere, and that was something. The problem was getting there. Ewell was behind him, and Warren was now certain Jackson was gathering across his front. He was cut off. To march away to the east, he knew he would have to deploy “rear guards” north and south, because to do otherwise would invite a Rebel advance. They would catch him on the march and slaughter him.
Warren decided his only way out was to attack, knock the Rebs back, stun
them and gain some breathing space, then retreat to the east as night approached. Attacking Ewell was no good, since it took him further away from Meade and support. That left Jackson.
Warren made his plan and issued his orders. Webb would hold his ground. Hays was next in the column, and go onto Webb’s right, extending his line to the east. Caldwell would send one brigade to stiffen Gregg’s horsemen and hold off Ewell for a while, and the rest of his division would support the attack. They’d unlimber the guns, suppress those Rebel batteries, and attack in force.
3:15 pm
V Corps, Army of the Potomac, USA
Bull Run
“What in the blue blazes?” George Sykes was observing his column cross Bull Run when he heard the dull booming of cannon coming from the south. At that moment, a courier rode up and handed him a message from General Meade.
Noon, 14 October 1864
Headquarters in the Field, Army of the Potomac
To Major General George Sykes, V Corps
II Corps was attacked at Auburn in divisional strength at 9 this morning. Expect the arrival of General Warren and his corps to be delayed. Continue to hold your position at Broad Run in support of II Corps, as per previous orders, until they arrive.
George G. Meade
Major General, USA
Sykes felt the bottom fall out of his stomach, and screamed at the courier “This message is three hours old! Where in damnation have you been?!”
He wanted to smack the man. Instead, he yelled “Colonel! Colonel! Reverse this column. Counter march to Broad Run! At once, do you hear me! At once!”
4:00 pm
Early’s Division, Army of Northern Virginia, CSA
Kettle Run
The artillery roared louder as the Federals tried to silence the Confederate guns overlooking Kettle Run. Early wasn’t concerned. While he counted two dozen Yankee guns in position, he had 16 cannon posted on better ground. What was more, his boys had used the last hour to pile rocks and shovel earth as best they could, establishing a low breastwork about 20 yards back from the creek. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.
Thing was the damn Yankees were extending beyond his left. Early sent to Jackson for reinforcements, only to have that request flatly rejected. Determined to hang on to one full brigade as a reserve, Early had been forced to sidle out to the east, spreading his men thinner than he would have liked.
Jackson returned, and studied the Federal line while telling Early “All’s quiet on Johnson’s front, General Early, but it won’t stay that way. He will likely have half the Army of the Potomac on him before nightfall, and needs every man. Hill will come up on your right before long.”
Early spat tobacco juice, not caring what Old Jack though about it anymore. “Yessir.”
Jackson ignored Early’s discontent, and continued to peer through his binoculars, saying “You will hold, General Early. I know you will hold.”
The enemy had lined up about 200 yards beyond the creek, five brigades strong. They began their attack by shouting in unison “Our clubs are trumps! Our clubs are trumps!” referring to their corps emblem, the clover leaf-shaped playing card symbol. Then the men of the II Corps cried “Huzzah! Huzzah!” and stepped forward.
The skirmishers rejoined the ranks as the advance came on, each man finding his place in the line. The westernmost brigade, beyond the railroad, held its ground, anchoring the Federals’ open left flank. Jackson and Early both watched as a sixth blue brigade moved up behind the advancing line, swinging out beyond their own left.
Early growled at an aide “See those bastards back there on the left? Go tell Nelson I want fire placed on those God damned syphilitic whoresons. Chop them down.”
Jackson snapped “General Early, I have little tolerance for profanity, and none whatsoever for blasphemy!”
Early mumbled “Yessir.”
Jackson let it pass at that. Old Jube always forgot himself in battle. He was a bad egg, and Jackson was certain a suitable place in Hell waited for Early. But he was a good fighter, a cruel killer, and he obeyed orders. That was that. Providence worked in mysterious ways, and who was Jackson to quibble if He decided to use sinners so.
Watching the Yankee attack unfold, Early stood up in his stirrups and declared “General Jackson, the Yankees are going to turn my line if I don’t put my reserve in, and all I’ve got is Pegram’s Brigade. I need reinforcements.”
Jackson didn’t reply, merely shook his head in refusal. Early sent orders for Pegram to take half his Virginians to the support of the Confederate left, thereby leaving just two regiments in reserve.
The Johnnie line opened up when the Federals came up to 70 yards, firing a hard, almost simultaneous volley down the ranks. The blue line went on unfazed by the men who tumbled out of its ranks, advancing a few dozen more yards as each Confederate reloaded and fired at will, coming up very close to Kettle Run. The Billies halted, leveled their own muskets and returned a tight, disciplined volley.
The two lines took to firing away at each other from across the creek at a distance of only 50 yards, the grey moderately better protected than the blue. Then the last Federal brigade fell into place at the end of the line, opposite the Confederate left flank. It gave a loud, deep-throated roar, and shot forward at a run.
Early had sent forward his reserve too late. The last brigade in the Federal line, the hard fighting Irish Brigade from Caldwell’s Division, surged across Kettle Run, scrambled up its muddy banks, and rose on the other side almost unopposed.
Once across, the Irish wheeled to face the Louisiana Tigers on the Confederate left, as well as the three Virginia regiments then being led up by Pegram. The Irish ignored the shot and shell falling on them as they dressed their ranks, and then fired a massed volley into the approaching Virginians. Many of the Irish carried old percussion smoothbores, and their buck and ball wreaked havoc at that murderously close range. The Rebels staggered in shock, and General Pegram fell from his horse, his guts perforated with buckshot.
Warren watched with satisfaction as the next brigade in line charged forward, leaping down and over the creek, and scrambling up the other side. This time, however, the men who climbed out of the creek bed were met with a steady rain of musket balls from the Louisianans, and were soon forced back down and behind the cover of the creek bank. Each brigade in turn surged forward, but each got only so far before taking cover in the creek bed. By the time the rolling, en echelon charge had reached the last brigade by Kettle Run bridge, those men didn’t even try to push past the creek, and instead immediately took up positions to return fire from behind its banks.
Warren cursed and swore as his attack ground to a halt before the makeshift Confederate earthworks, but Webb reached out and grabbed his arm.
“Wait, sir, look,” Webb pointed to his men, who were lying and kneeling in the creek, and firing back at the Rebels. “The Johnnies can’t fire down into the creek from where they are. They’re too far back. Our men now have the better cover!”
Warren could see Webb was right. Except for the odd Rebel shell that hit the creek bed, sending up a geyser of water and silt, his men looked well-protected, the Rebs more exposed. They could stay in that creek and fire away all afternoon if need be. He turned his horse and rode back to where his reserve, his very last uncommitted brigade, was posted, just outside of Rebel artillery range.
“General Caldwell,” Warren shouted. “I want you to bring take your last brigade forward to support the Irish Brigade. When you are in position, signal back to me and I’ll send the entire line forward. Once they are committed, strike from the right, and roll that line up. You lead the attack in person, General.”
Caldwell saluted, drew his sword, and called on his men to follow him. Warren then rode forward to find General Hays, who was supervising the center, and give him his new instructions.
4:30 pm
A.P. Hill’s Division, Army of Northern Virginia, CSA
The Greenwich Road
A.P. Hill stood alongside the Greenwich Road, watching the progress of his column as it continued off the road and on its overland advance to what was supposed to be the Federal left flank. Short-but-leonine, he always cut quite an appearance dressed up for battle in his bright red shirt, and his men cheered as they turned off the road, passed him and marched on.
Hill was in high spirits. He was in touch with Old Baldy now, and away from the overbearing Jackson on the sort of independent mission he craved. Artillery was audible in the distance, battle had been joined, and soon he and his men would pitch in.
An aide from his lead brigade galloped up and gave him a verbal message: the advance guards beyond the head of the column had seen Yankees, lots of them.
Hill sent him back with a simple order: “Attack at once.”
5:00 pm
Kettle Run
It was now or never, Warren thought. A message from Gregg arrived just five minutes before, reporting infantry on his front. More Rebels were emerging from the woods on his left. Webb went over and helped see them off in person, but they would be back, and in greater numbers. Warren reckoned if he didn’t break loose soon, he would be surrounded before nightfall.
On the other side of the lines, Early sat grimly, bracing himself for the renewed Yankee onslaught. Behind him, Allegheny Johnson was now under attack too, and Jackson had gone to look into the situation on that front. Early grumbled under his breath that he still hadn’t been reinforced, although it looked like some of Hill’s Division had at last begun to arrive
The line has taken a beating these last two hours, Early thought. Fucking yeller bastards carrying the wounded to the rear, never coming back up to the firing line only makes it worse. But the damn Yanks must be tiring too. I just need to hang on a little longer. Hang on until nightfall or when Hill gets here in force, whichever comes first.
A courier arrived with a short, scribbled message from Jackson:
Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) Page 4
