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

by Thomas, R. E.

  A few days to rest the men and organize them, and he would push on. Polk expected that by the time he was over the Tennessee line, Jackson would be busy with the drudgery of fending off Sherman, while he basked in the glory of marching on Nashville.

  He had just begun composing a report for Richmond when an aide knocked at his door.

  “General Polk, there is a Colonel Milner just arrived. He says he is from General Stewart’s staff and has important business with you.”

  Polk replied “Yes, please show him in, son.” He watched as a colonel in a disgracefully seedy coat, muddy trousers and boots entered his office.

  The colonel said “Thank you, lieutenant,” and closed the door himself. He doffed the crumpled cap from his head.

  Haltingly, Polk said “General... Jackson? Stonewall Jackson?” Polk had never met the man before, and knew him only from newspaper sketches and other such things.

  “Yes, yes. Pleased to make your acquaintance General Polk.”

  Jackson stood waiting. Flabbergasted, Polk realized that he was waiting for a salute. Polk stood to attention and gave him one. Jackson returned it.

  Taking a seat, Jackson said “I must apologize for this deception, but it is very necessary. Very necessary. No one is to know of my presence here. You are to remain in titular command of this expedition, with private orders emanating from me through General Stewart’s headquarters.”

  Polk hid his growing sense of alarm. “Titular command, sir? But, this is my raid. The Army of Mississippi is to strike Middle Tennessee. I have orders from Richmond.”

  “That is part of my deception. You still are invading Middle Tennessee. Only you are going with your men, Stewart, and Hood. I have here a letter from President Davis. He asked me to give it to you. And it goes without saying, General Polk, that your department is legally part of my command.”

  Polk took the letter, replying weakly “Yes, of course.”

  “What are your dispositions?”

  “Red Jackson’s cavalry is here in Selma” Polk said mechanically. “My infantry is in Demopolis. Forrest’s cavalry is in Tuscaloosa.”

  “Good, good” Jackson nodded. “Hood’s Corps will be here in Selma by day’s end tomorrow. The 17th is the Sabbath, so the army will rest then. On Monday, we march. You rejoin your Army of Mississippi in Demopolis, now a corps in the Army of Tennessee, and we will advance north on parallel roads. Draw up orders for Forrest to remain far in advance of our columns, with the mission of advanced reconnaissance and driving off any enemy cavalry he should encounter. Red Jackson’s cavalry will provide close security and serve as Forrest’s support.”

  “The Sabbath, yes. I shall draw up the orders for Forrest, as you say.”

  Jackson stood up. “Good day, General Polk.”

  Polk sat immobile for a time. Then he picked up the letter from Jefferson Davis. Silently, he crumpled its ends in both hands, and tore it apart.

  CHAPTER 7

  April 19

  After dawn

  Kilpatrick’s Division, Army of the Tennessee, USA

  Southwest of Jasper, Alabama

  The Confederate outriders came down the road at a trot, a motley party of a few dozen. Behind them followed the rest of their regiment. They came through lightly forested country into an open field, passing a pasture marked by a low stone wall, to climb a gentle slope up to the farm cabin at the top. Upon reaching the crest, the outriders were greeted by a hail of bullets.

  With the sound of gunfire, the blue horse troopers hiding behind the stone wall sprang up, leveled their carbines, and raked the main body of the Rebels. Many fell in that first volley, and many more were cut down in the confusion and awkward turning about that followed. A bugler tried to sound “Come About,” but he too was shot. In less than two minutes, the ground was strewn with felled men and horses.

  From behind the low hill, a bugle call tooted out “Charge,” and a mass of blue troopers raced over the crest. They roared a deep-throated shout as they thundered down the hill, building up speed. Sabers gleamed in the sun as the cavalry charge smashed into the disordered butternut horsemen. The Rebel cavalry broke, sending the survivors galloping back down the road, trailed by a handful of riderless horses.

  A few minutes after the shooting stopped, Judson Kilpatrick emerged from the cabin where he had watched the ambush from behind the protection of log walls. “Bully, bully!” he cried, exultant over such an excellent start to his expedition.

  Kilpatrick swung up onto his horse, and rode down to survey the aftermath. Men in grey and butternut jackets groaned and sobbed, and horses whinnied. From what he observed, Kilpatrick reckoned his own casualties as light, very light indeed.

  He called to Colonel Eli Murray, commander of his division’s Kentucky cavalry brigade. “Well done, Murray! Well done. You really put the twist on them. Shot the secessesh bastards right down, cut them up!”

  Murray saluted and said “Thank you, sir.” He was polite, but unenthusiastic. Murray had opposed making this glory-chasing expedition in the first place.

  Ignoring the Kentuckian’s flat tone, Kilpatrick went on. “Now we pull back, join the rest of the division, and lure Forrest into battle on our own terms. We lick him, push farther south, and see what General Polk has planned for us.”

  “If you say so,” Murray replied, once again very proper, but very flat.

  Damn the man, Kilpatrick thought. What, does he think this war is going to win itself? To beat the Rebels, we need to hunt down and kill men like Nathan Bedford Forrest, or at least give them a good licking. All the better that I get to do it, and win all the fame for whipping this so-called “Wizard of the Saddle” myself. As good as beating Jeb Stuart, that would be.

  Now he could hear some of Murray’s troopers muttering “Kil-cavalry” under their breaths. Well damn them too, Kilpatrick thought. Unreliable, unpatriotic Kentuckians. These Kentucks are all secessionists at heart anyway, and they have no appreciation for my vision. If we pull this off, we’ll all be famous.

  He could see it now. Beat Forrest at the start of Sherman’s campaign, earning promotion to the head of Sherman’s cavalry. Play a big role in beating Stonewall Jackson, maybe seize Atlanta all by himself in a bold, lightning quick cavalry drive. Ride that glory to election as governor of New Jersey after the war, and then onto the White House itself.

  That was what he wanted, and that was what he was going to get. The idea came to him shortly after receiving his orders from McPherson, orders to cross the Tennessee River at Decatur and patrol the south bank of the river. Those orders gave him discretion to probe into central Alabama if that proved necessary to develop the strength and intentions of Bishop Polk’s Army of Mississippi. That was all the discretion he needed to go chasing after Forrest, rumored to be about Tuscaloosa.

  He came south, stopping in Jasper along the way, but only long enough to put the town’s courthouse and other public buildings to the torch. Kilpatrick’s Division then moved on, looking to pick a fight.

  Or rather, Kilpatrick went looking for a fight. His senior officers, such as Murray, were well aware of Kilpatrick’s twisting of their orders, and considered the expedition a dangerous folly. Their lack of enthusiasm filtered down through the ranks, and that along with Kilpatrick’s “Kil-Cavalry” reputation for ambitious, self-serving recklessness, soured morale.

  Kilpatrick ordered “Get your men organized, colonel.” And damn if you or any of your half-Reb sonsobitches are going to stop me from getting Forrest, either.

  Murray soon had his brigade moving north toward a rendezvous with the rest of Kilpatrick’s cavalry division. They rode at a moderate pace, for that was part of Kilpatrick’s plan as well, as he wanted Forrest to catch up, so as to reel the man into battle on ground of his own choosing.

  Kilpatrick had a pretty position selected at Holly Grove Crossroads, with breastworks thrown up and artillery in place. Just thinking about Forrest battering himself to pieces against his line, defended by men armed with quic
k-firing breechloaders and repeaters, gave him a wide Cheshire grin.

  Murray’s Kentuckians and Kilpatrick had only been riding north for an hour when the Confederates struck back. For several minutes, butternut outriders dogged the tail of Murray’s column, exchanging potshots at extreme distance with the column’s rearguard.

  “Sir, the Rebels are gaining on us,” said Murray, sounding worried. “We need to step up the pace.”

  Kilpatrick replied cheerfully “No, Colonel. We need to draw those Rebs onto the rest of the division. If they are nipping at our heels, that is exactly what I want.”

  Murray scowled. “They won’t be nipping on our heels for long. They’ll be jumping on our backs!”

  Kilpatrick said nothing in response, choosing to ignore rather than argue with Murray. He was serene and confident, right up to the moment he heard a distant bugle sound “Charge,” followed by an eruption of battle noise from his rear guard.

  Kilpatrick turned his horse about, wondering aloud “What the devil?”

  Murray ordered his bugler to sound first “Come About,” and then “Trot,” and his two regiments came quickly back on their rear guard to find it being overwhelmed by hundreds of butternut horsemen, brandishing six-shooters, musketoons and shotguns. Murray ordered a charge, and the Kentuckians surged forward, pistols and sabers drawn.

  Studying the scene from a distance, Kilpatrick noted the flags, revealing the Rebs as Mississippians. He was amazed the bastards had brought up so much force so quickly, and decided Forrest’s main body was not far behind.

  The Kentucky cavalry soon pushed the Mississippi horsemen back. However, Murray had only just started reorganizing his troopers when the Rebels were back on the road, just close enough to draw a bead on the fringe of his brigade.

  “Colonel Murray” Kilpatrick shouted. “I believe it is time to pick up the pace. Put some distance between us and the enemy, if you please.”

  Murray complied. The Federal horsemen drove hard for the next ten miles, a growing number of Southern troopers snapping at their hooves. Kilpatrick became anxious, wondering how the Rebels could be bearing so hard down on his rear. Murray’s horses were spent. How could they do it?

  Kilpatrick sighed with relief when the entrenchments manned by Klein’s and Smith’s Brigades came into view. Just below the crest of this low ridge, the blue horsemen had dug out a shallow trench and piled the dirt in front of it. They had cut down every tree and shifted every rock within reach to reinforce that pile of dirt, although the largest trees had been cut down so the tops pointed outwards, turning the branches into barriers. There had not been time to cut away the foliage and sharpen the branches into stakes, but Kilpatrick paid that no mind.

  The men had been at it for half the night. While not as expert at fashioning earthworks as the coffee boilers, Kilpatrick felt his troopers had made a workable job of it. Above were the guns of Kilpatrick’s sole battery of artillery. On the reverse slope, one man in every four stood by with the horses.

  Reaching the top of the ridge, Kilpatrick swung off his horse and withdrew his field glasses from his case. Murray took his cavalry behind the lines and into reserve, where he could rest his tired horses.

  The shooting hadn’t stopped. Kilpatrick could see that as soon as his pursuers had laid eyes on what waited for them, they had come about, dismounted, and taken up positions facing the right of his line.

  Kilpatrick became excited. It’s working, he thought. Walking over to his battery, he ordered it to open fire on the Rebels.

  “Are you sure, general?” asked Captain Beebe, his chief gunner. “That’s only three regiments of dismounted cavalry out there, that I can see, and they are spread out in a skirmish line. It’s not a good target, and Confederate artillery ain’t even up yet. I’ve only got so much ammunition in the caissons. The wagons are back in Jasper.”

  “Put fire down on those bastards. That’s an order!” snapped Kilpatrick. Within moments, his six guns were pelting the Rebels with solid shot and bursting shell.

  The two lines sniped at each other for the better part of two hours, the Federal troopers from behind their entrenchments, and the Confederate horsemen from behind trees, rocks and whatever cover they could find. Kilpatrick observed that the Confederate line was gradually thickening and reaching out to his left, and estimated the butternut numbers on the firing line had doubled by noon.

  Kilpatrick was still studying the skirmishing, satisfied and congratulating himself, when Colonel Murray and his other two brigade commanders, Lt. Colonels Smith and Klein, confronted him.

  “General Kilpatrick, sir, this is madness,” Murray pleaded. “If that is Forrest out there, we have no knowledge of his strength. What we see here before us is at least the equal to our own, and we can be pretty sure that’s not all that’s coming.”

  The other colonels concurred. Klein said “We bushwhacked Forrest, sir. General McPherson’s orders said nothing about bringing on a general engagement with the Confederate cavalry. We’re out on a limb here, and if we wait too long, Forrest is going to cut it right off.”

  Kilpatrick was disgusted. Run? The Johnnies hadn’t even pushed them that hard yet. This is what comes from having brigade commanders who weren’t trained, West Point professionals.

  “I don’t want to hear any more talk of the Rebels outnumbering us. Not one fucking word. I’ve heard you westerners go on about what big fighters you all are, and here you are. You should be ashamed of yourselves, clucking like toothless old women. I heard plenty such talk back in Virginia. Now get back ...”

  Kilpatrick was interrupted by the boom of new artillery, coming from across the valley and on the opposite ridge. Snatching up his field glasses, Kilpatrick saw a dozen Confederate cannon had been unlimbered on his front, pushed up all in one go.

  The artillery fire signaled the dismounted butternut troopers before his line to attack. They came on in the Indian rush style, with squadrons laying down fire so their comrades could advance to the next patch of cover. Advancing in this manner, the attackers turned the Federal’s leafy obstacles against them, using the felled trees as protection.

  Kilpatrick’s commanders rushed back to their units, just as one of the cannon to Kilpatrick’s left was smashed to bits, struck by solid shot. A third grey brigade emerged from the valley woods below, on the extreme left of Smith’s mixed bag of Hoosiers, Buckeyes and Kentuckians. Dismounted as well, these troopers advanced up the slope.

  Kilpatrick mounted his horse, spurred to a gallop and caught Murray. “Colonel Murray, a new brigade is menacing our left. Lead your men against them. Charge them, give them the saber and roll them back downhill.”

  Murray blinked. “You want me to charge massed, dismounted cavalry?”

  Kilpatrick screamed “Damn your eyes! This isn’t a fucking debating society! Get your ass up there!”

  Murray instructed his bugler to sound “Forward,” and then shot back at Kilpatrick “If we survive this, sir, afterward you can expect me to call on you to account for your manners.” Murray rode to the front of his men, waving his saber and pointing it forward as he led them at the walk up to the front line.

  Just before reaching the crest, the brigade was ordered up to a trot. As they crested the hill the pace was increased to a gallop, and then for the second time that day, Murray’s Brigade charged downhill.

  The advancing grey troopers halted and opened fired on the thundering blue cavalry, shredding the front ranks of Murray’s pair of Kentucky cavalry regiments. Their comrades in the main Rebel line savaged the charge’s right with fire. A section of Rebel cannon that was primed and ready to fire sent two balls slicing through the massed ranks of horsemen, creating still more bloody carnage. And still Murray went on, his horsemen cutting right through the porous skirmish line, slashing and shooting as they went.

  The dismounted Rebel troopers were soon put to flight, but not soon enough for Murray. Gunners everywhere thought cavalry made for marvelous targets, and by that time all the R
ebel cannon had shifted from counter-battery fire to shooting up his brigade. He was bringing the tattered remnants of his outfit about when a fresh brigade of dismounted troopers emerged from the woods, bearing Kentucky banners.

  “Lyon’s Brigade,” Murray said, choking back a sob. Not this way, he thought. Kentuckians in grey. Please, God, not this way.

  The Kentucky Confederates leveled their motley assortment of carbines, muskets and musketoons, and rattled off a volley into Murray’s troopers. What was left of the blue brigade broke, fleeing back to the relative safety of Smith’s lines. More were gunned down as they ran up the slope.

  Kilpatrick was horrified, not over the rout and slaughter he had just sent Murray and his troopers to, so much as at the presence of that fourth brigade. On top of the 12 guns, it was clear that Forrest, if indeed Forrest it was, really did have him outnumbered.

  It’s time to skedaddle, Kilpatrick decided.

  He rode over to his artillery. “Captain, I want you to shift your guns over to the left, to meet this new threat. Give them a faceful of double canister, make them back off. Then limber up and put your guns on the Jasper Road.”

  Beebe looked to his four remaining guns and shook his head. “General Kilpatrick, I barely have any canister left. I’ve been firing on them Rebel troopers, just like you said. I’m almost used up.”

  “Dammit!” Kilpatrick screamed. He couldn’t count on anyone, he thought. Why didn’t this fool keep a reserve? Did he have to think of everything himself?

  “Alright,” snapped Kilpatrick. “Limber your guns up and get on the Jasper Road.” He then went over to his left, to examine the situation there more closely. He arrived just in time to see the fresh Rebel brigade, formed in loose order, lap up and over Smith’s rapidly retiring lines.

  Kilpatrick had just decided it was time to pull himself and his staff back when he felt a hard impact to his left leg, followed by a fiery, piercing lance of pain. Simultaneously, he felt his horse shudder and heard it scream. He instantly realized both he and his mount had been shot, and now the horse was falling over. His left leg was useless, so he could do nothing. Kilpatrick screamed as the horse slammed down on his wounded leg, crushing and grinding his mangled bones and pinning him to the ground. Mercifully, he passed out.