He awoke to the bitter odor of smelling salts and found himself laid out on a rough-hewn table in a log cabin. Kilpatrick realized it was late afternoon from the light. His left trouser leg was cut open, and he had to suppress gagging when he saw the frightful state of his lower leg, bones jutting out from his torn flesh. A tourniquet was in place, the only thing preventing him from bleeding to death. A young Rebel surgeon in a blood-stained smock was there, as was an even younger lieutenant in a tattered tan uniform.
The surgeon spoke. “Ah, General Kilpatrick. You are awake, sir. Lieutenant, go fetch General Forrest.”
Kilpatrick pushed down his tears of pain and despair. His leg lost, and he was Forrest’s prisoner. That it had come to this, and all because of blundering Murray. Stupid Beebe, not holding back enough ammunition. Cowardly Smith and Klein, who left him on the field to be captured.
The surgeon laid out the grim tools of his trade on a nearby chest. “I’m glad you responded to the salts, sir. I prefer my patients to be awake. No waking up in the middle of the operation, the worst possible time, thrashing about and taking us all by surprise. Also, unconscious patients have a propensity to heart failure, or so it is my experience.”
“Now, take this” he said, proffering a bottle. “It’s all I have, but it’s strong stuff.”
Kilpatrick often preached to his men against drinking, but was certainly no stranger to it himself, and at that moment he would have swallowed a barrel of whiskey if it would dull the agony of his leg. He propped himself up, took the bottle, and swallowed several large gulps. His stomach was empty, and the strong liquor went straight to work. Kilpatrick watched as the room began tilting slowly to the right.
As soon as the surgeon left to summon some orderlies to help hold Kilpatrick down, Nathan Bedford Forrest swept into the cabin, followed closely by the youthful lieutenant. He was a tall, strongly built man, but moved gracefully, and in his movements and appearance resembled nothing so much as a cougar. He seemed to fill what space remained in the cabin’s cramped confines.
Removing his hat, he said “I was sorry to hear of your misfortune, General Kilpatrick. If there is any...”
“Oh, you’ve done enough, you secessesh son of a darkie whore!” Kilpatrick spat, half drunk. He was a stupid, mean drunk. It was the reason he abstained from intoxicating liquors, insofar as he actually did abstain. “I don’t want any charity from the likes of you. A fucking bastard who sends his cowards out wearing enemy uniforms. When this war is over, I’ll see you all hanged!”
That last insult was a lie, and everyone in the cabin knew it, Kilpatrick included. Forrest had employed many ruses against his enemies, but never an attack by men dressed in full Federal uniform. He glared at Kilpatrick with undisguised, murderous contempt.
Forrest slowly pulled off his left gauntlet, one finger at a time. When the gauntlet was off, he took it into his right hand very deliberately, and then suddenly lunged forward to smack Kilpatrick across the face with his open left hand. He put most of his shoulder and hip behind the blow, snapping Kilpatrick’s head around.
Stepping back, he asked his aide for writing materials. As Forrest dictated a brief note, the alcohol-induced color drained from Kilpatrick’s face. Forrest fixed his signature to the note, handed it to the cowed Kilpatrick, then put his gauntlet back on, turned smartly on his heels, and left without saying another word.
The note bore more flourish than Forrest’s actual dictation, this added by his more literate aide, and it read:
April 19, 1864
Holly Grove Crossroads, Alabama
Dear Sir,
The man bearing this letter, Brigadier Gen’l Judson Kilpatrick, USA, was wounded on the field of Holly Grove Crossroads. He is to be accorded every possible courtesy, given the best treatment, and I request every effort be exerted to speed his recovery.
Gen’l Kilpatrick has unfortunately made insulting and intemperate remarks, provoking my person in a way no gentleman’s dignity could tolerate. Naturally, I have challenged him to fight. When he is well and fit enough to travel, I must further request you award his release, if that lies within your power, without waiting for exchange and on the sole condition that he seek me out for satisfaction at the earliest possible time. If this is not within your power, I request you notify me, so that I might press for Gen’l Kilpatrick’s parole under the described conditions.
Sincerely and respectfully,
NB Forrest
Major Gen’l of Cavalry, CSA
Once outside, Forrest’s mouth curdled in anger. He swung about on his heels, and punched the log wall of the cabin, skinning his knuckles badly.
Forrest had already been chafing at the bit before he paid his courtesy call to Kilpatrick. His blood was up from the battle, and he longed hungrily to pursue the fleeing Yankee cavalry. Then that damn, arrogant, ungrateful fool of a Yankee, Irish half-bred dog had the gall to say such things to him! It would serve Kilpatrick right, Forrest thought, to put him back where I found him, pinned underneath his dead horse.
Forrest thought it had been the easiest victory of his career, this battle. Scouts had kept him informed of Kilpatrick’s movements, and locals described the lay of the ground to him. He knew if Kilpatrick tried to defend that position at Holly Grove, he could easily work around his left, so he hoped that the fool would stay put.
What was more, the odds were probably even for once, Forrest having four smallish brigades to Kilpatrick’s three. On top of that, Forrest did away with the textbook practice of having one man in four hold the horses, and put every man into the assault, and he had more guns as well.
Even so, two-thirds of the Yankee cavalry got away. Most of his command was exhausted and low on ammunition, but Lyon’s boys were in good shape, and rode some fine Bluegrass horseflesh to boot. They could lead a pursuit. All things being fair, he ought to be chasing the enemy down, pushing them hard, shaking them to pieces.
But Forrest’s orders from Bishop Polk were very detailed, very specific, and very contrary to a pursuit. That bothered Forrest, and not just because he resented the tight leash or the lost opportunity. It was strange. The Bishop was usually more careless. It wasn’t like Polk, not at all.
Forrest shrugged. If Polk wanted a tighter rein, Forrest could deal with that later. For now, he would not mar his victory with blatant insubordination. Instead, he limited Lyon’s orders to sprinting for Jasper, where a hundred Yankee wagons were rumored to be waiting.
April 20
Late afternoon
Headquarters, XV Army Corps, Army of the Tennessee, USA
Watkins House
Huntsville
McPherson hurried up the walk to the Watkins House. A big Georgian-style town mansion endowed with a tower, the house served as the headquarters of the largest corps in his army, the XV Corps. He was met on the front steps by a pack of junior staff officers.
“I want to see Black Jack,” he demanded.
McPherson was quickly ushered into the office of John A. Logan, who rose from behind his desk. A dark, swarthy bull of a man, Logan welcomed his chief with the big smile, iron handshake, and firm slap on the shoulder of a career politician.
Before either of them had a chance to sit down, McPherson declared “Do you know what that damn fool Kilpatrick went and did with my cavalry? He rode down to Jasper, picked a fight with the Rebs and got himself a thorough drubbing, that’s what! Captured to boot! I just got the wire from Decatur not 15 minutes ago.”
Logan pulled up a chair instead of returning to his desk. “Go on.”
McPherson sighed and plopped down. “According to Colonels Klein and Smith, after he crossed the Tennessee he rode straight down the Jasper, raised some hell, and then went looking to pick a fight with the Rebs. Klein and Smith reckon they ran into Forrest, who hit them with four brigades and 12 guns. Got whipped, Murray’s Brigade is cut to pieces and Murray missing. The only good news is that Kilpatrick got himself captured, and spared me the trouble of a court ma
rtial.”
Logan sighed. “Kil-Cavalry. Glory seeking, scheming little man, in some ways worse than McClernand ever was. Why does Washington insist on sending us these no account failures from the eastern army?”
“The man had been to West Point. One would think that would drill some sense into him,” McPherson said, shaking his head.
“If you ask me, Mac, West Point is overrated.”
“You would say that, John, you would,” McPherson replied, smirking. Logan was in his late 30s, and had been an Illinois Congressman at the start of the war. A civilian at First Bull Run, he had snatched up a musket and shot back at the Rebels. Sherman in particular loved telling that story. Shortly thereafter, Logan raised his own infantry regiment, showed real talent for fighting and leadership, and rose accordingly.
“So, what will you do?”
“Well, thank God I didn’t send Kilpatrick off with all my cavalry. I still have Minty.”
Logan nodded slowly. Robert H.G. Minty was one of the Army of the Cumberland’s best cavalry officers, leader of the crack Saber Brigade. Despite the name, every man was armed with not just sabers, but also revolvers and Sharps breechloaders. Moreover, the outfit was made up of a mix of volunteer and regular cavalry, all veterans now.
McPherson spoke with the firmness of a man who had already made up his mind. “Smith and Klein are shaky, but intact. I’ll form a new cavalry division around Minty, and give him acting command. I will likely have to break up poor Murray’s survivors, fold them into Smith’s 2nd Kentucky. “
“Don’t let Sherman saddle you with Edward McCook. Man’s not as bad as Kilpatrick, but still not very good,” Logan replied.
McPherson got up, walked around a little bit. “I won’t. I want Minty, unless Sherman offers me someone better.” After a pause, he continued. “If nothing else, this disaster tells us that something is indeed simmering down in central Alabama. We need to get back out there, see what direction it’s headed, where the Bishop will try to cross the Tennessee.”
“What do you want from the XV Corps?”
McPherson pointed to the map pinned to Logan’s wall. “Minty is on his way to Decatur now, and has tomorrow to refit his new command. Then I want him out patrolling an arc, running along Mt. Hope, Basham’s Gap, and Day’s Gap. But, after what happened to them at Holly Grove, I want you to send an infantry division to support them.”
Logan agreed. “Done.”
May 1
Noon
Army of Tennessee, CSA
Tuscumbia
Jackson stood on a high bluff overlooking the south bank of the Tennessee River. It was the Sabbath, most of his men were resting, and, he hoped, enjoying Sunday services. His engineers, however, were hard at work putting the finishing touches on the pontoon bridge. Red Jackson’s cavalry and Polk would begin crossing before dawn tomorrow.
He was confident that the enemy knew his position, but not his true strength. Forrest defeated the enemy’s reckless foray at Holly Grove, and was now holding their cavalry back about 25 miles to the east. The Yankees still slumbered in Chattanooga and Knoxville, leaving Hardee in peace. His presence with the army remained a relative secret, as did the presence of Hood’s Corps. It was camped half a dozen miles south of town, and Jackson had thrown a curtain of provosts around Hood’s camp, keeping soldiers in and civilians out.
The army had advanced at a moderate pace until now, collecting supplies as it went, applying an especially heavy hand to places like Winston County, which harbored a strongly disloyal and Unionist sentiment. Once across the river, Jackson intended to move more quickly, forcing a foot race for Nashville, so he could come over and catch McPherson strung out on the march.
“Gen.. um, Colonel Milner?” Polk called, interrupting Jackson’s reverie.
Jackson turned away from the river. “Mmmm. Yes?”
Polk bore a basket. “Well, sir, I had heard that you bear a considerable appetite for fruits. These came through my supply chain, and I thought of you.”
Jackson took the basket and removed the covering cloth. “Fresh strawberries!” he cried joyfully. “Why, General Polk, I cannot thank you enough!”
Putting on his serene, clerical smile, Polk mused on how easy it was to please some people. He hadn’t given up his grievances, not at all, but he had realized that one didn’t deal with a man like Stonewall Jackson in the same way as one might a Braxton Bragg. Oh no. More subtlety was called for here.
And Jackson makes it so easy, Polk thought. Like so many Southrons, the man has a predilection for religious figures.
That brought Polk to his next chore. “There is something else. I have been approached by John Hood, about his being baptized and brought into the flock. I know you are not of the Episcopal Church, and Hood struck me as hesitant... one might say a might bit shy about inviting you, but I was hoping you would join us and attend the service this very evening.”
“Of course. I would be delighted. Delighted and honored, sir, delighted and honored.”
Bully, Polk thought. Two birds in my clutch, all with the same shot.
Later that night, Jackson, Polk and a small escort rode to Hood’s camp. John Bell Hood was baptized that night in a barn, by lantern light and using a horse bucket as a baptismal font. Unable to kneel due to his wooden leg, Hood bowed his head, and insisted upon standing rather than sitting for the ceremony.
May 2
Morning
41st Tennessee, Maney’s Brigade, CSA
Outskirts of Tuscumbia
Sitting at a mess fire, Nathan Grimes remarked “I’ll bet any fellow a month’s wages them orders to drill this morning came from Old Jack. Hood ain’t that fussy about such things. Cheatham and Maney neither. Old Jack, though, he ain’t one to miss a chance to sweat us. Won’t give us a morning off, no sir, no how.”
“You ought not be gambling,” Willie said quietly. “Ain’t right, ain’t that what the good book says?”
Nathan rolled his eyes. He hadn’t even been serious, but Willie had caught the revival in the winter camps, and ever since it had been all the Bible this and the Lord that, drinking ain’t no good and gambling’s a sin, and always trying to drag him off to church on Stonewall’s Sabbath day.
“Willie, ain’t too many pleasures allowed a common soldier. I reckon how a private in this man’s army spends his pay, that’s his own business. His right. Ain’t that what we fighting for? Our rights? No preacher, no officer, no sheriff, and no Yankee from Washington ought come by and tell a man how to spend his time or his money. Let alone come by and put some damn darkie above a white man.” That brought some low, throaty chuckling and “here, here’s” from the other men around the fire.
Nathan muttered “Anyhow, ain’t like we’uns get paid so much.”
Fletcher walked over to the mess and squatted by the fire, saying “At ease, men. At ease,” knowing no one would stand to attention anyway. His company could tell when he meant fuss and business, and when he did not.
One of the men proffered a tin cup. “Captain, care for some yaupon coffee? Last of the Selma issue.”
Fletcher shook his head, chuckling. “Fellas, yaupon gives me the Tennessee Trot worse than corn meal with the cob ground in.” That produced a round of knowing grins and laughter.
He looked to the Grimes brothers. “Nathan, Willie, there is a story going about that you both had words with Stonewall. I’d like to hear it myself, from the source.”
Nathan looked to Willie. It was more Willie’s story than his.
“Well, Captain, you recollect how Nathan and me, you sent us trapping? We come back out of them old Indian woods, and were fixing to walk back to White Hall camp, when we was stopped by some officers. One was the shabbiest colonel you ever saw, with one arm and a big beard. He wanted to see our pass, and I wouldn’t give it to him, on account our orders not to, which he liked very much. Sent us on our way.”
Nathan spoke up. “Weren’t ‘til later that we knew who that colonel was. Almost dark an
d all.”
Fletcher nodded. “Well, thank you.” He got up and left. It was clear the men believed it, and the Grimes Brothers weren’t much for tall tales, whatever their other failings might be. It was an open secret that Jackson was with the army, but word didn’t get around until after Selma.
After breakfast, Fletcher and the other officers drilled the regiment, some odd 260 men. The boys would obviously have preferred to spend the morning at leisure, knowing the orders for later that day were marching orders. Spirits were high, even so.
They ought to be, Fletcher thought. My company isn’t 75 miles from home.
The regiment struck its camp, and at the appointed time marched for the road, taking its place with Maney’s Brigade. This, in turn, took its place with Cheatham’s Division, and it with Hood’s Corps. They had been on the road for less than an hour when the column came to a halt. The men stood in their ranks for half an hour, marched forward a short distance, and then halted again. Finally, the order came to fall out. The march was stalled.
Farther up the road, Jackson rode with a few staff officers into Tuscumbia. As he passed the men of Stewart’s Corp, the boys grinned and silently waved their hats. They were flattered that Old Jack had chosen to travel with them, and enjoyed playing into his game.
Arriving at the road junction just before the Tennessee River, Jackson found Loring’s Division tied up with the wagon train of French’s Division, coming from opposite directions and both insisting on the right of way. Loring was there, in the thick of it, arguing with a major.
Approaching the squabbling pair, Jackson yelled “What happens here? What is the meaning of this?”
Loring was a balding, middle-aged man with dull, black eyes. Like Jackson, he wore his left sleeve empty, having lost that arm in the Mexican War.
He shouted “How dare you! Of all the impertinent... Jackson? By God, Jackson? What the devil are you doing here?”
Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) Page 15
