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

by Thomas, R. E.

  Forrest looked back. “You won’t need to worry about that, General Jackson. You have my word.”

  Forrest passed the tent flap. Smith was standing there, pistol lowered, but still cocked.

  “Your name is Smith?” Forrest asked.

  “Captain James P. Smith.”

  “Captain James P. Smith, I declare my temper got away from me, and I ought never to have laid hands on you like that. I hope you will accept my sincerest apologies.”

  Forrest extended his hand. Smith eyed the cavalryman briefly, and then took his hand. “Gladly, general. Gladly.”

  Jackson lingered by the tent flap until Forrest rode away. Once the cavalryman was gone, Jackson slumped onto his cot, weary and embarrassed. He had worked a lifetime to shed the accent of the western Virginia hills, to sound more like the genteel member of the Shenandoah’s professional class that he had worked so hard to join. His hill speech sometimes slipped out when he became agitated, but never as badly as that before, and never as often as it had several times through that day.

  He had clashed with subordinates many times before, and had been anticipating a violent confrontation with some rough-hewn western general long before now. With Frank Cheatham, perhaps. He hadn’t expected anything like this. Exhausted, he blew out the lantern and fell instantly to sleep.

  5 a.m.

  Army of Tennessee, CSA

  Oak Ridge

  Just before dawn, blue soldiers quietly crawled out of their trenches and into the early morning gloom. They went over their embankments and across their shallow ditches to muster before their lines, one company from each regiment on the front line. In front of the XVI Corps, the entire strength of Yates’s Sharpshooters and the Western Sharpshooters filtered out as well, taking up a position in front of the regular, musket-armed skirmishers. They formed into a loose, open formation of small groups, and began carefully walking down the slope and into the valley below.

  The more alert butternut pickets heard the oncoming Billies, even if they could not see them. The jumpiest fired from their shallow rifle pits, producing random stabs of flame in the inky dark.

  In the center, the Western Sharpshooters divided into three groups and rushed into action. The group in the middle advanced right up to the tree line, marking the start of the thin woods on the valley floor, and began to fire as quickly as their 16-shot repeating rifles allowed. Confronted by a shocking flood of bullets, the Rebels clung to the dirt of their shallow rifle pits, while the blue sharpshooters on the left and right charged right through the picket line, firing rapidly as they went. Within minutes, dozens of Johnnies were surrounded. Called upon to surrender, the Rebels rose from their rifle pits in their groups of two and four, threw down their muskets, and raised their hands.

  On the eastern end of the valley, the skirmishing was more evenly matched, both sides carrying similar arms and turned out in similar numbers. Still, the job of the Rebel pickets was to give a warning, not to stand up and resist a serious attack. Stewart’s men returned fire for a few minutes, and then fell back through the wood lots and across the valley floor.

  Yates’s Sharpshooters and the other blue skirmishers advanced into very different terrain on the Federal right. They moved into a thickly overgrown and wooded ravine bottomed by Coon Creek, and found the Rebel pickets waiting for them on the other side. The Billies took cover behind trees, rocks and under bluffs, and kept up a steady fire. They inched their way forward, and when they got close enough, the butternuts shrank away from the sharpshooters and their deadly repeaters.

  Veatch’s skirmishers advanced up and out of the ravine, and over the low hill that separated Veatch’s line from Featherston’s Confederates. Finding another ravine on the other side, they stopped, found cover, and sniped at the Confederate main line, a little less than 200 yards distant.

  The musketry in the valley wound down to random cracks, but only for a short time. At first light, a doubled line of skirmishers from Stewart’s Corps advanced into the valley to resume the struggle. Polk’s skirmishers, somewhat tardy, went forward a little later.

  6 a.m.

  Stewart’s Corps, Army of Tennessee, CSA

  Haynie Hill

  Stewart watched the Federal lines closely through his telescope. There was little light to see by, but he could tell the Yankees had gotten the jump on his men. Now his skirmishers would have to fight their way forward if they were to control the woods between the armies. He could also see those work gangs emerging from the Federal entrenchments, setting out to cut timber for obstacles and to strengthen their works.

  Turning to his chief of artillery, Stewart said “Colonel, you have a clear line of fire along that slope all the way to the Military Road. I want case shot put down on any man swinging an axe. Don’t worry about counter-battery fire. Keep it hot on those work details, and whoever else you can see and hit.

  The guns on Haynie Hill and Stewart’s portion of the Redding Ridge line fired off one by one. These were Stewart’s rifled cannons and 12-pounder Napoleons, since his 6-pounder field guns and his howitzers were too puny to hit targets at this range.

  Enough to harass, Stewart thought. But not enough to stop the work.

  “Send to General Polk” he said to his aides. “Give my compliments, and request that he open fire with his artillery, targeting the Federal work gangs. Then send to General Jackson, requesting that some of Hood’s heavy guns be passed forward and posted to Haynie Hill. And send word down to the brigade commanders: reinforce the skirmish line to the strength of three companies.”

  8 a.m.

  XV Corps, Army of the Tennessee, USA

  Oak Ridge

  McPherson found Logan observing from the extreme left of the Oak Ridge line, just above where the ridge came down to the farming country beyond. Dismounting, McPherson went over and shook hands.

  “Good morning, Jack” McPherson said. “I heard you have some activity on the left. I came to have a look for myself.” He pulled out his field glasses.

  “Yeap. It’s cavalry out there, thick as flies in a hog’s waller. You can see infantry marching around behind them, between the farms and wood lots. Two batteries have unlimbered out there too, and I see more rattling around.”

  “I see them,” McPherson said quietly, calmly. “It’s busy, but thin out there. No sign of a concentration yet.”

  Logan nodded. “I know. I’m not worried. If they mass for an attack, we’ll see it for two miles off. That is plenty of time to bring up Osterhaus.”

  McPherson smiled. If he had a man who won’t holler for reinforcements until he absolutely needed them, that was John Logan.

  “There is one other thing, Mac. Confederate batteries are playing merry hell with my work details. Sharpshooters too, what with those long-ranged, British-made rifles they have. My axe men are taking heavier casualties than my skirmishers.”

  Sweeney’s having similar troubles, McPherson thought. Only Veatch is making real progress with fashioning his abatis. There is quite a brisk engagement going on down there in the valley. The Rebels have thrown forward a heavy skirmish line. And this artillery. Lots of smoke, but nothing heavy yet. Maybe the Bishop can’t decide what to do?

  “Keep your skirmishers out, but pull your work details in,” McPherson ordered. “Send that to Sweeney too. No sense in paying for work we aren’t going to finish.”

  9 a.m.

  Red Jackson’s Division, Army of Tennessee, CSA

  The Pulaski Road

  Upon assuming command of all of the army’s cavalry, Forrest detached one brigade from his old command, now under Abe Buford, added them to Red Jackson’s Division, making that into his striking force. He then instructed Buford to demonstrate against the left of the Federal line, as Forrest regarded his old troopers as the more experienced in his particular style of military theater.

  Setting out before dawn with four brigades, Forrest followed a circuitous route that took them several miles east of Lawrenceburg, before heading back toward town
. Coming up from due east, the scouts reported sighting Federal cavalry in the fields south of the Pulaski Road, about four miles from town.

  Forrest set out to have a look for himself, and grinned maliciously at the sight of the 3rd Indiana, a regiment that had gotten away from him at Holly Grove.

  Forrest hissed “Bring up the lead brigade. And do it quietly!”

  Ross’s Texas Brigade came up at the trot and formed behind the stand of woods sheltering Forrest and his scouts. Forrest hurriedly gave Ross his orders and launched him straight into a mounted charge at the passing blue cavalry.

  The Texans thundered out from behind and through the woods in three converging columns. Instantly recognizing their predicament, the Hoosiers turned tail and ran for the road. Ross’s troopers tore after them, only to charge headlong into a concealed roadblock.

  As soon as the Hoosiers galloped past, dismounted blue troopers rose from swales on either side of the road and laid down a terrific fire with their mix of muzzle-loading carbines, Spencer repeaters, and Sharps breech-loaders. Dozens of men and horses at the front of the charge fell in a matter of seconds, the charge stumbled to a halt, and the Texans turned their horses about in disarray.

  Watching from a short distance to the rear, Minty ordered “Signal the charge.”

  The bugles sounded, and a pair of fresh, mounted regiments sprang out from concealed positions at an outlying farm. Pounding down rapidly over the fields, they were upon the disorganized Texans within minutes.

  Forrest found himself in the midst of a confused melee. A Yankee came up beside him and swung with his saber. Forrest ducked forward, the saber removing only his hat, instead of the top of his skull. He quickly seized the trooper by the sword arm before it could be pulled back for another blow, and yanked him forward. Snatching the musketoon from his saddle holster, Forrest stuck the gun into the man’s chest and pulled the trigger. The Yankee was knocked from the saddle in a blast of buck and ball.

  After holstering the musketoon, Forrest drew both of his pistols, spurred his horse forward, and shot his way out of the battle. The Texans were already withdrawing from the Yankee ambush. A few hundred yards back down the road, the Rebel cavalry reorganized.

  Riding up to Ross, Forrest drawled “Don’t you worry now, General Ross. My oldest rule about being in a fight is if you can’t win, skedaddle.”

  Ross, a veteran Indian fighter from the Texas Rangers, nodded. “Can’t say I disagree. What are your orders, sir?”

  Forrest smiled “That’s where we get to my second oldest rule. After you skedaddle, hit them back hard as you can, soon as you can. Don’t let that other fellow get no airs.” Forrest commanded an aide to bring up the rest of the division.

  A few hundred yards to the west, Minty ordered his men back to their mounts. They were fine feather, having started the day by getting a good, clean twist on their rivals.

  Minty sent them back to a more defensible position. “When the Rebs come back, let them hit empty air, and then lunge forward to find us, putting them off-balance again. Then we’ll try hitting them again.”

  10:30 a.m.

  Hood’s Corps, Army of Tennessee, CSA

  Redding Ridge

  The head of Hood’s column reached the area behind Redding Ridge with suitable fanfare, a fife and drum band leading the way and playing “The Campbells Are Coming.” Hood soon spied the seedy, familiar form of Jackson, sitting on a tree stump and sucking on a lemon.

  The bugles sounded “Halt.” Fletcher watched as Hood, Cheatham, and Maney all rode over to greet the scruffy, one-armed man in the colonel’s coat and crumpled, threadbare kepi.

  Fletcher glanced over his shoulder. “Willie, is that him?”

  Willie was grinning, “Yessir!” Nathan stood next to him, chuckling.

  Fletcher turned his attention back to the generals. Jackson stood over some bald ground, sketching something in the dirt with his sword. Cheatham and Maney were on their feet, but Hood remained mounted. Probably because of Old Pegleg’s straps, Fletcher thought. Too much fuss and bother to get him down, not for mere decorum.

  Minutes later, Maney returned, calling in his staff and the regimental colonels. After a brief discussion, the brigade was led off the road and into the woods neighboring it. Fletcher turned out his company as the regiment formed a double line of battle, two rows of two ranks each. The rest of the brigade formed on the regiment’s right. Then orders came to fall out, but stay in formation.

  No sooner had the Tennesseans sat down and begun rummaging through their haversacks when Old Jack himself rode up, in company with Old Frank and Old Pegleg, plus staff. Most of the regiment was instantly on its feet, waving their hats and pumping their muskets in the air, but remaining completely quiet as per their orders not to cheer.

  Jackson smiled and tipped his kepi. He said to Cheatham “I want these lines spaced a further 60 paces apart. And when your other brigades form on Maney’s rear, General Cheatham, space them accordingly. I don’t want these men crowded together, so put plenty of room between them all. Sam, the same dispositions for Cleburne when he gets here. Understood?”

  Both generals nodded. “Good. General Hood, would you accompany me to your artillery?”

  The generals went their separate ways. The Grimes brothers plopped back down. A few minutes later, Colonel Tillman ordered the regiment’s second line to retire 60 paces, leaving Fletcher’s company and the front line in peace.

  Nathan rooted through his haversack. Willie leaned forward hungrily. “What you got in there, Nathan?”

  Nathan raised an eyebrow. “Boy, I thought I told you not to eat all your hoecake this morning. You know I ain’t got so much.” The regiment had been issued three days rations and told to cook them up after crossing the Tennessee, and that was three days ago.

  “I know, I know, but that ain’t stopped a good boy from being hungry yet, ain’t it?”

  Willie was always like that, Nathan thought. Give him three days rations and they were gone in two, if not one. He took out his last hunk of half-stale, pan-fried cornbread, broke it in half, and gave it over to his brother.

  Standing nearby, Fletcher’s own belly was cold and devoid of appetite as he stared up the wooded slope before them. He couldn’t relax, and wondered how anyone could. They could all hear the ringing of the cannon in the distance, and they all knew they were sitting in an attack formation. More tense than actually nervous, he fidgeted by rubbing his hands, sipping from his canteen, and fussing with his sword.

  How can any of them eat and joke, Fletcher thought, knowing the elephant was just past that ridge there, waiting to trample them.

  11a.m.

  Army of the Tennessee, USA

  Oak Ridge

  As he stood behind the lines watching the artillery duel, oblivious to the odd bursting shell or bounding solid, McPherson marveled at the industry of his men. Though the effort to cover the front and left flank of his entire position with abatis had been abandoned, details of troops took their axes and saws into White Oak Hollow, in the army’s rear, and began felling trees there. Osterhaus’s men, standing in reserve there, joined the effort. A steady stream of timber for head logs and braces, improvements for the entrenchments, had been trickling up to the front ever since, and all of it without orders.

  The Confederate artillery worried him, however. He watched through his field glasses as another Rebel battery limbered up and retired off Haynie Hill, just to be replaced by a fresh battery minutes later.

  It’s all too damn efficient, McPherson thought. Rumor had it that A.P. Stewart was over on the Confederate right, which coincided with intelligence from before the campaign started. He could credit those rumors. The cannon over there were handled very smoothly, and matching his artillery gun for gun. It had all the hallmarks of a former gunner turned mathematics professor.

  Another problem was the loss of the battle of skirmishers that had been going on all morning, a point that annoyed McPherson. Unwilling to feed any more men in
to the firefight that had smoldered and sparked all morning on the valley floor, he had pulled his skirmishers back to the main line under mounting Confederate pressure. Now the butternuts were sniping at his main line, but at least his boys could shoot back from the protection of solid earthworks.

  McPherson was about to return to his headquarters when a dusty courier on a foaming, sweaty horse arrived, bearing a message from Minty:

  Morning of May 5, 10:00

  To: Maj. Gen’l James B. McPherson

  Cmnd’ing, Army of the Tennessee

  As previously reported, Rebel cavalry now block the Pulaski Road to the east, and assault my front with dismounted troopers, supported by 12 guns. They are working around both my flanks. I am compelled to withdraw two miles to a new line closer to Lawrenceburg.

  I urgently request infantry support. Without reinforcements, I am uncertain of my ability to hold my new position or keep Rebels out of the wagon park for more than two hours.

  Your Obedient Servant,

  Robert H.G. Minty

  Colonel, US Cavalry

  “Forrest,” McPherson thought aloud. “It has to be Forrest.” He knew Forrest was out there, and such a determined attack by mounted infantry and dismounted cavalry could only mean him. He also knew how highly Sherman rated the Memphis cavalryman, considering him at least as much of a threat as Stonewall Jackson.

  McPherson rode back to his headquarters, and swiftly wrote out orders for General John E. Smith, the middle-aged Swiss immigrant, Galena, Illinois jeweler, and Grant crony who had surprisingly turned out to be quite a good soldier. Smith was to march to Minty’s relief and take overall command, leaving behind adequate guards for the wagon park.

  That will bring the force west of Lawrenceburg to about 7,000, McPherson thought. Smith and Minty ought to be able to stop Forrest’s advance cold with that much.

  11 a.m.

  Headquarters, Army of Tennessee, CSA

  Jackson’s Headquarters