Fletcher said weakly “Tourniquet. My tourniquet.” He had fished his tourniquet out of a pocket and held it out. His foot lay twisted backwards at a sickening angle, half-smashed off above the ankle by a canister ball.
Nathan took the tourniquet, wrapped it around Fletcher’s upper calf, cinched it up and clamped it down. He then took the Captain’s revolver, and stuffed it under his belt.
Fletcher protested feebly, but Nathan ignored him, saying “I reckon you won’t be needing this Navy six, sir, but I might.”
“Willie, I want you to get Captain Fletcher here back, you understand?” Willie tried to protest, but Nathan cut him off. “He’s hurt bad and so are you. Now get!”
Without waiting to see if he would be obeyed by his younger brother, Nathan snatched up his musket and ran off to catch up with his company. As he sprinted, he looked to the right, in the direction of a loud, tearing racket. Rapid stabs of flame and smoke projected from under the head logs of the Yankee works, all aimed at Strahl’s Brigade.
Strahl’s Brigade had come before that part of the blue line manned by the Western Sharpshooters. Beefed up to almost 700 strong by successful winter recruiting and armed to a man with deadly Henry rifles, the sharpshooters threw as much metal as a battery of 12 pounders packed with double canister. They tore savagely at Strahl’s butternuts, with musketry from neighboring regiments added in for good measure, decimating the brigade’s first line in just a few minutes. The grey ranks buckled, and they recoiled back to the relative safety of the woods, there to wait for Strahl’s second line to come up.
Nathan caught up with the company just as Maney’s first line entered a swale about 100 yards from the Yankees, coming to an involuntary halt. The officers were still urging the men forward, but the Johnnies wouldn’t budge from the slight shelter of the swale. Instead, they shouldered their muskets and returned fire.
Although many knelt or laid down for better protection, Nathan was among those who remained standing. He shouldered his musket and put a bullet into an enemy head log, then automatically brought his musket down, and pulled a paper cartridge from the leather box on his belt. Tearing the top off with his teeth, the acrid taste of gunpowder entered his mouth. He spat the bit of paper in his teeth away, poured the powder into the barrel, rammed the bullet down, returned the ramrod, brought the musket back up, and primed it in a quick, smooth series of motions. Reloading took less than 15 seconds. Nathan shouldered his musket and fired another shot.
He kept reloading and firing in rapid succession. At this distance and through the rapidly thickening smoke, he couldn’t even see the opening under the head log, much less hit it, so instead he concentrated on putting as many bullets as he could into what he could see or knew must be there. If he put all his bullets close enough, one or two might pass through that slit between the dirt embankment and the head log.
Nathan was bringing up his musket for his fifth shot when Cleburne’s line surged by on his left. They marched past at the double quick, trailing bloodied casualties in their wake. Yet they kept going, gave a piercing wolf howl, and charged the Yankee earthworks. In a matter of minutes, this first line of Cleburne’s infantry was scrambling over the head logs, firing and stabbing down into the entrenchments below.
Maney appeared before his brigade, on foot and waving his sword, yelling “Cleburne’s got the style, boys! Cleburne’s got the style! Follow me, howl like furies, and charge in!”
Quelling his fear, Nathan stepped out of the swale after Maney, the very first of his regiment to follow. That shallow depression offered very little shelter, and as terrible as going forward was, he knew it was safer for everyone than staying where they were. There was nothing for it but to put his head down, follow Maney, and go forward, or else turn around and go back.
Nathan’s face was soon sprayed with blood as Major Miller, who had sprinted out in front of him, was shot through the neck. He fell gurgling. Nathan grimaced, but continued, leaving the dying man behind and keeping his place in the ragged, advancing line. After covering half the distance, Maney yelled “Charge!” The brigade hollered a full-throated shriek, and ran forward.
Nathan leapt over the ditch, scrambled up the embankment and onto the parapet, and jumped onto the surprised Yankee beneath him with both feet. Pinning the man to the ground, Nathan stabbed down into his chest with his bayonet. Pulling the bayonet free with a jerk, Nathan spun his musket around, and swept the butt across the mortally wounded man’s skull for good measure.
He could hear calls of “Fall back, boys!” and “Run!” in the familiar, flat accent of the Buckeye and the Hoosier. Stepping onto the slope behind the wide trench, Nathan took aim with his musket and put a bullet squarely between the shoulders of a fleeing man not 15 yards away. He smiled, sweet and murderous.
Nathan dropped his rifle, kneeled onto the dry dirt of the trench’s back slope, and drew Fletcher’s Navy six shooter from his belt. He took slow, deliberate aim, and one by one emptied the revolver’s six shots into a large knot of Yankees who were withdrawing, backing out in good order instead of fleeing.
The revolver empty, he lay down, rolled over, and began awkwardly reloading his musket from atop his belly. He looked over just in time to see the neighboring Texans cheering and clearing a path for Patrick Cleburne. Never much of a horseman, Cleburne rode a sedate old mare, and carefully walked her through a captured battery, instead of jumping his horse over the earthworks.
Cleburne’s countenance was as cold as ever, but beneath his granite reserve he was brimming with pride. Yet he knew there was little time for enjoying what his men had accomplished. A brief look to the north revealed a brigade of blue infantry drawing up about 600 yards away. He could also see the fleeing Yankees were hardly broken, not really, not yet. They were drawing off in orderly groups for the most part, not running away in terrified chaos.
As he watched the northerners begin a rally around their reserve, Cleburne felt a powerful urge to go forward and smash them. He had two fresh brigades coming up in support, and felt the momentum to drive straight on. He could swiftly rout those Yankees, keep them running, chase them straight down the Military Road and all the way through Lawrenceburg.
But those were not his orders. Instead, Cleburne was to turn west, press into the woods and roll up the Federal right. He believed French was probably to come up and press the Yankee center, but that was just a guess. In stark contrast to the way things were done under Bragg, Cleburne’s orders were limited strictly to what he and Cheatham were to do, and said nothing of French’s Division in their rear.
The Irishman hesitated for a moment, indecisive from the temptation, but he soon made up his mind. He turned his horse and rode over to where General Hiram Granbury stood, gleefully slapping his newly captured cannon.
Granbury had his hat off, his wild, messy shock of brown hair half-slicked with sweat. “General Cleburne! Take a gander at my six new cannon. Fine Yankee iron rifles, every one!”
“Granbury, your men accomplished such a feat today as to discolor the countenance of Her Majesty’s guards with spite and envy. But we have little time. I want you and General Lowery out of these earthworks. Form a line of battle and advance about a fifth of a mile. 300 yards or so. The Federals are reforming over there, and I want you to block them. I’ll see about getting some guns sent up to support you.”
After repeating those orders to Lowery, Cleburne rode back to hurry up his remaining two brigades and the artillery, without even so much as a backward glance. All of Cleburne’s brigadiers had come up under his tutelage, and he had every confidence in them.
3:45 pm
Sweeney’s Division, Army of the Tennessee, USA
Behind the Federal Center
McPherson returned to his now crumpled center to find General Thomas Sweeney, a Cork County man, riding to and fro, cussing and hollering at his men to rally. To McPherson’s relief, they were, and reforming swiftly at that.
He probably is just as connipted as he see
ms, McPherson thought. They had called him “Fighting Tom” in the Old Army ever since the Mexican War, so Sweeney’s angry, hard-driving and utterly profane style under pressure was a very familiar sight.
McPherson dealt with the crisis in a different way, hiding his excitement and anxiety behind a calm reserve. A pugnacious, short-fused character like Sweeney could afford to thunder and rant about like that, for it was expected of him. McPherson knew if he did such an out-of-character thing, it would alarm the men. So instead, he offered them words of encouragement as he made his way over to Sweeney.
“Tom, how are your losses?”
“Eh? Not bad! Not bad, sir! I’ll pull the division together, right as rain and soon enough, and go straight over there and knock those Reb bastards about the head. Drive the swine right back out of my trenches.”
Upon closer inspection, Sweeney seemed a little more flustered than McPherson had first thought. Beneath the braggadocio, the man was embarrassed and upset about being driven from his earthworks, even though he had brought his division out of it intact.
“Alright, Tom. Alright,” McPherson said soothingly. “The boys seem more confused than scared. Now, I’m sending more artillery up to Wildcat Ridge. Those guns will shield your position here. Osterhaus is coming up from White Oak Hollow on your left. Let the artillery soften those bastards up for you, and wait for Osterhaus. When he comes up, you both go in together. Understood?”
Sweeney nodded and went back to work. McPherson lingered and watched the Rebels. As he had been talking to Sweeney, two Confederate brigades had formed a new line just beyond the captured earthworks. Now they were moving forward.
As they did so, they came under fire from the guns on Wildcat Ridge. Thus far, the cannon on that hill had played little part in the battle, since Redding Ridge was out of range and most of the ground in-between was either wooded or out of sight. Now the butternuts were coming onto ground those cannon could hit.
4:00 pm
Cheatham’s Division, Army of Tennessee
In the Captured Entrenchments
Hood was full of joy. It was all so perfect. He was under the command of a man he respected and admired, almost as much as Robert E. Lee. His corps had led the attack, gloriously piercing the Union center. What was more, Captain James Power Smith had just brought him written orders from Jackson, reiterating that Cleburne and Cheatham were to roll up the enemy line, but adding that French’s Division would now move forward and exploit the breach in the enemy center. For the time being, French would operate under his command. Jackson was giving him control over one of Polk’s divisions, a clear vote of confidence. It was grander than even Gaines Mill, heretofore his greatest personal triumph.
He came forward to reassert control over his corps, and discovered Cleburne’s Division was already in motion. Hood turned his horse and galloped in the direction of Cheatham’s brigades, trailing staff officers as he went. He felt lighter, excitement raising him out of the weariness his recent exertions had wrought on his broken body. For the first time since Chickamauga, Hood felt like a whole man.
Finding Cheatham, Hood began issuing orders. “Frank, I want you to wheel Maney and Strahl onto the Union flank and start pressing them. Bring up your other brigades and swing them around. French will come up directly, and replace Cleburne over by the road. In the meantime, keep pushing into the Federal left and rear.”
“Sam, Strahl’s boys are fought out. Otho Strahl himself is wounded, may lose an arm. They had to charge into the teeth of what looked to me like a brigade armed with those God damned Yankee repeaters. Got the hell kicked out of them. I reckon we ought to pull them out of the firing line for a rest.”
Hood considered that. Relieving Strahl would mean a delay, but if those men really were fought out, they would be unable to make any headway in rolling up the Federal left.
“Alright. Relieve Strahl. But in the meantime you are to go on with pushing ahead and into the Yankee center. Get round that open flank and behind those entrenchments yonder.”
Hood left Cheatham to carry out his orders and rode ahead to inspect the ground for himself, gleefully and recklessly jumping his horse right over the recently captured earthworks, sending his troops scurrying out of the way. They cheered him, and he waved back.
Riding out into the empty, rolling, grassy country beyond the entrenchments, Hood discovered that the area before him divided into two separate bits of ground. The Military Road ran along the tableland, or on the edge of it at any rate, making it level and relatively high. It was also devoid of cover. That was where Lowery’s and Granbury’s brigades were now engaged in a long range firefight with the reforming Federals. In front of Cheatham, the ridge sloped down into a wide depression, filled by a dense oak forest.
As he studied the ground, artillery fire began falling around him. An aide began imploring him “Sir, shouldn’t we retire farther to the rear? The Federal cannon have found our range, sir!”
Hood said nothing. I’ll leave when I’m good and ready to, he thought. At that moment, a 20-pound roundshot hit the ground nearby, bounced up into the air, and tore through both Hood and his horse, sending gristle and entrails flying, killing man and mount instantly. They fell to ground together in a gory heap.
Moments later, Cheatham came forward with Maney, to show him where his brigade was to be placed. There he saw Hood’s mutilated body, surrounded by his tearful staff. Long range cannonballs still bounded through the area, tearing up turf and clay as they went, but none of Hood’s people seemed to have even the slightest care for their safety.
Looking down from his horse, Cheatham blinked back his own tears, and quietly said to Hood’s staff “Gentlemen, you must carry him away from here. This is no place for our gallant Hood.”
He then turned to his own aides. “Send to Cleburne and Jackson that Hood has been killed. As senior officer, I’m assuming command of the corps. Maney, bring up your brigade, then turn your men over to your senior colonel and take charge of my division.”
Maney returned to the entrenched line. “Boys, General Hood is dead. He was killed leading the way for us, right over yonder, and that’s where we’re going. Form up and follow me.”
Nathan rose from the trench and stepped into line with the rest of the company. He could see clearly now that five men were gone, including Fletcher and his brother. As for the other three, dead, wounded, skulking, he wasn’t sure. Oh, there were a few skulkers in the company, Nathan thought ruefully. Always eager to help a wounded man back to the rear, or run for ammunition, but taking their own sweet time in coming back.
The 41st Tennessee marched forward in line of battle, taking up a position to the left of Wright’s Brigade. Nathan could see the Yankees’ new line just 200 yards away. Nathan scowled. We gave them blue bellies time to pull back, refuse their line, he thought bitterly. Wasting all this time, we should a kept on them, kicked them while they was down. Now we got us a stand-up fight.
Colonel Walker from the 19th Tennessee led the brigade now. Cheatham was still in the area, having chosen to remain where he was behind the lines, until the ball was well and truly in motion. He observed with approval that despite the Yankees pulling back and refusing their flank, his line still overlapped them.
Cheatham took a sip from his flask and spoke to his division’s chief of staff. “See that there, Porter? We’ll get right around their flank, crush them, and get them running. You can see Stewart’s Corps is moving up against their front, and French is moving up past our left, over yonder. Stewart will pin them down, and Maney will press the whole division forward and run those bastards right off this hill. Another hour, and Tennessee is as good as ours again.”
Cheatham’s declaration was interrupted by the crash of musketry. Nathan looked to his left, and saw fingers of flame flickering out from behind the fat trees of White Oak Hollow. A thick blue line stepped out of the woods and into the haze of gun smoke.
Porter expected some swearing from Cheatham, and when he heard n
othing he looked and saw the general bobbing in the saddle, muttering something incomprehensible as he clutched his bloody hat to his head. He snapped into action, reaching out to steady Cheatham.
Porter could hear him now. Cheatham mumbled weakly “Don’t... don’t let them say I was drunk.”
If Cheatham was talking, his brains were probably intact. The general was soon helped away from the front by Porter and other relieved staffers.
Nearby, but unaware that Cheatham had been wounded, Nathan Grimes clenched a cartridge between his teeth, and angrily tore it open so he could reload his weapon. He felt the nervousness coursing through the ranks all around. For the last several minutes, cannonballs from that big God damned hill on the left had been ripping into the brigade’s flank. Now the artillery had stopped, and those Yankee sonsabitches were moving around their flank instead.
He kept loading and firing as quick as he could, despite his whole body tensing with the anticipation that something awful was about to happen, like when he was too little to defend himself and Paw got drunk. He could almost see the kicking coming on him, a kicking he couldn’t do a thing about past taking it without raising a fuss.
Colonel Walker tried to pull back the brigade’s left, but there were too many Federals, who were soon slamming musketry into the Rebel flank. Nathan shuddered, part of a great, shared shudder running down the Rebel line.
The regiment staggered backwards as a group, all except Nathan, who took a step forward instead. Suddenly relieved of tension, he smoothly adjusted the sights on his Enfield, shouldered his musket, and took careful aim at the blue color bearer standing several dozen yards away. The flapping Stars and Stripes made him an easy target to find. Just aim below that flag, he thought, and I’ll hit some feller in the color guard. He squeezed the trigger, but couldn’t see any results. Nathan hurried backwards into the ranks, sniggering, left cheek curled up in a cruel, sneering half-smile.
Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) Page 21
