Bowing to reality, Maney instructed Walker to withdraw the brigade, back into the protection of the captured entrenchments. The rest of Cheatham’s Division soon followed suit. In danger of being attacked on their exposed flank, French’s Division joined them shortly thereafter.
CHAPTER 11
5 p.m.
Headquarters in the Field, Army of Tennessee, CSA
Haynie Hill
After sending Hood’s Corps forward, Jackson went to Haynie Hill, the best observation point of his own side. He looked on with satisfaction, eyes burning brightly, as Cleburne turned his division to attack the enemy right, Cheatham turned to attack the enemy left, and French moved along the Military Road to exploit the breach in the center. He had sent Stewart’s Corps forward to attack the Yankee left as well, intending for Stewart to fix the enemy in position there while Cheatham took them from the flank.
Then he watched it all go wrong. To Jackson’s consternation, the enemy still had ample reserves, and Cheatham took too long to get moving again. The enemy rallied, brought up those reserves, and counter-attacked. Stewart’s attack battered the enemy in their entrenchments, but made no progress against them. Worse, there seemed to have been no coordination between French and Cheatham in the center, and he had no word whatsoever of what was happening against the enemy right, where Featherston and Cleburne were.
Still peering through his field glasses, Jackson fumed at himself, struggling with the urge to ride down there and intervene. Finally, he told himself there was no foul in going wherever Hood, Cleburne or Cheatham might be, but no farther.
“I’m going down there,” Jackson announced. “Sandie, you come too.”
“General?” asked Sandie. He knew of Jackson’s sentiments regarding going to the front.
“You heard me!” snapped Jackson. He spurred his horse forward and galloped down into the woods, leaving Sandie and the rest of his aides to catch up with him. So it was that he came upon Hood’s staff, alone and gathered around a body resting blood-smeared shroud. In that moment, his memories flashed vividly back to Chancellorsville and being shot in the dark, and he knew instantly how his difficulties in this battle started.
Jackson blinked. “Hood dead? What happened?”
“He was reconnoitering the enemy center, sir, preparing to renew the attack.”
In response, Jackson quietly mumbled “Commendable. Highly commendable.” Hood has gone to God now, Jackson thought. There was no need to pray for him.
Cheatham was sitting nearby, wearing a bandage around his head with a red spot about the size of a lemon on one side. Jackson went to him.
“General Cheatham, are you hurt badly?”
Cheatham saluted weakly “A ball brushed my skull, but my thick noggin held.”
“Can you return to duty?”
“Honestly, sir, I can’t hardly stand up or walk straight. Doc says I ought to be better in a day or two.”
Jackson nodded, left Cheatham alone, and considered his command situation. The only major general left in Hood’s Corps was Cleburne, and he was off in that tangled jungle to the west. Best to let him continue as he was, since he was clearly following his orders. Polk’s Corps and Hood’s Corps were mixed together. He had to reestablish control over this part of the battlefield.
But there was Hood. Hood who had lost the use of an arm, lost a leg outright, and was now dead, a good, brave man who took too many chances. Jackson shuddered, despite himself, and realized that whatever he chose, if he himself was wounded, command of the army would fall to Polk. He thought the Bishop was a good man, a man of God, but no battlefield leader. Yet Polk was also the second highest ranking general on the field, and couldn’t simply be shunted aside in favor of Stewart. And Jackson knew he could not do it all himself. That left only one choice.
“Sandie, I have a message for General Polk, and I want you to deliver it yourself. Polk is to assume acting command of Hood’s Corps. Corral Hood’s staff and take them with you. Polk will need them to assert control over Cleburne and Maney.”
Sandie saluted and rode away to sort out the new command arrangement with Hood’s and Polk’s people. Jackson then sent for Stewart, and began thinking out a new plan for renewing the assault.
5:30 pm
Polk’s Corps, Army of Tennessee, CSA
The Confederate Left
After Polk received the message that Hood would take charge of one of his divisions in the attack on the Union center earlier that afternoon, leaving himself with only Featherston, he had retreated inside the privacy of his headquarters cabin for a lengthy sulk. That was where Sandie found him, and related to him the news of Hood’s demise, Cheatham’s wounding, and his own temporary elevation to command of over half the army.
Polk made the sign of the cross. “Oh, our poor, gallant Hood. Colonel Pendleton, would you join me in a moment of prayer?”
Like Polk, Sandie was an Episcopalian. They kneeled and prayed, or at least Sandie prayed. Polk made a somber show of it, but inwardly he was elated by the news. The Lord works in mysterious ways, he thought, and now He had answered His servant’s most fervent wish, an important command with an opportunity to shine.
Allowing Sandie to help him to his feet, Polk said “You know, Colonel, Hood asked me to baptize him before we left Tuscumbia.”
“Yes, I had heard.” Fortuitous that. God’s will.
Polk continued “Now Colonel, if you will excuse me. There is much to do.”
Sandie rode back to Jackson, and Polk set about taking the reins by dictating a written message, which was copied and sent by a gaggle of couriers out to Featherston, French, Cleburne and Maney. The messages bore orders with no substance beyond notification that Polk was assuming acting control of the deceased Hood’s army corps, and that all communications should pass to him now.
When one such courier found Patrick Cleburne some time later, carrying the new orders from Polk, he decided it explained very much. The Irish general had received no word from Hood, Jackson, Polk or anyone else for almost two hours, and was out of touch with all other parts of the army. He had grown very worried and frustrated about it, as he had a fight on his hands.
After turning west off the Military Road and entering the woods, Cleburne found the Federals had already pulled back and refused their line. He attacked the new Union line at once, resulting in a regular, western army-style brawl. Both sides had plenty of rocks and trees to hide behind, so Cleburne’s Johnnies came up close, to within 40 yards distance in some places, and the two sides had blazed away at each other for an hour.
Cleburne had now drawn back and was preparing to send a column around the Federal’s refused flank for a new assault. He threw a saddle bag over his lap, and wrote out a message for the courier to take back to Polk:
May 5, quarter to six o’clock
Headquarters in the field, Cleburne’s Division of Hood’s Corps
To: Lieutenant General Leonidas Polk
Dear Sir,
Your message finds me assailing the left flank of what I believe to be Veatch’s Division, of the Federal XVI Corps. As I am sure you know, the terrain here is heavily overgrown, and imposes a severe impediment to a successful attack. I will continue my efforts to drive the enemy onto Shoal Creek, as per General Jackson’s orders. However, I implore you to send orders to both General Featherston and myself for a coordinated attack. If we all go in together, I am sure we can overwhelm and destroy the foe.
Yours most respectfully and sincerely,
Patrick R. Cleburne
Major General, Confederate States Army
Cleburne resumed his vigil, listening for the roar of musketry to tell him his flanking column was in contact with the enemy, and hoping for the Bishop to step in and support him.
5:30 p.m.
Headquarters in the Field, Army of the Tennessee, USA
Oak Ridge
McPherson rode behind his line with a growing sense of relief. The counter-attack mounted by Sweeney and Oste
rhaus had driven back French and Cheatham. That had saved Harrow and Morgan Smith from being attacked on the flank, and they in turn had seen off Stewart’s assault from behind the safety of their breastworks, suffering only slight losses.
During the resulting lull, Logan had pulled his XV Corps back to a new line on the other side of White Oak Hollow. Morgan Smith was tied into John Smith’s troops on the Pulaski Road from his new position, and Sweeney’s Division was now astride the Military Road, only one mile from Lawrenceburg’s town center.
The men cheered him as he passed them by. Good, thought McPherson as he waved back. Morale is still high. We’ll hold on to this place.
“Stand your ground, boys. Stand your ground!” McPherson urged them. “The Johnnies will be back before long. You’ll need to see them off one last time before dark.”
The new line wasn’t perfect, especially in front of White Oak Hollow, where the oak forest made artillery all but useless, and offered the butternuts a covered approach, should they choose to use it. But it was shorter, more compact, and had good fields of fire in most places.
McPherson suddenly remembered that he hadn’t heard anything from Dodge yet about Veatch’s Division. He went looking for Tom Sweeney, the commander of the other division in Dodge’s XVI Corps.
McPherson asked “Have you heard anything from Dodge or Veatch?”
Sweeney shook his head. “Last I saw him, Dodge was fretting about Veatch. He sent couriers, but got no reply. He went over to find Veatch himself.”
McPherson’s eyes widened. If Veatch was out of communication, it meant he was probably cut-off. If that were the case, there was a gap more than half a mile wide between Sweeney and Shoal Creek. If a Confederate force advanced into that gap, his army was doomed.
McPherson immediately dispatched a courier to Wildcat Ridge, to summon the brigade he had posted there. One brigade to cover ground where he previously had three. It would be a thin line, but all his reserves were already committed. It was the best McPherson could do, and even so, it would take time for them to get there. He quietly prayed that his army would be permitted that time.
6 p.m.
Headquarters in the Field, XVI Corps, Army of the Tennessee, USA
Woods Between Coon Creek and Lawrenceburg
Dodge had set out to see what was happening for himself, accompanied by his cavalry escort and a few staff officers. They cut out to the west off of Military Road, through the woods, with the intention of arriving somewhere near the center of Veatch’s Division. His party came upon a clearing in the woods, stumbling right onto Govan’s Arkansas Brigade of Cleburne’s Division, marching past in column.
“God dammit!” Dodge cried. It was his worst fear. Veatch’s Division was cut-off, or damn near it.
Dodge began turning his horse. “Don’t fuss about it!” he cried. “Run, by God! Run!”
Govan’s flanking skirmishers were alert, and were already firing on the men clustered around the flapping guidon emblazoned with the Canterbury cross. More Johnnies jumped out of the column and began firing at will. First the guidon-bearer fell, and then Dodge himself seconds later, struck in the cheek by a ball.
6:15 p.m.
Maney’s Brigade, Cheatham’s Division, CSA
The Captured Entrenchments
As he sat in the trench, Nathan Grimes rubbed fistfuls of grass on his face, trying to remove the thick grime of blood, dust and gun smoke, when he saw Willie making his way down the line. He jumped to his feet. Willie had his arms outstretched for a hug, but Nathan waved him off in favor of taking close look at Willie’s face.
“Go on, Nathan. Get off a me” Willie cried, shoving his brother back.
Nathan laughed, relieved. “Aw, ain’t nothing be ashamed of. The ladies like scars. Bet you get your pick when we get back home.”
Willie blushed a little, and the pair sat down. Nathan asked “How’s Fletcher?”
“He’s alive. Sawbones ain’t had at him yet. Orderly stitched me up. Didn’t have to wait so long.”
Nathan nodded. He pulled a flask out of his jacket and drank.
“Where did you get that?” Willie demanded.
“I liberated this here from a Yankee officer, who ain’t going need it no more. Couldn’t find any of them Yankee biscuits, though.”
Willie looked around. Six faces were gone, including Captain Fletcher. They hadn’t had any lieutenants since Chickamauga, so the company was now run by the first sergeant, Halpern. Corporal Marks was there too, so most of the old hands were still around. That was something. All except the Captain.
Nathan recognized what Willie was doing. “Major Miller got shot too. General Cheatham’s wounded.”
“I reckon that must have been a God awful fight.”
Nathan shrugged. “Yeap. Day ain’t over yet.”
Colonel Tillman stepped out of the trenches and ordered the regiment to fall in. No bugles were sounded, and the officers avoided shouting. The men lined up in relative quiet. The regiment shook out a company of skirmishers to screen their advance, and then stepped off with the rest of Cheatham’s Tennesseans. Now led by George Maney, the division marched in line of battle, down into the woods of White Oak Hollow, leaving the golden, late afternoon sunlight behind them.
6:30 p.m.
Featherston’s Division, Polk’s Corps, CSA
Featherston was contemplating his growling belly when he saw riders approaching his position. Leading them was a dark man wearing the insignia of a Confederate general.
The rider came up to him and saluted. As Featherston returned the salute, the unfamiliar general said to him in a sing-song, Cork County accent “General Featherston, I presume? We’ve never had the pleasure. I am Patrick Cleburne.”
Featherston was nonplussed. “General Cleburne. Wha... why are you here? Why are you not with your division, sir?”
Cleburne was in a foul mood, and ignored the question. All afternoon, he had hammered away at Veatch’s Division, battering their lines back into a U-shaped salient at great cost. All afternoon, he had been waiting for Polk to coordinate his attacks with those of Featherston, and all afternoon nothing had happened.
The devil take any more waiting, Cleburne thought. He would take action himself.
“Brigadier General Featherston, you are to advance your division at once and assault the Federal lines.” Cleburne looked at his pocket watch. “My division will renew its attack on the enemy in 20 minutes. If we all go in together, we’ll drive those people into Shoal Creek.”
Featherston blanched. “General Cleburne, sir, have you seen the ground? The Yankees have turned that ravine into a death trap! Furthermore, you have no authority to give orders to me.”
“General Featherston!” Cleburne snapped, his patience exhausted. “I am your senior in rank and present in person on this field. I care not even a thimbleful of dog spittle for your problems. Advance your men, by God, and do it now!”
Featherston shrank. He had been a lawyer and a politician before the war, not a solider. He wasn’t sure if Cleburne’s interpretation of his authority was correct, but he suddenly felt no desire to dispute the matter any further. He sent Loring’s former aides scurrying forward with orders for an immediate advance.
Cleburne dismounted and went forward, Featherston following behind him. The pair found a nice spot with a good view, and watched as thousands of men poured through the gaps in the abatis, weaving their way forward through the maze of sharp wooden points. They were once again met by a fusillade of bullets and canister balls upon reaching the bottom of the ravine and splashing across the waters of Coon Creek.
After that initial firestorm, the Federal onslaught slackened rapidly. All the cannon from before were still in place, but only one regiment, Yates’s Sharpshooters, remained on the line. They were armed with Henry repeaters, but had been firing all day, and were reaching the end of their ammunition. When Featherston’s Division crossed the last line of abatis, the sharpshooters shot off their few remaining rou
nds in one sharp burst of fire, and then made ready to defend their log barricades hand to hand.
Yet several hundred Illinoisans could not hold back a few thousand southerners, not with mere musket butts. The butternut tide was held at the wall for a few minutes, and a few minutes only. At first, a handful of Johnnies jumped over the barricade, brandishing their pointy bayonets, swinging musket butts, and driving blue bellies before them. One by one or in small groups, more butternuts hopped over the wall, howling wildly. Yates’s Sharpshooters faltered, broke, and ran. The bulk of Featherston’s Division came over the wall in their wake.
By then, Cleburne’s own soldiers were assailing the bulk of Veatch’s Division. When Featherston’s men appeared in their rear, the Federals turned and fought in both directions for a short time. These men were proud, tough veterans of Grant’s campaigns, and for a while that pride helped them stand firm. But after some minutes, they began to crumble, in dribs and drabs at first, and then in a torrent. Many raised their hands and surrendered on the spot. A few groups of stubborn men held out to the bitter end, giving up their arms grudgingly and from cold, dirty fingers. Others ran in the only direction left open, to the west.
When Cleburne went to commandeer Featherston’s Division, he left his senior brigadier, Lucius Polk, in command of his troops. A nephew of Leonidas Polk, Lucius had turned into an able citizen-soldier at the head of the Irishman’s old brigade, and was Cleburne’s protégé in many ways. It was Lucius who led a bayonet charge across the path of the fleeing Yankees, cutting them in two.
“Follow those men!” Lucius Polk cried, jabbing his sword at the fleeing bluecoats. “Hound them! Hound them, drive them and hound them!”
A mob of Confederates leapt at Lucius Polk’s order, and chased hard after the running Yankees, who soon came upon Raven’s Bluffs. Some climbed and scrambled down, finding their way to the banks of Shoal Creek. Some threw down their muskets and gave up, and others leapt from the bluffs into the creek bed below. Many of the jumpers broke their ankles or worse, but there were still dozens upon dozens of men who somehow made it down and fled across the wide, meandering bends of Shoal Creek, hoping to reach safety at the foot of Wildcat Ridge on the other side. Most of them were shot down long before they got there.
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