Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) (28 page)

The 41
^st
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 19
^th
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 nothing 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.

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.

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 Osterhaus 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.