But whilst nothing he had heard made much sense, none of it was his concern. He hunched down in his shelter, burying himself beneath the blankets he had stolen and gnawing on his hardtack. If the rumours were correct, the breakout would be attempted later that day. He would be ready for it. He did not care what the generals planned. He cared only for using the confusion that would ensue for his own means.
Jack emerged from his shelter like an animal leaving its burrow. It was not much protection, but it was better than setting foot into the world.
The night’s snow storm had been replaced with persistent rain. It had washed away much of the snow, but had turned the ground into a quagmire. Mud coated every surface and the going was so bad that even a short journey took an age.
Jack slogged his way towards Dover. He was carrying everything he deemed useful. Two muddy, mildewed blankets had been rolled up and bound to his knapsack, which contained a few spare clothes and all his remaining ammunition. He wore the Navy Colt revolver on his right hip and his stolen sabre on his left. Pinter’s rifle was slung over one shoulder, and the long bowie knife Samuel had given him was in a sheath that hung over his right buttock. He had all he needed.
But he had little by way of a plan. He had last seen the Confederate cavalry encamped in and around Dover, so that seemed as good a place to start his search as any. When the breakout was attempted – if it was attempted – he planned to find a horse and ride with the cavalry. In the confusion he would look for Lyle, and then, in the midst of the melee, he would strike.
He ploughed on, head down and shoulders hunched. He paid no attention to the column of infantry heading in the same direction, or to the courier forcing his horse through the quagmire as he tried to take an order from one senior officer to another. None of them mattered to him. He forced the coldness deep into his being. He would not lend a hand to help the breakout. He would fight only if threatened, and he would kill anyone from either side without a qualm. He was a man alone, a lone killer amongst two armies of killers. He cared only for his target, and for the long-overdue revenge that he would find in the bitter chill of a wintry fight.
‘Halt! Halt!’
Jack barged past a sergeant and ploughed on even as the long column of infantry he paced alongside ground to a standstill.
‘There’s General Pillow!’
A few men in the column found the energy to call out as a group of officers rode past. Their animals were sloughed in mud up to the saddle and not one of them acknowledged the half-hearted cheers sent their way.
‘Turn around, boys!’ An officer came back along the column, forcing his way through the ankle-deep mud. ‘It’s all off. Back to your positions.’ He repeated the instructions then floundered onwards.
Jack stopped where he was. He found himself standing next to a grey-bearded sergeant of infantry.
‘You heard the man. Turn around, boys. Back to the lines.’ The old sergeant repeated the order. He looked at Jack, a knowing, world-weary expression on his face, then turned away.
Jack could feel the anger beginning to boil deep in his gut. It would be easy to release it and howl his frustration at the world. But that would achieve nothing.
He turned round and began the long, weary slog back to his shelter. As he trudged through the muddy slurry, he forced himself to feel nothing. Frustration, anger, futility, none would serve him well. There would be another time, another opportunity. Lyle was not going anywhere, and that meant Jack would have to be patient. His time would come.
It was mid afternoon when Jack heard the cannon in the fort open fire. They fired as one, the power of the great opening salvo making the very ground beneath him shudder.
He was on his feet within moments, pausing only long enough to grab his weapons and his knapsack. He did not know what the cannon fire meant, but anything could happen, and he would not be unprepared.
He walked as quickly as the filthy footing would allow. It had rained again in the hours after the breakout had been cancelled, the icy downpour only adding to the misery of the poor bloody infantrymen hunkered down in the entrenchments or in their paltry little huts. The deluge had only stopped in the last hour. Now a watery sun fought its way past the clouds to cast an eerie, pale light across the Confederate lines.
He arrived on the higher ground of the fort just in time to see the Union gunboat flotilla emerge from the distant bend in the Cumberland river. It was a fine sight, each of the leading ships belching out a thick plume of dirty black smoke that rose high into the grey-blue sky.
He found a vantage point, then pulled out his field glasses and brought the ships into sight. There were six in total. Four were the famous ironclads that he had heard about, the low-sided ships with hulls plated with iron that were said to be strong enough to be impervious to a direct hit from a cannonball fired from even the heaviest calibre of gun. The last two were wooden ships, the more traditionally built vessels hiding behind the stronger-hulled ironclads.
The guns in the fort fired. He was close enough to feel the thunder in the air as they spat their solid round shot at the flotilla. He watched for the fall of shot, wondering if the gunners who had fed him knew their trade. He was rewarded with half a dozen great geysers that erupted from the surface of the river. The early shots were missing their targets.
The Union ships returned fire, their heavy projectiles hurtling through the air then slamming violently into the bluff below the batteries, but the Confederate gunners stuck to their task, firing as soon as they were loaded. This time they had the range, and as Jack watched through his field glasses, heavy shot crashed into the leading ironclad. He peered at the Union ship, looking for signs of damage. He saw nothing.
The Union flotilla sailed on. They were firing back almost constantly now. Round shot and shell pounded into the fort. Some hit close to the two batteries, tearing up the parapets and almost burying the guns underneath great avalanches of earth. Others roared past overhead, sailing over the batteries to crash into the valleys and ridges behind the fort where the Confederate troops hunkered down in their rifle pits and entrenchments.
Jack could not help flinching as a solid round shot smashed into a tree not more than fifty yards away from where he was standing. The impact tore the tree from the ground as easily as a child might pull a dandelion from a patch of earth. Great shards of wood showered down, the tree reduced to so much kindling in the span of a single heartbeat.
The Confederate gunners continued to pound the Union ships, shell and shot smashing into the leading ironclads as they sailed ever closer to the fort. Jack could almost smell the gunners’ desperation. If they failed in their task, the Union flotilla could take up an incontestable position in the river and shell the Confederate defences without interference. The entire area would become untenable, the infantrymen certain to be battered into submission without ever being able to fight back.
The gunners stuck to their drill, loading and firing their great cannon without pause. Infantrymen were summoned to the batteries, ordered to throw back the earth unsettled by the Union barrage. Others came without orders, drawn to the spectacle on which all their fates depended.
The Union flotilla sailed ever closer. Through his field glasses Jack could see the dreadful punishment the Confederate artillerymen were dishing out. Even the fabled ironclads were being damaged. One listed to the side, whilst another drifted in an odd direction, as if unable to correct its course.
Still the guns on the ships returned fire. They were killing men now, gunners and the infantrymen supporting them cut down by well-aimed shots that smashed into the batteries. Yet no matter how many men fell, the intrepid gunners stuck bravely to their task. With the direction of their officers, they concentrated their fire against the gunboats moving steadily downstream. Shot after shot smashed into the vessels, the sound of each vicious impact loud enough to reach the ears of the great crowd now watching the fight.
The two sides traded blows like a pair of stubborn prizefighters. Shot
and shell thundered back and forth, the air full of the dreadful noise of their passage and the terrible crash of their impact. The Confederate gunners took their punishment, but their great cannon kept on firing, even as the men who served them bled and died. Slowly, inexorably, the gunners in the fort gained the upper hand. They began to fire faster than the Union flotilla, their shot hitting their targets with a greater frequency, their devastating power only growing as the ships sailed ever closer.
The Union flotilla knew when it was beaten. Three of the ships turned tail and fled upriver. The other three drifted past the fort, all damaged and unable to steer a course.
The Confederates cheered then. They knew the importance of this victory. The hillside echoed to the sound of the unearthly rebel yell, the same dreadful war cry Jack had heard for the first time on the slopes above the Bull Run river. The cry went on and on, echoing across the entrenchments and loud enough to be heard throughout the streets of Dover, only coming to an end as first one man, then dozens more fell to their knees to give thanks to the Lord for their deliverance.
Jack lowered his field glasses and walked away, picking his way through the men who shouted their prayers toward heaven. He did not look at them as they prayed. He did not share their faith. He did not believe in some faceless deity. He believed in the weapons he carried. He had faith only in himself and his ability to kill another man before he himself was killed.
It was still dark when Jack pushed back the blankets and ventured outside. It was bitterly cold. Snow once again smothered the ground. Where there was no snow, there was ice. Where there was no ice, there was half-frozen mud.
He entered this world of frost, ice and mud stamping his feet and blowing on hands and fingers that he could barely feel. Only when he could sense his body slowly starting to thaw did he bend down to pick up his kit.
There was to be a second breakout attempt. He had long given up trying to understand the minds of the Confederate generals who had allowed their army to be trapped in Fort Donelson. They had won a great victory, their gunners’ heroic defence keeping the Union flotilla at bay. With the gunboats beaten back, there was no immediate reason to quit the fort and its surrounding defences. The Confederates were well supplied and had open access to the Cumberland river. The men were in good spirits, the victory over the flotilla and the lack of any sustained attack by the Union land forces sure to have boosted their morale. Yet there was no notion of a resolute, steadfast defence. In its place there were only whispers of retreat; of breaking through the Union lines then fleeing south.
Jack hoisted his knapsack onto his back and once again began the long slog towards the cavalry lines. It was still dark, but already the Confederate troops were on the move. This second breakout plan called for the infantry to mass on the left of the position, concentrating in and around Dover. They had quit the entrenchments during the small hours of the night, carrying with them everything they would need to fight and then to march, their knapsacks packed with rations and their pouches bulging with full loads of ammunition.
Jack trailed behind a regiment of infantry, staying close enough to hear the excited talk from the rearmost ranks. The men were bitterly cold and chilled to the bone after days enduring the worst of the winter weather, yet as far as he could tell, they were still in high spirits. All he heard were calls to whip the Yankees, along with the simple desires of men longing for nothing more luxurious than a solid roof over their heads and warm food for their bellies. Such delights, the men believed, would be waiting for them in Nashville.
For his part, Jack thought of nothing save killing Lyle. If this second breakout were not called off like the first, then the Confederates would have to bludgeon a way through the Union right flank. That fighting would likely be fierce. He would do his damnedest to make sure he worked his way into the battle. And he vowed he would track Lyle down.
Jack watched from a knot of higher ground on the very fringes of Dover as the Confederate army prepared for its breakout attempt. From where he stood, the small town looked more like a military depot than a place where ordinary people lived. Tents filled every free space, and the streets were lined with wagons filled with military supplies. A large field hospital had been erected to the north of the town, near a small cemetery. He grunted as he saw the pragmatism behind that particular decision. At least the dead would have a short final trip.
He looked away from the town towards the dozen or more infantry regiments massed in columns on ground to the south of Dover. The Confederate soldiers were there in their thousands, and they made a lot of noise. The men were cold, but they reassured themselves that the same must be true of the enemy. On the far side of the infantry regiments were the cavalry. The men on big horses would lead the attack, then ride to protect the flanks of the attacking infantry columns and spread chaos and confusion amongst the Union lines.
It was a night for stacking fires and burying deep beneath blankets. It was not a night for preparing for a desperate fight. Yet fight they would. The men had been assembled for one task: to cut a way through the Union lines and abandon Fort Donelson. They would save the Confederate army to fight another day, and they would carry an impostor in their midst.
Jack huddled in his stolen grey uniform, pulling the collar up higher in a vain attempt to keep out the icy wind that whistled across the higher ground that provided him with his vantage point. He bided his time, patient in the face of another delay. Waiting for the moment when he could strike.
The first streaks of dawn lined the far horizon when the orders came for the lead infantry regiments to move out. Jack was near frozen by that time, the hours of inactivity turning the blood in his veins to so much ice. Yet as the first column started to move, he forced life back into stiff, aching limbs and turned to walk back into Dover.
The cavalry would lead the breakout. He had watched them go, wondering where Lyle was. He had not had a clear sight of Lyle’s Raiders, but he was sure they would be in the van of the attack. Now he had to find a way to get there for himself. He waited for a column of infantry to clear his front, then headed into the streets of Dover. He walked briskly, to warm his frozen flesh as well as to look purposeful.
He found what he was looking for almost immediately.
‘You there! I’m from General Pillow.’ He began to shout whilst he was still a good six yards away from the sentry positioned near the entrance to the Dover Hotel, the establishment that had turned him away just a few days before. The man was charged with guarding the dozen or more saddled and bridled horses hitched to a rail outside the hotel.
‘Sir?’ The sentry, who looked barely in his teens, turned to face the officer who had emerged from the darkness.
‘I’m with General Pillow,’ Jack repeated with a snap of authority. ‘I need a horse and I need it now. ’
‘Sir, I got orders to hold these animals here.’ The young soldier winced as he gave the negative reply. Snot had crusted around his nose and he cuffed his sleeve across his face as if suddenly becoming aware of the muck.
‘I don’t care. I have orders for General Forrest and I need a horse right now.’ Jack glared at the man, then stomped past him towards the nearest animal, a neat bay mare with a dark mane. ‘This one will have to do.’ He started to unhitch the horse from the rail.
‘Sir?’ The sentry pressed close. ‘I’m right sorry and all, but I don’t know who the hell you are. And I’ve got my orders.’
‘And I’ve got mine.’ Jack hissed the reply. ‘The success of the breakout, hell, the fate of the whole goddam army depends on these orders reaching General Forrest.’ He kept working on the knot, his frozen fingers struggling with the task. ‘Are you going to stop me, soldier?’
‘Sir . . .’ the younger man paused, clearly uncertain, ‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.’
‘Then make yourself useful and untie this damn knot. My fingers are fair frozen here.’ Jack fired the command. The sentry needed to learn to obey him, and the simple instructi
on would be a start.
‘But sir—’
‘Do it, soldier. Every minute I delay increases the risk of failure.’ Jack reached out and clasped the lad around the shoulder. ‘Look, son, I know this isn’t the proper way of doing things, but it is urgent, I give you my word on that. My name is Major Lyle and I serve with General Forrest. Your officers will know me. Now untie that knot and let me be on my way.’
‘Sir, I ain’t rightly sure ’bout this.’ Despite his reservations, however, the sentry leaned his musket against the rail and started to untie the reins.
‘You’re a fine soldier, I can see that. Tell me your name so that I can give a good account of your actions.’
‘Private Wyatt, sir.’
‘And the name of your officer?’
‘Lieutenant Meehan, sir.’
‘Good, good.’ Jack nodded as if making a mental note. ‘I know Lieutenant Meehan, I shall let him know that you had the courage to do what was right.’ He stepped forward and took the reins from Wyatt’s hands the moment they were untied. ‘Now stay at your post, Private. Do not let any Tom, Dick or Harry come along and take these horses. You hear me?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The sentry stood back. A thick river of snot was now running from one nostril.
‘Good man, Wyatt, you have done our cause a great service this morning.’ Jack put a foot into the stirrup and pulled himself up into the saddle. He took a moment to adjust the slings on his scabbard so that it hung properly at his side, then nodded once to the sentry before kicking with his heels to urge the mare into a trot.
As Jack left the entrenchments behind and rode into the broken ground to the south of Dover, he could hear the distant sounds of infantry going into action. The rattle of musketry was soon underscored with the boom of enemy artillery opening fire. The sounds were familiar to him: the roar of a regiment firing a volley and the long-drawn-out reply of men firing by companies. The noise of battle was the clatter of his trade, and a part of him was thrilled to be back where he belonged.
THE REBEL KILLER Page 24