Once past the cleared area on the far side of the abatis, the going was poor, the ground made slippery by a thick coating of ice. Jack rode as fast as he dared, urging the mare to pick up the pace. He caught fleeting glimpses of the fight, but the distance was too great for him to make out enough to know if the breakout was succeeding, or if the Confederate infantry were breaking themselves on the lines of Union infantry that surrounded the fort. He saw a Union regiment standing its ground, the men formed up in line of battle and pouring a single volley into an unseen Confederate force to their front. He heard the unearthly rebel yell as the Confederate troops pressed home an attack, the war cry punctuated with the screams of men being shot down. The Union poured on a final volley then broke, the line dissolving into a panicked mob, all sense of order and discipline lost the moment the men turned to run for their lives. The morning had barely dawned, but already men were dying.
He found a seam of open ground and forced his mare into a canter. He felt the first fluttering of fear. It was not fear for his safety; it was fear of missing out. If the Union troops did not hold their ground, then the breakout might succeed with a speed that would see the Confederate cavalry he sought push on without his ever being able to catch up with them.
He worked his way around the Union right, urging his stolen horse on as he followed the path the Confederate cavalry had taken. It was easy enough to do so. The hundreds of horses had cleared the ground of snow, their hooves churning the half-frozen dirt beneath to leave a clear trail that even a blind man could follow.
Ahead, the body of an eviscerated horse confirmed he was on the right path, the sight invigorating rather than disgusting. Lyle was close. Jack could sense his presence. This time he would not fail.
He kicked his heels, urging the mare to greater speed. He kept looking to his right, searching the broken ground and thickets for a sight of troops from either army. He saw nothing save a handful of wounded men making their way back to Confederate lines. There was no sign of the cavalry that he sought. The horsemen would surely have been working past the Union army’s right, and he could only pray that they would have to change direction if they wanted to sweep into the enemy rear.
For once it appeared his prayers were to be answered. The path he followed swung west, the trail the cavalrymen had left bypassing a stand of tall trees then heading towards what he could only think to be an undefended flank on the Union right. He knew he was closer to the fight now. The sound of gunfire was intensifying, underscored by the undulating rebel yell, first quietening until barely audible, then increasing in volume so that it almost drowned out the sounds of volley fire. And then there were the screams, the dreadful, heart-rending noise a man made when his flesh was torn and his life force poured out of him. Together they were the musical score of a battle. He was back where he belonged, the battlefield the one place he truly understood, the place where he was master.
The going worsened. The ground broke up, swampy marsh interspersed with pockets of harder frozen soil. His pace slowed, his need to close with the Confederate cavalry tempered by the need not to break his horse’s leg and thus deny him the chance of finding his target for a second time. The slower pace let him search the ground ahead more thoroughly, and he caught a glimpse of Union infantry retreating from the battlefield. They had fought hard, holding their ground and pouring out the volleys he had heard. But now they ran, their ranks broken, the red, white and blue of the Stars and Stripes bright in the gloom of the early morning.
That was when he saw the Confederate cavalry for the first time.
General Forrest, the commander of the cavalry, clearly knew his trade. He had held his men back, screening the hundreds of mounted soldiers from view behind a dense tangle of woodland. Now he released them.
The riders poured out of their concealment, their cries and yells capturing the attention of the fleeing infantry. The men in the broken ranks could do nothing save turn and run in the opposite direction. It was a futile attempt: on the boggy ground, they were no more able to outrun the horses than a toddler could outrun its mother. And so more men began to die.
Jack raked back his spurs. It was time to risk everything. If he hesitated now he would miss his chance.
Forrest’s cavalry tore into the Union infantry. The men on foot stood little chance against the rampaging riders. They were cut down in swathes. Some of the riders had pulled swords from scabbards and rode through the melee hacking and cutting at any man in their path. Others rode with revolvers outstretched, gunning down man after man as they scythed through the broken ranks.
Jack bent low in the saddle and willed the mare to press on. He could do nothing now but trust to the animal’s speed to get him into the fight before it was over.
Ahead, the cavalry cut through the fleeing Union soldiers then pressed on. They did not linger, or turn to gouge a second path through the survivors of their first charge. Forrest clearly knew that the fate of the Confederate breakout did not depend on the slaughter of a single Union regiment, and he urged his men onward.
Jack bit back a howl of frustration as he saw the cavalrymen ride on. He galloped past the bodies of the soldiers who had been cut down, drawing his own revolver as he did so in case any man left on his feet tried to stop him. He did not ride to fight, but he would not hesitate to kill should anyone stand in his path. He was there to find Lyle. The fight, the breakout and the lives of the men around him were meaningless. His revenge was all and it was close now. He could feel it. He could smell it in the stink of spilt blood that tainted the air. He could taste it in the acrid tang of the powder smoke.
The Union men still on their feet thought only of flight. Jack was left to trot through the field of broken bodies without interference, the closest surviving infantrymen running from his path. He did not look at the dead or the dying. He had seen the results of cavalry riding down a broken infantry regiment before, both from the saddle and from the blood-splattered ground. He had experienced the wild rush of delight at charging at a broken enemy, and he had known the bowel-wrenching fear of being pursued by victorious riders with sabres bloodied to the hilt. There was nothing new for him to see on this field of butchery.
He rode on, following the Confederate cavalry and leaving the slaughter behind, until he reached an open pasture. Union infantry streamed across it, the men in blue uniforms running as fast as they could. The broken ranks offered another inviting target for the hard-riding Confederate cavalry, and he expected to see the riders galloping into their midst to work a second slaughter.
Yet for a reason he could not fathom, the cavalry were barely moving. He was closer to them now, and he saw the hundreds of men and horses bunched together, any order to their formation lost after the killing spree. They still advanced, but they were slow. Finally he had his chance.
‘What the hell is going on?’ He roared the question as he forced his mare into the rear of the cavalry. ‘Why are we stopping?’
‘Marsh up ahead!’ shouted a man. ‘We can’t get through.’
The answer made sense. The Union infantry were enjoying the most precious commodity to be found on the field of battle. Luck.
The great mass of cavalry laboured on, the men kicking and urging their tiring animals through the marshy ground. In their midst, Jack worked harder than any man, pushing his mare onwards and forcing a path through the great press of riders and horses. He searched the men around him as he made his way through their ranks, his eyes running over every face as he looked for Lyle.
‘Hold here!’
Orders were shouted. The men leading the cavalry were no fools. They could see they would not be in time to attack the Union infantry in the flank. Jack caught a glimpse of the blue-coated infantrymen. Most had cleared the pasture and now formed a line on its southern flank. He was close enough to hear the officers bawling at their men, and to see the soldiers turn around and begin to reload their muskets. Any chance of an easy victory was lost.
Yet the cavalry were not the
only ones on the battlefield. Even as they began to re-form their ranks in the broken ground to the east of the open pasture, Confederate infantry regiments emerged on its northern edge.
They came on anyhow, their ranks disordered, advancing in one great mass, the lack of common uniform making them look more like a mob than an army. Yet their colours led them and they crossed into the open ground without pause.
The Union infantry on the southern edge of the field saw them coming. These men had broken once, but they still had fight left in them. At the commands of their officers, they reloaded, then presented their weapons, aiming at the great mass of Confederate soldiers coming against them. A moment later, their volley roared out, the men in blue flinging a storm of shot into the Confederate ranks.
The volley ripped into the Confederate infantry. Dozens fell, their bodies torn apart by the fast-moving projectiles. Yet the advance did not pause. Those men who fell were ignored, the Confederates callous and uncaring as they surged forward.
In the silence that followed the volley, the rebel yell emerged from deep in the mob, the dreadful keening washing over the line of Union men standing against them. The discordant sound was quite unlike anything Jack had heard before coming to these shores. It doubled in volume as the Confederates rushed across the field. A few men fired as they charged, their shots knocking down a man here and another there all along the Union line. Most just ran, their mouths wide open as they released their inhuman cry.
To their credit, the Union line held. It was bravely done, the men forcing ramrods down rifle barrels fouled with spent powder even as the great mass of enemy infantry charged towards them.
‘Fire!’
This time Jack heard the Union commander roar the single command. The men obeyed, flinging a second defiant volley into the faces of the charging Confederates. It ripped through the leading ranks, tumbling men from their feet. But the charge was unstoppable now. The Confederates ignored their casualties and rushed onwards, the great rebel yell unaltered even by the loss of so many men.
For a second time, the Union line broke. One moment it was steady, then the men ran, their brave display forgotten as they fled.
Jack had forced his way to the front of the cavalry ranks in time to see the Confederate infantry tear into the slowest-moving Union troops. He turned away from the killing, his only thought to find Lyle. He allowed no emotion to trouble him as men died not far from where he sat in the saddle. It was as nothing to him. Nothing mattered. Not death. Not fear. Not glory. Not even victory or defeat.
There was just his need for revenge.
The sun had risen higher in the sky when Jack saw Lyle for the first time. The sight came suddenly. He had been searching the ranks as the cavalry manoeuvred away to the west and around the marshy ground that had prevented their charge on the broken Union ranks. They had not fought since their first charge. Quite simply, the Union troops were retreating faster than the Confederate army could advance. As far as he could tell, the whole right flank of the Union army had been pushed back. The Confederate general’s plan had worked. His men had forced open the road from Dover to Nashville, and now the entrapped army could flee Fort Donelson.
But there was the sound of more fighting away to the west. Jack could only suppose that the Union general had ordered his men to attack the westernmost Confederate defences, matching the attack on his right flank with one of his own on the left. It was a sound plan. The Confederate right had been stripped of the men needed to launch the breakout attempt. Those that remained would be hard pressed to hold against a determined Union assault.
The glimpse of Lyle did not last long. Almost as soon as Jack clapped eyes on his target, the Confederate cavalry surged forward. They rode fast, pushing across grassland strewn with dead and wounded bodies. Confederate infantry milled at the field’s far side, the men taking cover along a hedge line as a battery of Union guns forced them to go to ground.
In the midst of the cavalry, Jack began to feel the thrill of the attack. They were swinging around the flank of the battered infantry regiments, their pace increasing. There was excitement in the faster tempo. He could feel it humming in the air. The animals could sense it too. Many of the riders were forced to work hard to hold their mounts in check.
Hooves thumped into half-frozen ground. The drumming noise they made was mesmerising. There was something glorious in this moment. Jack had charged with cavalry before. He knew the thrill well and something of it once again resonated deep in his being. Yet the man who had ridden with the Bombay Lights at Khoosh-Ab was much changed, and even as the riders around him began to bawl and yell, he felt the excitement flutter and die in his breast. There was no joy to be had on that grey morning. There would just be death.
The Confederate cavalry charged into the open ground in front of them. Ahead, Union infantry formed two lines to either side of the battery of cannon that had pinned the Confederate advance in place. The guns themselves were lined up on a road, the artillerymen using the hard surface as a solid foundation for the wheels. They fired one after the other, great gouts of flame exploding from the barrels as they flung another devastating salvo at the infantrymen who were trying to hide behind the fragile hedge line. The sound deafened the men guarding the guns, and the blanket of foul-smelling grey smoke that smothered them meant they did not see the great mass of Southern cavalry charging at their flank.
The Confederate cavalry tore across the open ground, the men screaming as their animals powered forward. Jack went with them, revolver held ready.
The Union infantrymen saw them at the last moment. The men on the right flank of the line turned to stare in horror as hundreds of marauding cavalrymen burst out of the cloud of powder smoke. They broke instantly at the sight of death hurtling towards them.
Then the charge hit.
Men died in their dozens as the Confederate cavalry cut deep into the broken ranks. Some were simply hacked down, their faces and shoulders slashed by the swords of the rampaging cavalrymen. Others were bowled over, their bodies pulped beneath the heavy hooves of the Confederate horses.
Some Union soldiers stood their ground. Southern cavalrymen were shot from the saddle by the defiant few, their screams of pain adding to the chaos. Animals fell too, their inhuman shrieks of agony loud as bullets and bayonets found homes in their flesh.
Jack rode into the chaos without fear. He spurred his tiring mare on, yanking hard on the reins to steer the animal around a flailing horse that had been shot in the neck. The horse went down hard, throwing its rider and taking down another two mounts that were too close to avoid it.
He spotted Lyle, his bright shock of grey hair marking him out, and changed course, steering a path for his target. He did not fire even as he flashed past a Union infantryman standing stock still in the midst of the melee. It was not his fight. It was not his war.
A Union soldier darted across the front of Jack’s mare. The man had dropped his rifle and now ran with hands held over his head as if protecting himself from a sudden downpour. A moment later, a Confederate rider half severed the man’s head with a sweeping blow as he galloped past.
‘The guns! Ride for the guns!’
Jack heard the cry amidst the roar of the fight. The men commanding the Confederate cavalry knew their job. The Union infantry regiment was as good as broken. The real prize still lay ahead.
Some riders heard the order and spurred on, forcing their animals back into the gallop. For his part, Jack paid it no heed. He would let nothing turn him away from his encounter with the man he had hunted down.
Lyle was in the van of the attack. He held a sword in his right hand, the blade dripping with gore. As Jack watched, he kicked his horse hard, forcing it into a lurching gallop. Jack did the same, cruel in his mastery of the flagging animal. He rode past a small huddle of Union infantrymen, then around the flank of the pair of Confederate riders aiming revolvers at them.
Lyle broke free of the press around him and changed direction, heading
away from the men riding for the guns. Jack spotted his target alter course. He saw why immediately. Many of the men from the broken ranks of the Union regiment were fleeing across another field to the south. They ran hard, weapons and discipline forgotten. But they had not forgotten their colours.
The Union regiment’s colour party ran as one, the two flags deep in their midst. Even as their ranks broke around them, the sergeants and corporals trusted with carrying the regiment’s pride into battle stayed together, their duty tethering them to the colours.
Lyle had seen the opportunity. Taking the flags would make him famous. They were guarded by more than a dozen men, with still more men from the broken companies running nearby, yet they offered a rich target amidst the slaughter.
Six other men rode with Lyle. They had seen the officer change course and they went with him, the lure of taking the colours too strong to resist. Behind them all rode Jack. He was alone now, the rest of the men around him following other officers towards the battery of guns that still fired on the beleaguered infantrymen.
He was still far short of the group when Lyle charged home. Jack had to admire his style. He ploughed straight into the men surrounding the colours, his animal’s momentum knocking three from their feet. He hacked down at those that still stood, cutting his sword across a man’s face then backhanding the blade into the neck of another.
For a single heartbeat, it seemed that he would be overwhelmed. A sergeant armed with a rifle raised his weapon, aiming the muzzle straight at the Confederate officer, whilst at least three others twisted around and looked ready to strike him down with their bayonets. The man with the rifle held the muzzle of his weapon so close to Lyle that it appeared to almost touch his side.
Jack lost sight of the fight as the rest of the Confederate riders crashed into the melee. Two fell, the desperate men around the Union colours striking them from the saddle. Yet four remained, and they chopped down, swords hacking at the heads and shoulders of the men surrounding them.
THE REBEL KILLER Page 25