Mix’s nervousness at only having five companies with him when he started down the Jefferson pike this morning was dissipating. The enemy cavalry was numerically superior but obliging him by falling back. If the enemy horsemen in his front continued their delaying tactics, he’d have no difficulty reaching the bridge and taking it. General Palmer’s division was behind him with artillery, though too far to offer any direct support to his efforts. But as long as the 4th Michigan cleared the road ahead for marching, Palmer would soon be coming up.
So far, eighty of Mix’s troopers were driving twice their number with only a few casualties. It had been a mistake to charge the Confederates before Palmer’s infantry brigades were fully deployed, but it hadn’t done his men any permanent damage even if he was only doing it with a critter company’s worth of men. Now, it was on. No longer slowed by the infantry, he had his other goal for the day to attain: the bridge over Stewart’s Creek. Take that, and the way to Murfreesboro was open for Palmer’s division marshaling along the Nashville and Jefferson pikes.
His troopers were in high spirits, and the enemy seemed to be afraid of his own shadow. The 4th Michigan came out now into another field to see the enemy arrayed about the pike, a dense cedar thicket in their rear and the road the only way out. Mix thought he would see how far he could chance his luck and push them into the wall.
“Sound the advance,” Mix called to his bugler. With his men spread out in loose formation, he’d see if the enemy blinked or not. With several hundred yards of space to clear and no one showing on their own flanks, it looked to be an easy thing. Like sand in an hourglass, the enemy would have to funnel through somewhere to escape or continue falling back. There were no guns visible to anchor their line; they clearly didn’t intend to stay here long. He’d help their retreat.
As Mix set his troopers to a trot, the enemy on foot spun around and dashed for their mounts while their mounted compatriots stood solid about the road.
Mix’s meager force bore down on the Confederate horseman with a power that stunned even him. The dismounted troopers scrambled to remount and then melted away in a stream of fugitives, leaving behind their other two troops trying to block the pike. Then they too turned about and raced down the road. The wall of cedars wasn’t as thick and solid as they had appeared to be from a distance—the fence line had already been taken down, and the skirmishers fled through the cedars and vanished.
With another company pushing down the pike, Mix set his remaining men to follow the trail of the enemy overland. They hadn’t even gotten close enough to strike sabers, and the enemy had melted away before his mighty command. Flushed with success, Mix pushed on.
“Send to Lieutenant Shepard to push on to the bridge; we will be behind him!” Captain Mix shouted to one of his troopers, who peeled off from his company and raced down the pike after B Company. Chaucey Shepard was in command of Mix’s B Troop, while Mix commanded the whole element. Shepard, from Owosso, Michigan, was well-liked by both officers and enlisted men. He was the typical volunteer officer—not a martinet but not too lax in discipline. Mix, always concerned about the troops’ handling when he wasn’t in command, watched as Shepard arranged his troopers.
The Michiganders were flying now and the enemy putting up no resistance at all. Mix pushed his way through the cedars and came out into an open vista where the ground sloped toward Stewart’s Creek and rose once more into a series of hills. On the other side of those hills was the town of La Vergne, Tennessee. Taking the bridge was the first step in taking La Vergne, where the enemy was reputed to be in force. Hardee’s entire corps was there.
Pausing, Mix could watch the enemy’s retreat and his own pursuit down the road and through the fields. The cedar brakes were thickly populated with trees and shrubs, making nice little standoff positions for the enemy—nice little places to ambush too foolhardy a charge forward. But the enemy troop he pursued was galloping away in disorder.
Spurring forward, Mix caught up with his troopers, still spread out in battle line as they trotted forward. Houses and buildings dotted the way, and a clear path of the creek was easily seen, lined with trees in a serpentine pattern as they followed its banks. The bridge was the only fordable place to cross for miles, so he’d been told. If the enemy burned it before they could take it, it would mean a delay in the left wing’s advance. Mix had to force the enemy cavalry to retreat before they could fire the bridge.
Mix had assumed the description of the creek as “only fordable in one place” also applied to horsemen. With wide eyes and a dropped jaw, he watched the enemy splash across the creek chased by his troopers. This was supposed to be an impassable barrier but for the bridge. Instead of pushing the enemy away from the bridge, he had pushed him to the other side of the crossing. The assumption had been wrong: the creek was fordable.
B Company’s pursuit came into view as Lieutenant Shepard pushed his troopers hard and almost into the rear of the retreating enemy, the men intermixing at times. As they clattered across, Mix was delighted to witness Confederate troopers being pushed off their mounts and into the water below. The enemy was fording the creek in several places to get away, and in moments B Company stood proudly upon the bridge and deployed around it.
Miffed at his error in letting the enemy escape, Mix recalled his companies and prepared for a standoff. The enemy hadn’t prepared the bridge for firing. The infantry were nowhere in sight yet—it would be just him and his eighty troopers to hold the bridge until Palmer arrived.
Despite having let the enemy go, Mix had gained his prize. He put his annoyance aside. Triumphantly, he beheld several tired and disgruntled-looking Confederates fished out of the creek and seated dejectedly on the bank.
“Captain Wells, form your company on the opposite bank. The other companies will array on this side of the road and prepare to receive an attack. Find whatever cover you can,” Mix ordered his A Troop commander.
The prisoners were huddled together, four of them in all, with a hapless lieutenant nursing a wound.
“Sergeant, get those prisoners away from the bridge and out into the open over that direction.” Mix pointed toward the pike. “I don’t want them in the way.”
To the lieutenant he said, “What’s your command?”
“First Alabama, Allen’s regiment. And you?”
“Fourth Michigan. I’ll say that the whole army is headed down this road in a short while. You boys will be wanting to light out, I suspect.”
Mix said it with an air of satisfaction not lost on the lieutenant. He answered, “And you boys will be overrun before that; Allen’s whole regiment is about and waiting.”
The crack of carbines and hooves underscored the officer’s words, and Mix quickly tipped his hat in farewell and rode toward the bridge. Company B was fending off an encroachment on the other side of the river: the Confederates and his other two companies were taking potshots at each other as they flitted in and out of the trees that obscured the way to the bridge.
One of his troopers came clattering across the bridge, shouting breathlessly, “Lieutenant Shepard requests support, enemy mounted, about a hundred men pressing to get across!”
“Captain Melcher, move your company across,” Mix shouted above the racket of carbine fire to the C Troop captain. “Trooper, ride down the pike and hurry the infantry along; we have the bridge but face superior numbers of cavalry.”
Mix slapped the trooper’s horse in the rear. With a hard spurring, the trooper kicked his mount forward, and the two vanished down the road.
The firing and shouting on the other side of the bridge, still obscured by the trees, sounded menacing. The urge to throw his entire command over flitted through Mix’s mind—to commit all he had to keep the enemy from forcing him from the far side of the bridge. His tactical sense won over, and he kept one company watching their own rear, cordoned off in a circle. If the enemy pushed B and C Companies back across, he would have to fight it out on this side of the creek and wait for the infantry t
o decide the contest. He couldn’t surrender this side of the creek for anything.
Mix tightened his jaw, gripped the reins, and braced for the longest thirty minutes of his life.
Chapter 6
Tennessee Derby
Will Hunter gathered what was left of his troop, those who’d reported to rally on the other side of Stewart’s Creek. It was humiliating being chased by such a small number of the enemy, regardless of the force behind them. Just once, just once they should have turned about and countercharged them again, halting the enemy charge and putting them to flight. They were small; his own troop numbered less than half of what the enemy was fielding per company. But getting caught out in the open in skirmish formation was not in his plans, and with the road already crowded with both his own regiment and that of the enemy in pursuit, overland was his only option. Most of his men had returned, with others still out there in hiding or making their way back by more circuitous routes.
Will wasn’t going to let the enemy get away with holding the bridge unchallenged. Union soldiers had slipped across the creek a mile from the bridge, and from the sounds coming from that quarter, Allen was trying to push from that side. Why not hit the enemy from behind and crush him in the vice?
Will gave it a moment’s thought. If he reported his position, Allen would have him thrown into the mix—into an already crowded field. But if he turned about and rode into the enemy rear—as he was already disposed to do—why not just push on?
A nagging sense told him no, but the opportunity told him yes. Taking the lead, he led his troop back across the creek and crossed overland toward the Jefferson pike. If he could get across, he could cut off the retreat of the enemy. Between his troop and the rest of the 1st Alabama on the east side of the creek, they could bag the whole lot.
Taking a wide route, Will angled around more country lanes and farmhouses until striking the pike once more. It took his men an additional thirty minutes to negotiate the path, but the road was still clear, and it looked like the enemy hadn’t posted anyone this far into his rear—secure in the thought that all that infantry was headed his way.
“Lovely,” Will said aloud and was suddenly silenced by the sound of a galloping horse headed toward them from behind.
A lone Federal cavalryman was charging ahead, either mistaking their identity or intent on bursting through them. A carbine shot across his saddle brought him to an abrupt halt, his wide-eyed stare telling of his complete surprise. Two troopers rode up to the man and demanded his arms and his horse.
“A whole lot of infantry headed down this here road,” the man said in defiance as he stomped off, then broke into a hard run for safety.
Will and the others watched him go, several laughing. The loss of one prisoner wasn’t his concern. He meant to bag a whole lot of them.
“Sergeant, spread the troop out in two columns and push down the road,” Will commanded before he posted himself in the rear. Straddling the pike, his troop would have a sense of force if they stayed compact. The enemy would be too busy dealing with the rest of the 1st Alabama to be spread out.
But instead of giving surprise, Will’s troopers were surprised when from both sides of the road, carbine fire cracked from a hidden ambuscade. Stationed under cover of trees and fence rails on either side, dismounted troopers were waiting. One of Will’s men went down, falling ingloriously from his horse as the front line faltered. It was one thing to charge a mounted line, another thing to charge a dismounted line hidden behind cover. Will’s formation scattered, each trooper trying to find an advantageous point to fire off pistol rounds and keep his mount steady.
“Dismount!” Will shouted, quickly deciding they would have to push up the road on foot and dislodge the enemy from his hide.
With rounds whizzing overhead, his troop ran for whatever cover was nearby and opened fire—a well-directed and overwhelming fire that covered the road on either side and swept down it.
“Sergeant, push forward on the right, the right; spread out!” Will called. The right of the road was covered by cedars where the enemy had chosen to make a stand but was open further to the left, leaving an avenue that could be swept by their fire. To the right, the trees were thicker and more abundant, leaving the way forward concealed.
Individual troopers were slowly working their way toward the enemy positions on both sides of the road. The bridge stood in the distance, and a swirling of horsemen crowded around the western approach. Success depended on the character of the enemy and Will’s own temerity in pushing forward. Would the enemy stand or fall back? Could his smaller numbers, by audacity alone, shove those on the western side of the bridge against those on the east and force them all to surrender or break? The orders had been to delay the enemy and destroy the bridge. They’d lost the bridge too quickly.
The firing from the enemy was precise and accurate, leaving anyone who exposed himself in danger of being cut down. His troopers were starting to trickle back with wounds. If he couldn’t force the issue, it would be too late.
Will guided his mount through the right side of the road, where his troopers were infiltrating the area around the obstacle.
Rounds were striking trees, and his men used the thickest of the tree trunks to fire at the enemy. Seeing how thick the cedars and brush were on the right, Will had second thoughts about trying to force his way through this quarter. The left, swept by his troopers’ deadly missiles, was more open and vulnerable—there was little more than a depression in the ground for the enemy to use as cover. But open and vulnerable also meant open to enemy fire.
“Lieutenant Starks, recall squads three and four, keep pressing this direction with squad one, and remount three and four to join me on the right. We’ll charge their right mounted and force them back.”
Men began peeling back through the trees as the racket from within the woods abated, the crack of carbines from both sides creating echoes that were loud and jarring.
Getting most of his squads mounted again, they gathered for the charge, forming two lines that would sweep forward along the left of where the enemy was and keeping them pinned down with his carbine fire. A dangerous place to be, but pounding forward against the dismounted enemy with several tons of horseflesh and shouting men might do the trick.
Under cover of the trees on the right, Will wheeled his troopers out and across the road at a trot and then wheeled again at a half-right before bearing down upon the enemy troopers. They were scattered about the depression and a farmhouse situated a hundred yards to the left. Charging forward, the troopers swept down and off the road, making for the exposed left flank of the enemy. Troopers tumbled from their mounts, but the Union fire soon slackened, as if the pump had lost its prime, and enemy troopers turned tail and ran for their own mounts, abandoning their line.
Will pushed his mount forward and was soon plunging down into the depression were one hapless Yankee was struggling to reload, having tarried too long. Wide-eyed, he looked up and immediately threw down his carbine in surrender. Will and his troopers swept by him, chasing down other dismounted troopers as they ran too late from the farmhouse.
Scooping up stragglers and scattering those who managed to make it to their mounts, they kept their momentum forward. Yankees headed for the bridge in flight, and Will halted the troopers around him. The firing in his front and on his right was suddenly silenced as Yankees filled the road and headed for the bridge.
“Sound the recall!” Will shouted. His remaining squad was still in the trees and scattered about the left of his line, hauling in prisoners. One more push and they would get to the bridge. If he could get his command organized again, they just might do it.
* * *
Captain Mix and his companies of the 4th Michigan could feel the heat and pressure of the attempts to push them off the east bank of the creek and bridge. What he hadn’t expected was the firing that suddenly began sounding in his rear. If anything, he’d expected to hear the drums and marching feet of an entire division of i
nfantry and artillery. He’d been so focused on the pressure on the east bank that what was happening on the west came as a complete surprise. Getting his companies straightened out to receive another mounted charge of the 1st Alabama, he was shocked to have the man he’d just sent down the road to hurry along the infantry come breathlessly afoot carrying bad news.
“Captain, enemy behind us; cut the road and moving against the rear.” The man was sweating—hatless, breathless, weaponless, and for a cavalryman, the worst of all: horseless.
“Where’s the infantry?” Mix asked angrily.
“Five miles down the road.”
Mix had far outstripped his support. Cursing to himself, he turned his mount and clattered back across the bridge. He found the squadron he’d positioned to the left of the west bank of the creek arrayed in a single line, with those on the right distracted by the action taking place on the east side. The company sent to guard the rear came riding up in confusion, some mounted and some not, running for dear life, and none of them looking as if they were ready to receive a charge.
Those who were mounted came charging up looking worried and whipped. They were leaderless and about ready to bolt across the creek.
“Form company!” Mix shouted at the rabble. “I want a single line! Form on third company!”
It took only a few moments to restore order and bring his troopers into line. Those afoot he posted along his right in single line. With his three companies, he’d meet whatever was going to come charging down the road at them. The two companies on the east side were too busy to be called upon.
“Forward at the trot!” Mix shouted and set the men in motion. He’d meet the attack with equal force. Trees and rolling countryside intervened, masking how many of the enemy were between his command and General McCook’s infantry. If this was a large force of the enemy, he’d have to gamble that the charge was going to delay them. If it didn’t work, Mix would soon be driven into the creek and surrounded.
River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4) Page 8