What seemed confused from the road was worse once he and his companies rode through the wagons. Surprised and shocked Confederate troopers were running for horses or for cover, jumping out of wagons or trying not to get run over in Mix’s charge. Thick black smoke choked his lungs as he rode through the billows from two wagons and his eyes burned.
All manner of crates and wood boxes were scattered about and underfoot. Clothing lay in piles, some of it in the process of burning, adding the distasteful odor of burning wool to the already acrid air. Confederates were surrendering in droves, collared by joyous Wolverines before they could escape or voluntarily giving up. Some of his Wolverines were chasing riderless horses and horseless riders, and others were looking about for someone else to chase after, when the first salvos from the Confederate cannon began to fall.
Despite the incoming harassing fire from the enemy cannon, Mix rode up to the forming ring of dejected prisoners in as calm a manner as he could compose and with a flourish dismounted. Angry faces greeted him as he strode up to the man with the stars on his collar, and he couldn’t help but beam at the man with a silly grin.
“Colonel?” Mix asked as he looked over the crestfallen officer standing before him. The other troopers were in equally as foul a mood as they stood defiant yet tamed by the quickness of the counterattack.
“Allen, Wade Allen,” came the terse reply. Colonel Allen was clearly still shocked at the reversal. Captain Mix suspected he wasn’t helping any with the broad grin on his face and the spring in his step, things that seemed to irritate the colonel even more.
“Sir, you will kindly gather your men and march west on down the pike with my escort. Oh, and surrender your sidearms and sabers,” Mix stated sprightly.
Allen had already been relieved of his saber but not his sidearm. Other Yankee troopers were going about his men and gathering armfuls of pistols and scabbards. No one resisted; there seemed little use.
Allen looked Mix in the eye and said, “You, Captain, will accord my men the privilege of being mounted?”
“No, Colonel, I will not. You will march afoot, as your fleeing men have made off with any available mounts left. I’ve nothing to grant you to mount upon,” Mix replied evenly. Even if he had, he was not of the mind to allow his vanquished the honor of riding away into captivity.
“Very well,” Allen replied, looking perturbed, his bushy eyebrows furrowed closely above his brown eyes, which were dark and piercing.
“Start them back toward Nashville,” Mix ordered. Those standing guard began to motion with their carbines the direction they wished for their captives to move. He smiled again at himself. His cheek had ruffled that colonel’s feathers right good! He’d never captured a Rebel colonel before, and he was just going to enjoy it for a few moments.
As an afterthought Mix turned his mount, and touching his fingers to the bill of his cap he said in his most gallant style, “By your leave, Colonel.”
Turning again, Mix chuckled as he picked his way through the wagons to return to the balance of his command, who were skirmishing with the enemy on the other side of the pike from the location of the Stewart’s Creek bridge.
A stalemate had fallen amidst the wagon park and against those of the enemy gathering on the opposite side of the pike, huddling by their artillery.
“Lieutenant Roth,” Mix called out to one of his squad commanders. “Push, on man! Push your skirmishers forward!”
Roth had deployed his squad, but they were just being content to kneel and occasionally fire at the enemy’s skirmish line. The enemy wasn’t fleeing any longer, but neither was he making aggressive moves forward.
Forgetting about the prisoners, Mix set about to move his troops around and keep the enemy honest when a riotous sound of galloping hooves and shouts from behind him drew his attention back to the wagon park. Between the canvas covers erupted a flurry of movement and random firing. Before Mix could completely turn his mount to move in that direction, he was greeted with an unwelcome sight.
Those teamsters and drivers who’d been earlier captured and then released by his own arrival were now stampeding toward him, blacks and whites running as if the devil himself were on their tails, followed by a scattering of his own men mounted and dismounted. All were fleeing from the wagons.
Then the Confederates burst into view, mounted men scooping up their comrades afoot and making haste to cross toward Stewart’s Creek and across the field. Cursing to himself, Mix spurred his mount back he way he had come.
* * *
Will Hunter surrounded the detail of Yankees prodding their prisoners forward and motioned with his pistol, a tacit suggestion that they run. The Yankees didn’t need any further encouragement to do so, each dropping his carbine and taking off.
“Sir, climb aboard,” Will said and offered Colonel Allen a hand. The other troopers of his command hoisted whomever was nearby up while others grabbed the few mounted Yankees from their saddles and mounted themselves.
Having overstayed their welcome, the Confederates pushed through the field and through several cedar brakes to get back to the rest of the brigade.
“Where was your troop?” Colonel Allen asked, still perched on the back of Will’s mount, as the troop and those they had rescued pulled out of danger.
“Chasin’ Yankees up the hill,” Will replied.
“You weren’t on the flank when the enemy swooped down on the park,” Allen said tersely.
“No, had Yankee infantry spillin’ down from the ridge an’ takin’ potshots at us from the safety of the trees. We moved to brush them aside an’ got a little carried away I suppose,” Will replied. It was awkward being upbraided by his superior officer while he was riding the back of Will’s horse.
“Put us all in a bind, Lieutenant,” came the irritated reply.
Will grimaced and tried to lighten the mood. “Yes, sir. But was fortuitous that we was otherwise occupied when them Yankees did swoop down—was in position to do some swoopin’ back.”
“Could have been worse. They was on us in force, and our men in the park couldn’t escape. Your habit of chasin’ Yankees left us hanging. We didn’t lose anyone, this time, but I’m of a mind not to let it happen again.”
Will couldn’t miss the threat to relieve him of command just when he was getting used to it. No thanks at all for pulling Allen and the others out of the trap of imprisonment, just the focus on an easily repeatable happenstance in a field of fluid action. It struck Will that no matter what he might have done, those men would have been trapped. If his troop had remained on the flank, they too would have been caught between the infantry forming in the trees and the cavalry charging down the pike. A thousand arguments flooded through his mind: what of the 51st Alabama who were supposed to be blocking from the west of the pike? What of the enemy pressing him from the trees? What of Allen’s own carelessness to get caught up in the middle of the wagons with no escape route?
But all he said, morosely, was “Yes, sir.” His hold on command had been tenuous from the start and now might be removed altogether. I could have left you to be carted off, Will thought wickedly. Then where would you have been?
He heard himself blurt out, “Sir, I risked some of my own troopers just rescuing you, mayhap that’s worth something. Me an’ my men in getting you out.”
He winced and turned red in the cheeks at his own audacity.
“Yes, an’ that was something,” Allen replied evenly. “But don’t cover over the fact that you left the flank hanging open an’ allowed us to get surrounded in the first place.”
It could happen to anyone, Will thought. Heat of battle, the sway of forces to and fro, the temptation to pursue. It hardly seemed fair to be blamed for an event that had worked out in the end. But war wasn’t about fairness, and few forgot mistakes regardless of outcome.
“We could have left you,” Will replied bitterly.
“You could have, should have,” Allen stated, hanging onto the saddle behind Will. “You risked cap
ture. Another troop would have been denied the command. Your duty is to the troop and the country.”
Will rolled his eyes and blew an angry puff of breath that billowed in the cold air like a blast of gunpowder. He didn’t know what ill-fated star he had been born under, but it wasn’t doing him any favors for having done something good.
“Well?” Will asked, only to break the silence.
“You’ll command the troop until we get back to the army. I’ll not change the command while we out in the thick of the enemy rear. After that you’ll stay on with the troop, but someone else will command for the time being—someone with more experience.”
“Yes, sir,” Will replied.
Shaken, Will spent the next several miles thinking hard about what of any of his actions had been so horribly misthought or brash. Had he not brought about the safe return of not only his own men but of the commander himself from capture? This was no mere persecution, as with his former Captain Kearns. With Kearns it was easier to justify himself: nothing Will did was right because Kearns was at base a jealous man who brooked no rivals. Was there another explanation for Allen’s animosity? Had Allen been turned? When Allen was just a major he did not put up with Kearns’s shenanigans. But perhaps he had never been a benefactor after all, never truly willing to give a lowborn man a chance to seek his true calling to glory.
Mitchell would have understood. Will missed his friend more at this moment than he had all the while as a POW in Ohio.
Will tried to get comfortable, but having Allen hanging on and promising to boot him from his command was going to make the miles seem like hundreds left to travel. Getting back to the army usually meant relief from a hard ride and a rest, something to look forward to. He was not looking forward to this return. He could resign his commission, something Kearns had been trying to make him do before their capture at Shiloh. If he allowed Allen to bust him, he’d just be another supernumerary officer with nothing much to do. Will hadn’t become an officer to write orders down or carry them between commanders of regiments like an aide-de-camp. No, it would be worse than that—he’d not be an ADC but just a lowly messenger. At least an ADC had influence. Allen was promising something much worse.
Will let out another long sigh. The regiments were cutting cross-country to avoid running into any more Federals; the countryside looked bleak. The same lifeless cedar growths empty of leaves, the same lifeless fields empty of crops, the same lifeless farmhouses empty of inhabitants. The scenes matched Will’s mood.
When he got back to the army, he’d pen a letter resigning his commission. Perhaps the lowborn can’t make something of themselves after all. Will gave another huff. He didn’t like that choice either.
Chapter 13
Forward at First Light
Colonel Robert Vance stood shivering in the center of his 29th North Carolina line of battle. The night, or rather the early morning, had been spent in conference at the Burgess house, situated just behind the line of battle, with General Cleburne and General Rains going over the plan of attack for the morning. General Cleburne was dissatisfied with the position where General McCown had placed his brigade and ordered it thrown further to the left. McCown had agreed to reposition but would do so just before light, giving the brigade time to rest after the trying time they’d had finding the positions in the first place. Colonel Vance would rather have just moved then and there, but General Rains concurred with the choice. The word was that the brigade should step off at first light, direct in writing from General Cleburne’s aide-de-camp and verbally from General Rains’s own mouth. Repositioning the brigade before stepping off would expend the men’s energy and bring a fuss that was unneeded right before an attack.
There had been some question during their conference as to what “first light” meant. Light enough to see? Light enough to pick a target out in the distance? Light enough for artillery to support the advance of the infantry?
Vance hadn’t objected to the repositioning or the question of how light was light enough. He was just the colonel of a regiment. It was not his responsibility to give the order to move the brigade forward. Rains would have to shoulder that.
“General Bragg’s orders were to attack at first light,” was Cleburne’s dictate. “Make it first light, light enough for the artillery to support the advance.”
Colonel Vance had nodded. He’d heard it from General Rains already. He’d heard it again direct from Cleburne. It seemed a quibble. Dawn, or first light, would be at six-ten o’clock. Light enough to see the enemy in the distance and for artillery to support the attack would be about seven. But light enough to see to support would also mean light enough for the enemy to see and defend.
Vance’s was the far left flank brigade in the line. Given the plan of attack by right wheel, he would have to move first, and then the brigades to the left and so on as Cleburne’s division became engaged. The enemy in his front was close, closer than other parts of the line. Vance wouldn’t have to go far before he ran into their pickets.
Since they had arrived on line at 2 a.m., they had distinctly felt they were too close to the enemy and that they might well be advancing into a well-prepared and strong position. Despite noise discipline, the enemy had to have heard the marching of feet and the rolling of artillery just two hundred yards away, getting into place just as dawn was breaking.
By his watch it was already six-twenty o’clock, and the repositioning was just barely completed. Dawn had broken when expected, lighting the horizon sufficiently for him to see that the enemy occupied a strip of cedars at the far end of an open field. How awake the enemy pickets were and how rough the advance was going to be was anyone’s guess. The soldiers had been rousted from sleep at four o’clock and brought to arms, but a thousand men do not move about in formation quickly, and the repositioning took longer than Vance expected it to. Part of his front was now covered in thick cedars, and keeping the regiments aligned took time. Now, his North Carolinians were winded and peering into a thick forest where they could see nothing.
The other part of the brigade faced an open field, and General Rains himself was gazing at the open space, looking for anything that might save him some men—hidden batteries, fence lines. All was still and peaceful out in front. The picket line was quiet.
Colonel Vance stood at the head of his men, waiting for Rains to give the order to move forward. It was well past first light now; whoever wanted to argue about how light “light” had to be could certainly not now say that it wasn’t light enough.
Eight hundred yards in the rear of McCown’s division stood the equally exhausted soldiers of Cleburne’s division, forming the second line of supports. Bragg’s plan was to apply enough force to the Federal front line that when the first line broke from exhaustion or the need to replenish ammunition, the second could sweep up and quickly replace them. Cleburne was to move forward when McCown’s brigades did: General Liddell’s brigade on the left, General Johnson’s in the center, and General Polk’s on the right. Behind Polk’s brigade, General Wood’s brigade stood in line of battle, and with them the 3rd Confederate Infantry.
Every man was straining to see into the distance for telltale signs of the enemy. Every man was straining muscles in anticipation of the order to move forward. Breaths came in short, puffy exhalations as the moments passed and the tension mounted.
Standing at attention meant silence from the ranks. No one moved. No one spoke. Head and eyes forward. Cold fingers clutched trigger guards with muskets at shoulder arms position. Somewhere out in front lay the enemy. Only a man’s rapidly beating heart made a noise in his eardrums, accompanied by the nervous stomping of horses in the rear. One thousand men waited with bated breath for the killing to begin.
* * *
As the horizon lightened and revealed the scene of the future battlefield, John Meeks stood dejected and sore, watching as the Confederate grand attack prepared to step off. Meeks had been shepherded into General Wood’s entourage as the brigades crossed S
tone’s River and marched to take up the position they now held.
If Wood knew that Meeks was being punished or was there under reluctance, he did not show it. The man was amiable enough for a general. Wood was one of those officers elevated to higher command due to his battlefield performance and not his military pedigree. A civilian until the war, he had been commissioned a captain in the Alabama home guard and then colonel of the 7th Alabama.
Some officers wore their uniforms like they wore a perpetual scowl. Wood wore the stars on his collar with an easy stare and a careless attitude. With deep-set eyes and dark hair and beard, Wood didn’t look or act the autocratic general.
At this precise moment, Wood was seated on his mount and studying the field through his glasses. His brigade staff officers and other couriers stood behind the middle of the brigade just waiting for the order to move. General Cleburne had been by just moments before to impart some new instructions that Meeks could not hear. It was clear there was some confusion as to when would be the time to step off.
The brigade’s position told Meeks enough about what to expect. They were the division’s reserve, behind the hindmost. They would not see any fighting for a spell and perhaps not at all. For that he was not at all sorry, and perhaps there would be enough confusion behind the lines that the others might still slip away. He himself would be missed unless sent off on some errand or other. Otherwise he was stuck following the general around and doing odd jobs.
Wood had shown some initial annoyance when John was ushered into his presence by Campbell, as he already had several noncommissioned officers and enlisted men as couriers and attendants. Wood had looked John over critically for a few moments before motioning him to a corporal, who gave him a pouch for messages and told him to wait to be called upon. He was still waiting.
The 3rd Confederate was situated on the right of the brigade line, and occasionally John caught sight of the company and of Phillip Leach following Captain Robertson around behind the line. Artillery batteries were drawn up behind the lines of infantry in full limber, hundreds of horses crowding the spaces between each brigade and puffing out streams of cloudy breath in the morning chill. Riders plied the available spaces to move messages between brigades and divisions, and the soldiers standing in line brought about a small cloud of breathiness that hung about the formations for moments at a time.
River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4) Page 19