Nowhere else on the field, as far as Cleburne could see, were there any other Confederate formations visible. His division alone was assaulting the whole Yankee army.
General Wood was shouting and waving his saber overhead, with the Yankees in their immediate front still scrambling to get across the pike and rally. But for the troops, the advance into the guns seemed to be the final straw. Major Cameron of the 3rd Confederate rushed to the front of the regiment and with a hoarse shout waved his saber in the direction of the pike as his companies began to recoil, taking a hesitant one or two steps forward, then a pause, then an uncertain step backward as each individual soldier faced his own mortality in the explosions of iron and earth.
John Meeks could see that those near him were becoming numb to the call to move. Artillery fire landed every few moments around the staggering line of regiments.
General Wood rode across the brigade front, shouting, “Halt, halt!” To a man they were glad not to be going any further, but the lack of any movement made them sitting ducks to the cannoneers on the other side.
“We won’t make it across that,” David Grover said over and over again. Solid shot could be seen flying overhead in the cloudy gray sky, with fuse sputtering and drawing an arc toward its destination. Canister shot tore up the ground in front of the halt, little geysers of earth sprouting up and sending dirt clods and plant matter into the air. A strong smell of turned soil hung about the field, mixed with the acridness of the shells exploding above them.
Men, bent over with exhaustion, leaned heavily upon their muskets, gripping the still-warm barrels tightly and watching the display of Union artillery plowing the fields in front.
“Damn you, Meeks!” a familiar voice shouted, unconcerned about being heard by all. It was John Glenn. “You’ve killed us all!”
Standing here, now, John had to agree on that point. Though to have followed Glenn’s plan would have meant death by the hands of their own side, that might have been preferable to the slaughter that would occur if they resumed the advance through that field.
And yet he could not regain his enthusiasm for trying to get out.
John regarded his friend Grover closely. “David, if we get through this, I will be through with trying to get home.”
Grover, his lower jaw trembling, looked wildly at John. It did not seem the time or the place for such confessions. “You . . . you what?”
“I’m tired of the fighting, my friend,” Meeks said and looked Grover straight in the eye. “But I’m tired of trying to get away too. I still don’t like bein’ forced to fight, but trying to desert an’ not hurt my family or drag you others with me . . . I’m through with it. If we get out alive, I cast my lot here.” John pointed to the ground.
“You . . . you mean you gonna quit tryin’ to desert?” Grover asked, hushing the last word as quietly as he could.
“That’s what I’m meanin’. I’ll not go as mad as Glenn an’ almost start a mutiny over tryin’ to get away.”
“If we get out of this,” Grover repeated.
“You is free to follow Glenn, David. I think I’m through leadin’ this effort.”
As the tired men of Wood’s brigade awaited the order to step off, a brigade from Cheatham’s command marched up in column formation behind them and began sorting themselves out. They were taking a position on the left of the brigade, or at least attempting to, in the confined space left by an outgrowth of the cedars and the maximum range of the enemy’s artillery. The regiments were kept ducking and involuntarily stepping backward to avoid the rain of shrapnel.
The minutes dragged on, and so did the incoming fire. Meeks had ceased flinching when something landed close by. He was glad not to be marching closer to those cannon but not so happy that the regiment was standing pat. Vaughn’s brigade was taking its time sorting itself out.
Meeks closed his eyes to blank out the scene. What he heard was still enough to cause his blood to run cold.
“You going to renounce our pact?” Grover asked.
“I think I already has, at least in Glenn’s eyes,” John replied, opening his eyes and looking over at Grover—and then wishing he hadn’t. If Grover or Glenn or Holly were felled here it would be his fault, he thought.
John saw the conflict in Grover’s eyes. David was his friend and had followed along all this time, no doubt in loyalty. The pursuit of getting out had motivated them almost every day. John could see his friend trying to figure out what life in the army would be like without that pursuit. A loss of meaning occurred in renouncing their old aim of getting away from the service in any way possible. It was like deciding to volunteer anew.
“I’ll stand with ya, John,” Grover said loudly as a fused round detonated high above and behind the line, showering the rear with shrapnel in a loud report.
“You don’t have to,” John replied.
“I know, John. I know.” David looked out across the field. The six hundred yards separating the rallying Union line from their own, three hundred of which would be in range of the enemy’s muskets and his cannon, were not lost on him. There were no obstacles in the way, nothing to find cover behind, just a straight advance.
“If I have killed us all, please forgive me,” Meeks said to his friend, bowing his head a little, feeling the trembling in his gut and the coursing energy in his limbs. He closed his eyes once more and tried to think about something else, but the sounds of cannon engulfed his every thought.
“You saved our necks from a hanging, certain. Glenn ought to at least be glad that his fate is now left to chance instead of the hangman or firing squad,” Grover replied. “I forgive nothing; it ain’t needed.”
Meeks nodded and let out a long breath. Opening his eyes, his heart sank a little. General Wood was riding out into the front of the brigade, and the brigade colors were trooping forward.
Sergeant Wade stood in the spot the chief officer usually took, to the right of the last man in the company. He’d surrendered his musket and meant to lead the way forward wielding his NCO’s sword, a shorter affair from an officer’s. He looked nervous. In fact, he looked cowed.
As General Wood gave the signal to advance, Sergeant Wade flinched. Major Cameron shouted the command to forward march, and the 3rd Confederate stepped off. Cannon fire came slicing from the right, enemy batteries blazing to life, having waited for their targets to move before revealing themselves.
The distance to the Nashville pike seemed to stretch out. It had appeared to be but a few strides away, a few minutes of easy walking, but under the sudden intensifying artillery fire, the distance might have been miles. Miles to go to get closer to the enemy, and no relief from the deadly projectiles that flew toward the men.
Sergeant Wade kept silent as he marched forward two paces in front of the first rank, mimicking the other company officers, who pointed the way forward with their swords. The other captains and lieutenants leading their companies were shouting encouragement to their men, bucking up their resolve. Wade simply walked rigidly forward. Perhaps he knew he was not well regarded in the company due to Campbell’s persecutions. The two had delighted in tormenting their Peace Society “volunteers” too heartily to be well regarded now. Occasionally he turned to look over his shoulder to see that the company was still following, betraying his fearful expression to all. Wide-eyed and grimacing, he offered anything but a picture of confidence.
“He looks scared out of his wits,” muttered Grover.
“Don’t we all?” John Meeks replied. Just the act of stepping forward one foot at a time instead of collapsing to the earth in a quivering mass of flesh took brave effort.
Cannon fire cut across their formations and sprayed the advance with dirt, gaining more psychological impact than actual casualties. By some miracle, some providence known as the divine will of God, Cleburne’s brigades plus that of Vaughn made it to a cover of cedars and crossed the Nashville pike. They left a trail of dead and wounded behind them to mark each step in a field churned by lead.
Not quite out of the fire but surging with relief at finding the cover of trees, the men instinctively halted, and without orders they clung to each cedar trunk as if to the only means of remaining erect. Breathing heavily and thanking providence for their continued survival, the Arkansans of the 3rd Confederate, Company K, clung to their hard-won ground.
* * *
Upon a little rise of ground, just to the north of the Nashville pike and behind the massed batteries belching fire at the Confederates, who were pushing toward the pike on the right and coming awfully close, Rosecrans and his staff were observing the Confederate movement with growing alarm. His day had not gone so well. Rosecrans had arrived fifteen minutes ago to find out from General McCook what he was doing to stabilize his line. What he discovered was just the crowning of a really bad day.
“Old Rosie” was, at this moment, in a frightful state of mind. His grand design for the day had fallen apart even before his left-wing divisions finished crossing Stone’s River at the upper ford to attack Breckenridge. The morning had started like any of the previous mornings, with bitter cold and a quick, brisk walk around the command tents to warm up, but the sounds of cannon fire coming from McCook’s wing on the right were troubling even then. As the light of day dawned a pretty but hazy orange, the portent of evil tidings had come upon the sounds of fighting where it was not meant to be.
Having dispensed with his breakfast and anxious to oversee the advance by Crittenden’s divisions, Rosecrans was early in the saddle and riding toward a prominent hill overlooking the upper ford, which was already crowded with infantry and artillery sloshing across. On the upper slopes, wagons and a hospital dotted the rocky path and wound past a lone house which Rosecrans fancied would be his next night’s rest indoors, inhabitants or no.
“Make plans, Garesche,” Rosecrans had instructed his aide-de-camp. “Make plans to strike our tents and locate in that house there across the river along the bank. I’ll establish my headquarters there for the remainder of this battle.”
“Sir, won’t that put you too far to the army’s left and out of reach of the right wing?” Garesche asked his chief.
“McCook’s orders were plain enough, I see no need to oversee or meddle in his affairs. I want to be close to the action as we crush Bragg on our left. I think that house will do fine for a headquarters,” Rosecrans had replied with a satisfied sigh. Even this general could avail himself of some creature comforts when they presented themselves.
“Sir, I will see to it personally,” Garesche said and turned his mount to leave.
“Also, see what is going on with McCook’s wing. I distinctly heard cannon fire, and I do want to make sure McCook isn’t bringing on a general engagement,” Rosecrans said as an afterthought. He had paused to listen. Sunrise was forty-five minutes ago, and though McCook was to demonstrate in front of the enemy, Rosecrans was decidedly uncomfortable about the level of noise coming from that wing of his army.
“On second thought, Garesche, hold on striking our tents. You may be right about being so far to the left. Do see about McCook.”
Garesche had been gone only fifteen minutes or less when a man on horseback rode excitedly up to Rosecrans with news most unwelcome. Not only was McCook’s wing fighting a general battle when they were meant only to distract, but they were falling back! The enemy was turning his right flank instead of Rosecrans turning the enemy’s.
Even before the courier rode off, the sounds of cannon fire and musketry had reached Rosecrans upon the wind. The sounds were moving closer as more of his army engaged with the enemy.
“Send to General Crittenden, remove all but a single brigade from across the river. Prepare to reinforce General Thomas’s and McCook’s corps,” Rosecrans had dictated and left the hill behind him, all thoughts about sleeping under a roof that night forgotten.
Now, several hours later, Rosecrans just wished the day would end and be done with.
It was now ten a.m. o’clock, and all was despair for the general. Not only was McCook falling back in shambles, with one division after another folding and running, but Thomas’s divisions were also falling back, retreating over the hard-fought ground they had gained the day before.
Rosecrans’s headquarters was to the north of the Nashville pike and several hundred yards behind the railroad embankment that ran parallel to it. It was there that he decided his army would take their last stand. He had men here: the reserves and the brigades detailed to outpost their rear communications along the Nashville, Nolansville, and Lebanon pikes, as well as those artillery batteries detailed to the infantry and not deployed so far forward. There was also the Pioneer Brigade, who were under his direct command, and their artillery. McCook’s and Thomas’s corps were forward and retreating. What was left of them would be of little use in stemming the tide.
Rosecrans found General Thomas observing the movement of Negley’s brigades as they retreated out of the trap. Thomas looked harried but was calmly issuing orders in his thick Virginian drawl.
“General, what are your dispositions?” Rosecrans asked anxiously.
“Sir, Hascall’s brigade is deploying from Crittenden’s command forward of the railroad embankment, but Negley’s division is falling back rapidly upon the Nashville pike. Hazen’s and Grose’s are moving back to the Round Forest after deploying forward this morning as ordered to support the attack on the left. Sheridan’s position is tenuously holding in a stand of cedars four hundred yards to our front—he reports fierce assaults by the enemy in large numbers rolling toward our left. He will not be able to hold long. Negley’s falling back has left his right in the air.”
Staff officers from all of the divisions were attempting to put a halt to the wash of fugitives flowing down the Nashville pike away from the fighting, but so many hundreds of fleeing men and wagons were on the move that all they could do was corral the few within arm’s reach. Further, there were rumors of enemy cavalry already behind their lines, scooping up anyone they could lay hands on.
“Hold this line at all hazards, General. We will not fall back from the Nashville pike today,” General Rosecrans said emphatically.
“Sir.” General Thomas nodded. Thomas didn’t need to be told the importance of the Nashville pike to the future of the whole army. If the enemy gained the pike in force and held it, they could move to cut off the entire army from its base of support in Nashville.
“General.” Rosecrans nodded and tipped his hand to his cap. “Garesche, come; let’s anchor our right and stem this tide of retreat, shall we?”
West along the Nashville pike appeared to be the preferred direction of man, beast, and wagon, their numbers too many to count without embarrassment. If being in high dudgeon alone could have stemmed the tide of fleeing humanity, Rosecrans could have just stood by the road and glowered at each passerby, but the men driving the wagons and the soldiers fleeing would have none of that. Unless someone physically grabbed a man by the collar and wrested him into a formation, he was going to save himself first and foremost.
“Damnit, Garesche!” Rosecrans muttered with every few feet he and his staff took as the enormity of the disaster presented itself in full panorama. “This is McCook’s fault! This is all McCook!” Rosecrans didn’t believe for a moment that his own plans had been ill thought-out or ill prepared, much less that he had misjudged Braxton Bragg’s ability to outfox him. He wasn’t outfoxed; his plan had just been badly executed.
One mile, two miles, how many did they ride down the Nashville pike, only to see formations and formationless soldiers running out of the trees? The battle had been joined in a movement to the right, toward the river, and had fallen heaviest upon the right wing of his army—McCook’s wing.
The significance of the territory was not lost on Rosecrans. A series of small hills and gentle ridgelines ran parallel to the Nashville pike, and behind that, the railroad embankment formed a ready made entrenchment that could defend the pike in a pinch. They would use it. The pike had to be pr
otected.
Sounds of fighting, off into the distance through a thick cedar brake, showed the general that portions of the shattered right wing were still fighting it out, but the center was also falling back. It was with General Thomas that Rosecrans placed his remaining faith. General Thomas would hold.
Rosecrans finally found McCook leaning exhausted against the wheel of an artillery piece. Three hours of mortal combat had passed already, and this was the first word Rosecrans was to hear from his right-wing commander.
“Report, General!” Rosecrans shouted, forgetting his usual decorum in view of others of his staff and soldiers.
McCook looked at his commander and winced slightly. Straightening himself, he replied, “Wing is shattered.”
“General! I order you to give me a proper report!” Rosecrans exploded in a fit of nervous energy, cheeks reddening and eyes blazing.
“Sir, Johnson’s division falling back on extreme right, trying to hold on to the Wilkinson pike. Willich’s and Cruft’s brigades shattered, Willich wounded and captured, loss of three batteries, divisions falling back upon the pike, cavalry in our rear causing havoc. Enemy has gained three miles.” McCook gave his report crisply. “Division’s supply trains captured and hospital at the White House taken, loss of . . .”
“Enough, enough.” Rosecrans held up a hand to halt the litany of bad news.
McCook stood as straight as he could manage, though the stress of the morning was sagging his shoulders more than usual.
“General, command your brigades to slow the enemy and fall back upon the pike. We will defend right here, using the railroad as a bulwark, but they must make a stand wherever they can so as to allow the army to fortify the pike. Understood?” Rosecrans added after a moment’s awkward silence.
“Sir,” McCook replied. It wasn’t as if he had been idle, waiting for some revelation from high command before he would do anything. He had already instructed Johnson and Davis to do just that—fall back upon the pike.
River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4) Page 25