Their mounts were tired and hungry, the last of their feed already consumed the day before. A charge across the field would probably be on the horses’ last ounce of strength.
Despite the fire of the cannon on the ridge, the enemy in their front did not seem to suffer much punishment. On the other hand, fire from the gathered batteries along the Nashville pike, unloading into the approaching Confederates, was doing damage. It was this sweeping fire that had forced their infantry back before, and it would most likely do so once again. Before the horsemen lay death.
The infantry to their right stepped off, two brigades moving with colors leading the way: two ranks in close order with muskets at order arms, tired limbs clinging to fouled weapons that had been in action since it was light enough to find a target to shoot at. The cavalry troops let the infantry move forward, keeping their place.
Will watched. Incoming fire from numerous enemy batteries sought the range of the advancing lines, churning up the field in furrows that sprayed earth about indiscriminately, some rounds cutting across the field laterally and others coming from the front and aiming to explode above the marching infantry. There were too many cannon reports and puffs of smoke to keep track of how many guns opposed their advance, but it was enough to give anyone pause before taking another step. The infantry continued to move forward.
They would wait, Will thought, wait until the infantry closed up close enough to the enemy before giving the order to move forward. They would be called in to mop up, to sweep down on the open flank or move to threaten it as the coup de grâce—the final moment when the enemy would either buck up or be crushed in one mad rush.
The troop sat their mounts silently, their tired eyes looking straight ahead in worried concentration. The horses too, as if they could sense what lay before them in the realm of possibility, stood like statues with little fidgeting. Trained to respond to the will of the humans on their backs, the horseflesh were still willful creatures who often sought their own ideas about living. With death flying before them in the fields crowded with infantry, a tacit understanding passed between cavalryman and beast about how long each might remain whole.
Cleburne’s brigades made a halt, and the contest between infantry ensued at a range of three hundred yards. No amount of willing or prayer was going to prevent the two regiments from leaping forward to the charge. The moments were maddening. Death was not to be satiated yet.
Will wanted the infantry to just up and charge forward, to use their own force of will and momentum to squash the enemy amidst the trees and spare the cavalry the need to expose the troopers to the carnage happening in their front. Speed meant nothing. It was true that the individual trooper could quit or attain the field faster than an infantryman and would carry more psychological force bearing down upon hapless infantry, but the walls of lead spewing out from hundreds of muzzles offered the troopers no less a fate than their unmounted fellows. Will looked for Allen, for some hint as to if and when they would be ordered forward.
The bugle call sounded, and Will tensed. It was the order to move forward at a trot, equivalent to the infantry order to march at the quick step or common time. Four hundred horseman advanced, moving behind the brigades of infantry, screened by Cleburne’s soldiers and marching at a right oblique so as to extend the flank of the attack and hopefully find that the enemy’s flank was well short.
Moving in four long columns, with each regiment broken into two battalions and stacked one behind the other, they filled the open spaces of the field with movement and for dangerous moments offered a solid line of targets for the enemy artillery, far off to the right, to ring fire upon. The 1st and 51st Alabama cavalrymen guided their mounts and tried to ignore the whistle of solid shot that sought to keep up with their movements. Shrieks from stricken horses filled Will’s ears as solid shot tore off hindquarters and bowled through legs and horsemen, leaving behind gruesome mangles of animal and man.
As each battalion cleared the rear of the infantry and swung around to the front, Colonel Allen ordered the double-quick time, and the horsemen spurred forward. The field came alive with the screech of artillery rounds and the whipping of small-arms fire sailing past. More riders went down as a volley erupted from the trees and the call to charge sounded.
Pounding hooves, the clanking of equipment, and the rush of fire engulfed Will as he guided his mount to stay within the confines of the formation. Sabers were drawn and thrust forward, Will’s hanging above his horse’s head as it bobbed up and down in the near gallop.
Allen aimed to bring the battalions of his 1st Alabama into the trees and the open flank of the enemy confronting Cleburne’s division, if indeed the trees were empty and this was the flank. Smoke was pouring forth from the trees a little to the right of where the cavalry was charging, their direction chosen more to get out of the line of fire than to charge into waiting muzzles.
Allen and two others were in the lead, centered on the lead battalion, when he ordered the quick time, and Will looked wildly about to see what the matter was. Confused looks from the men to either side of him added to his consternation. They’d had every expectation that the command would barrel into the trees and then, having cleared the killing field, would reform, determine where the flank of the enemy was, and deal destruction to it. But Allen was halting them shy of the goal and still in the open.
With difficulty, the front ranks slowed the pace until a full halt was called, the bugler sounding the bright tones of the call. Cleburne’s brigades were advancing at a run and into the trees, the enemy scattering. Now was the time to be charging, Will thought, and realized he’d said it aloud.
The trouble came in the form of more horsemen. The wrong kind.
“Damn!” Will muttered as Allen’s actions became clear.
From the direction of Overall’s Creek, off to the left of where the charge was being made and further removed from the enemy’s line, came several formations of cavalry in blue. The 1st and 51st Alabama were guiding for a large hole in the Union rear, one uncovered by Wharton’s forays into the enemy rear and exasperated by the constant retreating of the Union right flank toward the river. A break in the cedars revealed a small force and a two-gun battery of Wharton’s command facing off against several hundred Yankee troopers.
This was more like it, Will thought. Clashing with the enemy cavalry was far less dangerous than running into his infantry.
Allen changed the front of the 1st Alabama to face toward the left and brought both battalions to the new direction. Relief was evident on the faces of Will’s troopers—some were even smiling.
“Ready, boys!” Will shouted, his usual unbridled enthusiasm finally shining through. “Get ready fer a whoop an’ swoop!”
Then Will recognized a familiar guidon fluttering in front of one of the Yankee cavalry regiments—the 4th Michigan again. Perhaps Allen will have to be rescued from their clutches a second time!
Will smiled to himself and waited for Allen to give the order to advance. Yes, wouldn’t that settle Allen’s hash? He broadened his smile, impatient now to pitch into the Yankees.
Chapter 17
Turkey Shoot
Captain Mix of the 4th Michigan wasn’t smiling, at least not at the moment. The order to dismount and form a skirmish line seemed premature: the enemy was all but cleared away, and a precipitate order to advance by General Stanley would allow them to sweep down upon the rear of the Confederates, Overall’s Creek also having been secured. Instead of consolidating, Stanley was telegraphing his intention to advance. Mix got his troopers out of the saddles and on the ground in time to note the arrival of enemy horse advancing in several lines.
“Lieutenant Shepard, keep a tight eye on the 1st Middle Tennessee behind us. Make sure they are keeping up,” Mix addressed his subaltern.
The 1st Middle Tennessee Cavalry had been unreliable from their inception. They’d broken and run once before, but even so they were able-bodied Tennessee Unionists with arms. Mix didn’t have a probl
em with them in uniform, but Stanley’s dispositions would put Mix’s men in a spot of trouble if the 1st Middle should decide to go on another steeple chase.
The command had already driven off one brigade of the enemy cavalry, threatening the supply trains and releasing a number of their own infantry and artillery pieces from captivity before the enemy could haul them off. From what Mix could see, Stanley was taking a chance by pushing forward instead of securing the flank of the army.
Stanley kept the 7th Pennsylvania mounted on Mix’s right and the 15th Pennsylvania and 3rd Kentucky mounted in their rear. The formations gave the impression of power, but Stanley’s command was a hodgepodge of companies and battalions from each regiment, with troops peeled off here and there to protect the rear areas and escort important supply trains. They were no force to go rampaging in the enemy rear.
Mix got his troopers moving forward and pushed into a ring of cedars where the enemy had previously been driven out, leaving behind several wounded and numerous dead horses. Mix had just got his men through the trees when the enemy cavalry came sweeping across the field in his front. If this was the same force they had engaged earlier and pushed out, they rallied quickly. If not, the enemy had a lot more cavalry on this part of the field than General Stanley knew about.
“Hold the men here!” Mix shouted to Shepard. He jogged the fifty yards to where the 1st Middle Tennessee halted and had taken a knee.
“Captain Couch, enemy cavalry is forming in the field beyond these trees and moving our way. I’m going to fall back to this position here. Will you hold?” Mix felt a little embarrassed to sound as though he were questioning this officer’s courage or orders, but he wasn’t going to take chances and be caught in the open.
“How many?” Couch asked, unconcerned.
“Enough to make our day hot,” Mix replied, perturbed that the man wasn’t taking this more seriously.
“Captain, we will hold here,” the man replied easily.
You’d better, Mix thought to himself as he jogged back to his command. Reaching the edge of the trees, he could see the enemy finalizing his dispositions. Mix occupied a string of trees that extended several hundred yards to the right and left an opening between two fields the size of a large parade ground, easily exposing Stanley’s position to direct assault with little ability to take cover. Behind them, another cedar brake held the mounted 7th Pennsylvania, but they were partially masked by the trees and Mix’s own position. Though they anchored Stanley’s right flank, they were practically useless in the trees for a mounted attack. Only the 3rd Kentucky and 15th Pennsylvania comrades formed the left flank of the position in the open.
It occurred to Mix that the weak point was himself, dismounted in the center with the unreliable 1st Middle in his rear.
“Give them a volley and prepare to fall back on the 1st Middle,” Captain Mix ordered. The Confederates were advancing boldly, and why not? He estimated they outnumbered Stanley by two to one. They were not throwing out skirmishers: every man was in the saddle and about to press in on his men full force. Mix’s mounts and every third man were holding reins several hundred yards in the rear, as well as the mounts of the 1st Middle Tennessee. Did Stanley even know another brigade of the enemy was about to fall upon him?
Mix looked to his rear: the cedars grew thickly for ten yards, the ground so overgrown that it was only with difficulty that they had picked their way forward. This might have been a strong position to defend against infantry, but cavalry would just swing around the trees and cut down anyone who tried to flee. The trees didn’t offer much of an obstacle if they could be bypassed.
Captain Mix was still feeling the high from his encounter at the Stewart’s Creek bridge a few days before, and his name had made it into General Zham’s report of the daily activity of the cavalry arm, along with the story of how Mix’s quick actions had saved the bridge from destruction. General Stanley had given Mix the news himself, and his command had been equally feted for the exploit. The roles were reversed now: he was in the vulnerable position, and the enemy was about to charge hard upon him.
Mix waited for the front line of the enemy to close up before ordering his troopers to open fire. Nothing happened as they fired. No bodies tumbling from saddles, no stopping of the enemy advance against them. The enemy continued to advance at a slow cadence, not a hurried or frenzied charge but a purposeful movement that made Mix’s heart race.
“Give them another volley, fall back by twos!” Mix shouted to his troop commanders.
Mix’s 4th Michigan was just a battalion of four troops. He had been in command since the movement forward from Nashville and was beginning to fancy himself a regimental commander. In effect, he was. Yet, that effect could also make him scapegoat if he let his battalion get gobbled up or panicked.
With the first volley the enemy picked up his pace, and the easy quick-time march forward became a trot.
The difference between a courageous act and one that becomes infamous may be but a millisecond. Captain Mix had two choices before him. Stay or fall back. Either of the two might be acceptable to the overall goals of General Stanley, but Mix had to divine that for himself.
Another volley from his companies rolled toward the approaching enemy, and finally a few saddles were emptied.
“Fall back, fall back by twos!” Mix shouted. “Reload, reload!”
Every other man peeled off and ran, troop officers in the lead. “Move, move!” Mix encouraged the actions of those left behind, who were becoming nervous. The Confederates picked up their pace to cover the remaining one hundred yards at a near gallop.
“Fire!” Mix shouted, and a ragged, ineffectual volley flew over the heads of the onrushing cavalry. “Fall back, fall back!”
The race was on as the last of the 4th Michigan burst from their cover and into the open. The rest of the battalion had formed next to the 1st Middle.
Hold, you skulkers, hold, Mix thought as he looked over the Tennesseans.
As Mix pulled up to a halt behind his men and the other troopers took their place in a close order line, forming by troop in two lines with the front rank kneeling, the Confederates swung around the trees Mix had just quitted and made a rush not for the 4th Michigan or the 1st Middle Tennessee or even the 7th Pennsylvania, but for the 15th Pennsylvania. The avenue of advance open to the Confederates had them headed straight for the right flank of Stanley’s troopers, and not where they had the most strength on the left.
The 15th Pennsylvania, along with the 3rd Kentucky, were still mounted, but apparently—at least to Mix’s eye—they had been asleep. As Mix watched, the enemy made a charge upon the 15th with two lines of mounted men. A third and fourth line came around the trees and halted to survey the prospects.
“Give ’em the saber, boys!” Mix shouted at the 15th. “Give ’em the saber, 15th!” He just assumed that Colonel Rosengarten would order a spoiling charge or that Stanley would have both the 15th and 3rd Kentucky charge into the Confederates to stall their progress, disorganize their ranks, and give the rest of the command time to reposition and Mix to get his battalion to horse. A further cheer was on his lips, rising in his throat and ready to spill out as he raised his hat to give the Pennsylvanians a hearty hurrah when they finally moved.
Instead, a collective gasp of disbelief escaped the mouths of several hundred troopers. Mix kept his hand raised, hat held aloft, with the cheer still stuck in his throat. Even the 1st Middle Tennessee was taken aback. The shock would have two outcomes. The first to waken everyone to the possibilities of random chance. The second to drive home to them that now they were in a fix. Rather than charge, the 15th Pennsylvania melted away in unceremonious flight.
It started when Rosengarten was unhorsed by a pistol shot. Seeing their colonel flop to the ground was enough to start the troops racing to the rear faster than the Confederates could keep up, but they didn’t need to give chase anyway: there were plenty of vulnerable blue-bellies to have at. The next regiment in line, the 3rd Ken
tucky, was next to go. With the enemy on their flank and gaining in their rear, Colonel Murray ordered a retreat after giving a halfhearted volley into the front ranks of the third and fourth lines of Confederate cavalry moving to exploit the breach.
Not waiting for General Stanley to give the order, Mix decided it was time for his men to find their mounts.
“Mount up, mount up!” Mix shouted. Even as he gave the order, the 7th Pennsylvania in the trees on their left were already moving out and to the rear, leaving only the 4th Michigan and the 1st Middle Tennessee on the field. Already several Confederates were trying to bowl their way down the line to scoop up as many dismounted troopers as they could lay hands on.
Mix, in a moment of supreme lack of decorum, fled wildly away as fast as his riding boots could carry him across the uneven field. The horse pickets were coming at them as troopers tried to get four horses moving at the same gait and all at once, no mean feat. Every trooper had his mount and no other mount would do, and finding that mount in a hurry when all was a jumble cost individual troopers moments as they fought their way through their fellows to get to their horses. The fastest were mounting and whipping their horses madly to join in the races. The only positive, to Mix’s mind, was that the enemy was too busy giving chase to be accurate with his fire. Rounds sailed overhead or plunked into the ground, and no one had gone down as far as he noted.
River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4) Page 28