by R. E. Thomas
Sherman considered that. If Logan said the Rebels were weak on the left, they likely were. What was more, it tallied. Their defensive line was very long. They couldn’t possibly extend it all the way down Stewart’s Creek to Stones River in strength.
But, Sherman thought, we’ve already been through this. If we break through on the left, all we accomplish is pushing the Rebels out of Murfreesboro, a fruitless victory. They will have an open door to escape to the south, where they can find better ground for defense and destroy more track. If we succeed here, on the right, we can push the enemy back on those mountains or the river, pinning them and breaking them up. In any case, we’re already committed, and I refuse to risk Smyrna. I’ll be damned if that devil Forrest gets even the slightest chance of sneaking into the henhouse, wrecking my rolling stock and depot.
He noticed both Smith and McPherson were waiting for him. “No, Mac. We aren’t changing horses in the middle of the race. Tell Logan to keep on as he is. Hooker will go in shortly with both Butterfield and Geary. Williams, Sweeny, and Mower will support. Kilby Smith will stand in reserve to exploit our success or work around the flank, as needs be. Understood?”
4:00 P.M.
Polk’s Corps, CSA
Hell’s Hillock
The Confederate Left
After he had wrestled with his uncertainty for a time, Polk had finally summoned General French for his counsel. Not as a means of making a decision, but to further postpone one. Hidden away in his schoolhouse, he had not learned that Maney’s Division had marched to the front until French came in and told him. That finally forced Polk’s hand.
Arriving behind Hell’s Hillock, Polk found Maney in the remains of what had been Stewart’s headquarters, busily issuing orders. Seeing the thick-bearded Tennessean, Polk’s lips curled and trembled with rage. Then he recalled his reaction when French told him of what Maney had done and dismay capped his anger, for he had exploded into a rare public temper tantrum. Polk turned slightly queasy at the memory of how he hurled his silver inkwell through the window, how he turned over his desk, how he drop-kicked his chair across the room, with General French and the senior members of his staff all looking on.
Polk shook with ill displeasure. How unseemly, he thought. George Maney would pay for that, oh how he would pay. But not today. Later, when my unpleasantness is no longer such a fresh and lively memory.
With all the congeniality he could muster, Polk said, “General Maney, please report.”
Maney saluted. “General Polk, you are just in time. I’m tied into the left of Stewart’s Corps, so we have a continuous line now. But my own left is in the air, just a few hundred yards yonder.” Maney gestured to the south, then continued. “The Federals are reinforced. I’ll be under attack shortly.”
“Cantey’s Brigade is coming up right behind me, and General French is bringing up the rest of his division. I will ride back and tell Cantey to form on your left, lengthening your line.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Cantey’s soldiers filed through the woods and into place on the left of Scott’s Brigade, General Scott having recovered from the foot wound received at Lawrenceburg. They arrived just as the bombardment of Hell’s Hillock began. Dozens of cannon, placed on rises to the east, southeast, and south, fired as fast as they could be loaded and aimed for 30 straight minutes, a crossfire that burned through over two thousand solids, exploding shells, and rounds of case shot. The downpour of iron nearly tore the top off the hill and decimated Maney’s artillery. Then the guns quieted, and the Billies went forward.
Williams’s Division attacked in support, moving on Clayton’s position. Butterfield sent his men back across the open field between the wooded ridge and Hell’s Hillock, the weeds and tall grass now thoroughly trampled, the ground still littered with the dead from the first attack. They stood in with Lowry’s and Quarles’ butternuts, two lines of musket-armed men proficiently loading, firing, and killing at a range of less than 100 yards.
Geary attacked the left flank, sending Candy’s Ohioans and Pennsylvanians against Scott’s Alabamans, and Buschbeck’s New Jersey, New York, and Pennsylvania men against Cantey’s Alabama and Mississippi boys. The Johnnies enjoyed the advantage of being able to fight on the edge of the woods that flowed down from the mountains of Burnt Knob to behind Hell’s Hillock and out onto the plain, while Geary’s Yankees had to stand and shoot in the open. While Candy and Buschbeck pinned the graybacks from the front and suffered a withering fire, Ireland’s Brigade crept through the dense woods from the south, feeling their way forward for the Confederate flank.
Ireland’s flank attack landed on Cantey like a splitting maul, driving in the flank guards before landing on the main line only minutes later. With no chance to refuse, Cantey’s line melted under the pressure of Ireland’s steady, organized fire-and-advance attack. Cantey himself was wounded in the hand while attempting to rally his men and refuse his line, losing his sword but escaping capture.
Sitting well behind his firing line, Geary saw Cantey’s Brigade come unraveled. A giant, bearish man with a bristly carpet of a beard, Geary put his spurs to his horse and galloped up behind his troops. “Charge!” he cried. “They won’t stand! Charge! Charge!” Candy’s and Buschbeck’s bluecoats swelled forward, crashing into Scott’s line and sweeping away whatever semblance of resistance was left in Cantey’s.
Despite being outflanked, Scott’s graybacks stood their ground and began a brutal and barbarous contest, one of officers slashing with swords and firing or hammering with pistols, while the rankers stabbed with their bayonets, clubbed with their musket butts, and in some instances resorted to their fists, rocks, and even teeth. The bulk of Geary’s Division broke around Scott’s flank and rear, leaving him behind and surging up the south flank of Hell’s Hillock. There they were met by Featherston’s Brigade, coming over the crest and into the wreckage of broken gun limbers and caissons.
Dismounted, Featherston walked slowly behind his ordered ranks of Mississippi Stumpjumpers, as shells screamed overhead and cannonballs plowed through their ranks. He called out in clear, stentorian tones “Ready! Aim! Fire!”
The deluge of musket balls brought the disorganized blue surge stumbling to a halt on the foot of the hill. As the Confederates at the top of the hillock fired at will, the Northern field officers struggled to restore their lines to order. Their efforts were only partially successful, and the blue rankers shrank back into the cover of the woods.
Ignoring the artillery pelting the hilltop, Maney galloped over the crest and up to Featherston. “Good work, General! Good work. Now fix bayonets and drive those Northon scoundrels back.”
Exultant, Featherston momentarily forgot his ire at being superseded by Maney. He was also anxious to get his brigade out of its exposed position. “Yessir! My boys will drive those Yankee Dutchmen clear back to Nashville.”
Maney nodded. “Good. Restore the line. That done, do not pursue. I’m heading into those woods, to help Cantey rally his men.”
Cries of “Fix bayonets!” rose up and down the line, Featherston motioned to his bugler, and the call to “Charge!” was sounded. His graybacks rushed down the slope with piercing whoops and howls, intent on blue bloody murder, but they struck empty air. Faced with the serried mass of sharp, pointy and onrushing steel, the Yankees instinctively pulled back into the woods. There Geary’s men took up positions amid the trees and brush, and stood their ground. They met Featherston’s advance with a stand-up musket fight at an appallingly close range.
With Ireland having halted Featherston’s counter-attack, Geary shifted his efforts to dislodging Scott, ripping into the Alabamans on front and flank. Scott’s Brigade wilted under the pressure, men streaming back through the woods and onto Hell’s Hillock, where the buzzing swarm of bullets flying over the heads of Maney’s main, westward-facing line drove them back down off the hill and into the relative shelter woods. There they churned as a mass of nervous and frightened men, unable to find anywhere
truly safe to skedaddle to.
Colonel Ireland kept a watchful eye on his right flank, which stood in the air. When his flankers came running in reporting a new Confederate brigade moving up, he was prepared and smoothly shook out the pair of fresh regiments he had held back, placing them perpendicular to his main firing line. Behind the foot of his L-shaped position, Ireland watched as several hundred Rebels, about the same number of men now covering his refused flank, became visible through the trees and underbrush at about 40 yards distance.
The new arrivals came under fire within seconds of coming into view, but none of that bothered their leader, Francis Cockrell. As balls whizzed overhead and landed with wet thunks among his men, he called out the simple firing orders as he withdrew his pocket watch.
Time to see if this works, he thought to himself before shouting, “Ready! Aim! Fire at will!”
The several hundred men of Cockrell’s Brigade, standing shoulder to shoulder in two ranks with leveled Henry Rifles, began firing. Each man aimed, pulled the trigger, worked the lever, and aimed again, over and over as Cockrell monitored his watch, watching the seconds tick by as a cascade of lead fell onto Ireland’s flank. When 60 seconds had passed, and the volume of fire had noticeably slackened, Cockrell yelled, “Charge!”
The Missourians ran forward at the bugle’s sounding, screaming themselves hoarse and they rushed through the pea soup of powder smoke created by the firing of 11,000 cartridges in just one minute. Hearing the Rebel yells, Featherston’s Mississippians joined in, and Ireland’s lacerated brigade panicked and bolted from the woods. Within a matter of minutes, Geary’s entire division had been forced back in disarray.
With Geary no longer pressing hard on their right, Butterfield’s attack petered out. The infantry of the XX Corps retired back out of musket range, to the cover afforded by woods and low ridges. There they tended to their wounded, caught their breaths and sipped from their canteens, and waited for whatever was to come next.
5:45 P.M.
Headquarters in the Field, Army of Tennessee, CSA
Hell’s Hillock
The Confederate Left
Riding through the woods and skirting the foot of Burnt Knob, Jackson and Stewart reached the soiled tents that had once served as Stewart’s own headquarters, a single-file line of staffers following behind them. Even before arriving there, they were greeted by the scent of churned mud, copper, and, just faintly, the stink of feces. The place had become a kind of forward aid station.
The two generals cantered in behind the medical camp, where they were ignored by the stretcher bearers and orderlies, all busy loading those too badly injured to walk onto ambulances. It took care, as the grass was slick from the light rain shower. Those who could walk were another story, and a small group of such men called out, “Stonewall! Old Straight!”
Jackson, still feeling disoriented and not quite himself, forced a smile. He asked the closest of the group, a man who had his arm in a blood-stained sling, “Where were you hit, son?”
“On the other side of that there knoll, sir. I’m from Quarles’s Brigade. Damn Yankees brought down artillery on us like I never did see. All hell and iron and fire. One of them God damned shells burst right over our heads. Got me an arm full of splinters to show for it.” The Southron brightened. “I reckon I’m lucky, though. All them splinters, surgeon says I ain’t got even a one that broke a bone or cut a bleeder.”
Jackson nodded weakly. “Good, good. Indeed, Providence has been kind to you. But may I make a suggestion, soldier?”
“Yessir?”
“Mind your profanity. Most especially taking the Lord’s name in vain. Providence may not be as kind again.”
The soldier sheepishly replied, “Yes, sir.”
Jackson and Stewart motioned for their staff to remain where they were and rode slowly through the camp. Wounded were still trickling in, carried or helped back from the front. Some sobbed and some screamed, while others were doing their best to wait their turn in silence. Still others were had the quiet of the dying, and sometimes there a dead man lay among living, only recently departed and noticed only by his neighbors. Amid this grisly setting, they found General Scott, under a tarp and lying on a cot, and sitting next to him on a cracker box was General Cantey, his shoulder and hand wrapped in reddened bandages.
Scott saw them first. Propping himself up, he said, “General Jackson, General Stewart. Sirs. I fear I have been wounded. And in the foot again! Can you believe that? At least I was struck my left one this time, and it is not the same foot!”
Stewart asked, “Are you badly injured?”
Scott shrugged, feigning nonchalance despite being clearly pained. “I’m afraid I’ll lose the foot this time. The surgeon says the ball smashed two bones in the middle. There is nothing to be done.”
Stewart nodded slowly, and whispered, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Jackson asked Cantey, “And you, sir? I recall your gallantry at Winchester and Cross Keyes, and I hope you are not lost to the service for long.”
Cantey beamed, pleased that Jackson recollected him from the Valley Campaign. “No, no, I do not think I shall be. I was hit by shrapnel in the shoulder, but my arm still works. My hand too. I can wait to have the iron pulled out, so I told the surgeons to attend to other men first.”
Jackson and Stewart then inquired for details of the recent fighting, and after listening to the two brigadiers for a few minutes, wished them well and left for the hillock. Dismounting just behind the rise, they walked over the crest and into a scene that, if only moderately less gory than the campsite behind them, was much more macabre. Once over the top, they were surrounded by the bodies of smashed and shredded horses and men, broken limbers and caissons, and dismounted cannon. The ground was largely torn up clay, bare with but a few splotches of green coming from bits of sod that lay blown off and loose.
They had only been studying the Federal positions across the way for a minute when a horse and rider came thundering up. “What do you two think you are doing?!?” Sandie shouted at the generals. “Pardon my saying so, sirs, but you must be mad or fools or maddened fools! Look around you. I demand you both withdraw from this awful place at once!”
As the last word left Sandie’s tongue, a cannonball whipped through the air not ten feet to their right. Stewart had been about to laugh, but instantly became more serious. “Pendleton is right, Tom. They’ve seen us. We’d best get back down.”
Jackson nodded wordlessly and followed the other two off the crest. Once there, they saw the guidons gathered a short distance from the tents, indicating Polk, French, and Maney had come. Rather than get back up onto horseback, Jackson and Stewart walked over to them.
If they had been expecting a council of war, Jackson disabused them at once. Looking up to Polk, he said, “General Polk, prepare to renew the attack. Your corps will advance upon the enemy and drive them back, with Clayton’s Division attacking on your right in support. We have not more than three hours of light left, so we must move quickly. Start with the far left, and proceed en echelon.”
“General Jackson,” Polk protested, almost sputtering. “I fear Maney’s command has suffered very badly in the recent fight and shot off nearly all their ammunition besides. They are in no condition to attack.”
Jackson looked to Maney, who frowned. “I’m afraid General Polk is correct, sir. I don’t think my boys have much more than about five rounds a man right about now, and I won’t be surprised if the reports later tonight come back saying I’ve lost a quarter of my men.”
“And,” Polk added, “observers atop Burnt Knob say the Federals have several thousand men massed in reserve. One or two divisions, fresh divisions.”
Jackson felt himself getting stronger, his blood rising. “Nevertheless, you shall attack.”
Polk was about to protest further when Captain Quintard thundered up. “General Jackson, General Jackson! The Yankees are withdrawing on the left, sir.”
Jackson spun about.
“What did you say?”
“They are pulling back! That is what came over the wig-wags. I went up for a look myself, and it’s true. They are retiring due west.”
Now Stewart and Jackson mounted, and they rode with the others to the top of the little hill. As they made their way up the slope, the drizzle swiftly grew into a deluge. When they all arrived at the bald, shell-ravaged top of Hell’s Hillock, what had been damp earth had become a bog.
The dense sheets of rain obscured much, but blue columns could still be seen marching away.
“Good heavens” Polk murmured. “The boys can’t fight in this. Their cartridge boxes will be soaked as soon as they pull back the lids.”
“They will likely stop at the mountains over there,” Stewart said, pointing to Scales and Indian Mountains. “I would. Tie my flank into there.”
Inwardly, Stewart felt relieved. Before, when he was alone with Jackson, he had opposed renewing the offensive, and for much the same reason Polk did. He could see that such an attack might drive the Yankee line back, but only until those fresh reserves were put in. When that happened, Stewart was certain the attack would be stopped cold and perhaps even reversed.
Inside, Jackson felt a squirm, as if it shouldn’t matter that the troops had been in a fight or that the powder would be wet, since that would apply to the enemy as well. But it was only a squirm, for mostly he felt tired, unsteady, and heart-worn.
Jackson sighed. “Very well. We will advance, but only to straighten our front and put it on more defensible ground. No attack.” Jackson, Stewart, and Polk spent several minutes working out where to establish that new line, and that done, the generals returned to their commands.
8:00 P.M.
41st Tennessee Infantry, CSA
Stewart’s Creek