Mother Earth, Bloody Ground: A Novel Of The Civil War And What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy)

by R. E. Thomas

  Forrest let go of French’s horse, said nothing, and stalked away a few steps before jumping up onto a horse borrowed from one of Cockrell’s aides. Ignoring French, he said to Cockrell, “March straight for Triune, fast as your feet will carry you.” Then Forrest rode off again, his horse’s hooves throwing back clods of mud into the attendants who struggled to keep up with him.

  The din of a firefight could be heard even before Forrest and his party had reached the eastern courses of the Harpeth River: sharp cracks and rattles from muskets and breechloaders, punctuated by singular muffled cannon shots. Forrest instantly understood from the noise that Red Jackson had withdrawn to Yancey’s Knob, just ahead on the other side of the Harpeth Valley, and the Yankees were probing him even now.

  “No chance to get the bulge on the blue bastards now,” Forrest muttered to himself. “Have to wait, take what they give us, then give it back to them. Give it back to them with a helping of hellfire.”

  The Nolensville Road ran up and over a low, grassy plateau between two hills of higher elevation. The western hill was the rugged, thickly forested main peak of the knob, while the eastern hill was lower, partly cleared of trees, and crowned by a wide tabletop. Riding up into the gap, Forrest didn’t see Red Jackson about, so he got out his binoculars, toured the line, and sized things up for himself.

  Reviewing the right and center of Red’s line went quickly enough, Forrest riding briskly just behind the rifle pits and low lunettes of the artillery. The horse guns, a mix of six-pounders, twelve-pounder howitzers, and three-inch rifles, were positioned either around the road or up on the tabletop. The Yankees had skirmishers, dismounted troopers, down in the valley, about 200 yards away and behind Nelson’s Creek.

  Inspecting the forested heights of Yancey’s Knob’s peak was another business entirely. The track there was too steep and craggy for horses, so Forrest dismounted and went up with just a few aides. Two regiments of Alabamans from Ferguson’s Brigade held a 350-yard, fishhook-shaped line that rounded the top of the knob. Here they stood behind trees and rocks, returning fire at bluecoats who in some instances had crept up to as close as 50 yards.

  As he walked along behind them, the Alabama troopers hollered, shook their carbines in the air, and waved their hats. Alerted to the presence of a Confederate general, the Union troopers shifted their fire to sniping at him.

  Forrest collapsed his body into a crouch, only to have a bullet take off his hat a second later, which in turn prompted him to roll over to alongside the nearest tree trunk.

  “God damn!” he shouted to the nearest man, a wiry private. “Damn Yankee almost shot me in the belly!”

  The private grinned as he shouldered his carbine. “I saw him. You sit there, sir. I’ll get him for you.” He waited for the Billy to reappear. When he did so, he fired and missed.

  After instructing his aides to hush up the men, so he could move about more safely, Forrest asked, “Trooper, mind telling me your name?”

  “Bill Taylor, sir.”

  “And whereabouts you come from, Private Taylor?”

  Busy pouring powder down his carbine barrel, he replied without looking up. “Montgomery, sir.”

  “Well Private Bill Taylor from Montgomery, may I suggest you squeeze that trigger instead of yanking it like that? I promise you, your shooting will get a mite better for it.”

  Forrest stayed where he was for a time, wishing he had brought more than just a revolver with him. When his aides returned, he told one of them, “Give my compliments to Old Red. Tell him his dispositions are sound, and he is to hold his ground. Be stubborn. Infantry support will be up in an hour or so.”

  “Sorry I never got that bluebelly for you, General!”

  Forrest grinned. “Never you mind, Taylor. I reckon you’ll have more chances, by and by. You take care now, all you fellows, and make sure you hold this ground. Them Yankees come up any closer, you give them six shots with the revolver, then club whoever’s left on the head. Understand?”

  Taylor and a dozen dirty, grinning faces looked back at him, with some saluting and others saying “Will do, General.” Forrest then crept away with his aides, and once out of sight of the firing line, stood up and made his way back down the hill to rejoin the rest of his staff and escorts. That done, he returned to the Harpeth’s bridge, dismounted, and sat down on the railing of the wagon bridge. There he waited, whittling away at a stick with a pocket knife.

  He only had to wait 20 minutes, by which time he had unconsciously carved his stick into a wicked-looking stake, when Cockrell and his followers came hurtling down the road. Forrest sat calmly as the Missourians came to a thunderous halt, hooves clapping loudly against the planks of the bridge deck.

  Forrest raised his voice over the noise. “General Cockrell, you made good time. Good for web feet.”

  Cockrell cocked his head back and laughed. “Haven’t you heard, General Forrest? We’re all in the foot cavalry now. Where do you want us?”

  Forrest looked over his shoulder. “Lieutenant Coy, take General Cockrell here over to that cemetery, the one we found behind the tabletop. Take that track we used to get back here, and not the main road. It’s quicker.”

  Cockrell detailed part of his staff to point the way and collect stragglers and rode off to the staging area. Forrest waited until the head of Cockrell’s jogging column of men appeared down the road before mounting up and joining the Missouri general. Forrest found him standing by a six-foot high monument in the little country cemetery.

  “General Forrest, did you see this?” Forrest shook his head, so Cockrell continued. “This here is the grave of Newton Cannon!”

  Forrest’s face lit up with recognition. “Yep, I remember him. He was the governor hereabouts, when I was a boy. Bitter enemy of Old Hickory, if I recollect. Now, see that notch over yonder?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Form your brigade facing thataway. When I send you word, advance through that notch and attack the enemy, wherever and however you find him. Hit him hard, and keep hitting until you chase the bastards back over Nelson’s Creek.”

  “Yessir!”

  Forrest rode up to the north side of the tabletop hill, where he found Red Jackson and Ross together, a few dozen yards behind some horse guns, which were trading shots with the blue artillery roughly a thousand yards away. One of the four guns on the tabletop had already been smashed by Northern counter-battery fire. Just as the three generals had exchanged salutes, the volume of fire suddenly surged, and a thick belt of dismounted, blue-coated troopers started forward from Nelson’s Creek.

  They advanced as a cloud of skirmishers, drawn up three deep, and came on Indian-rush style. The men in the first line found cover and returned fire with their quick-shooting breechloaders, while the second line sprinted past them to new positions. The third line brought up the rear, always close by, standing fresh and ready with full cartridge boxes. Looking down the line, Forrest could see the cloud was much thicker on his left, storm clouds of blue making for the top of Yancey’s Knob.

  Looking through his binoculars, Forrest declared, “I think that’s Grierson down there. Looks like his whole division, or most of it.”

  “You’re sure?” asked Red.

  Forrest said lazily, “Yeap. I recognize some of them regimental banners down there from Ringgold Mill. And it looks like General Grierson is making a grab for the top.”

  Ross said “I didn’t think they would try it. Yes, it’s the covered approach, what with those woods and all, but it is surely some steep going. Earle and Boyles don’t need firearms to hold that place. Rolling boulders downhill will suffice them plenty.”

  Still watching the blue mass entering the woods for the climb to the top of the knob, Forrest said, “That man ain’t no dummy, and he’s got bull’s balls. Fighting ground is often easier than fighting men, and he knows if he can get up top there, he can stampede us right out of here and into the Harpeth.”

  Red stiffened, touched with alarm. The Harpeth w
asn’t deep here, but it was very wide, and there was just that one little bridge. “I have no reserves, General. Shall I try to draw some back?”

  Forrest spoke slowly, without concern. “No, see off these fellows here first. Then we worry about Grierson’s stab at our left.”

  The Tennessee cavalryman checked his watch, confirming that it was a little past 6:30, and then dispatched an aide to send Cockrell in. As the aide galloped off, the trio of remaining horse guns depressed their muzzles and disgorged a massed volley of double canister onto the slope before them, chopping down dozens of blue troopers and sending the rest tumbling back down to Nelson’s Creek. The advance in the middle was also pushed back by a flood of canister balls and musketry. But then the second line of loosely packed Billies moved through the reeling first, snapping off shots as they went. The third line followed right behind them. The gunners got one more salvo of canister out of their cannon before bullets were dancing among their pieces, felling one crewman after another.

  Then Cockrell’s Brigade entered the fray, emerging from the notch in a double line of battle, like a roundhouse right bearing down on the corner of the Union flank. Focused on the enemy to their front, for a minute Grierson’s troopers were unaware of the presence of the Missourians, and then for another minute only a handful of them were able to bring Cockrell’s onrushing force under fire.

  The Missouri graybacks swiftly closed up to 150 yards, and there they stopped. Not bothering with dressing their ranks, they dropped to the ground or kneeled and blasted the opposing skirmishers with massed, rapid fire from their Henry Rifles.

  Forrest could see Cockrell now, on foot and directing his second line out and farther to the right, to envelope the Yankee flank. Cockrell’s efforts were halted when he was counter-attacked by troops from the third line of blue cavalry. For a time, the Northern troopers stood firm in the face of a crossfire of cannons and muskets from the heights above them and quick-firing repeaters from their flank, shooting back briskly with their breech-loading carbines. After a few minutes, however, the leakage to the rear began, and after several minutes the belt of blue skirmishers slowly, grudgingly fell back behind Nelson’s Creek.

  Turning his attention to the top of Yancey’s Knob, Forrest could see nothing, but could hear how hot the fighting must be from the uproar. The clash going on at the peak was loud enough that Forrest could hear it even above the boom of the cannon firing just yards away.

  “Captain!” Forrest roared above the din. “Dismount the escort and bring all arms. Red! I need your escort too, so send them up quick as you can.”

  Forrest then swung off his saddle, snatched up his musketoon, and sprinted for the track leading up to the top of Yancey’s Knob. Instead of the easy climb of before, Forrest took long strides, ignoring the burning of his legs and lungs just as he paid no mind to how far behind his escort might be. Minutes of hard, up-hill running brought him almost headlong into a mob of Billies, into a place where the gray line had been broken.

  Throwing himself against a tree, Forrest brought his musketoon to his hip, pointed at the nearest clump of bluecoats, and fired a load of buck and ball. He then dropped the stubby musket, drew his revolver, and started firing. Pulling back the hammer with his thumb, he unloaded one shot. At two shots, a bullet struck his tree. Three shots drew more fire toward him. Four shots, and he could see blue troopers moving around on him.

  Pulling back the hammer a fifth time, Forrest heard the clapping of pistol and carbine shots from behind him, punctuated by the thump of a shotgun blast. His escort had arrived. Sagging against the tree and struggling for breath, Forrest waved his personal bodyguard on by as they charged into the mass of Yankees and sent them reeling back down the hill. When Red Jackson’s own personal escort arrived, Forrest sent them on up to the top of the hill. After several minutes, the attack was repelled, and Forrest sent for the regimental commanders.

  Forrest greeted the pair of Alabama colonels with a bear-trap handshake and then jabbed his recovered musketoon down the slope of the knob. “Colonel Earle, Colonel Boyle, get your men ready to charge. We’re not letting those bastards get themselves reorganized. Wait for my call, then we all go down the hill together, hollering like demons. Knock them off their heels, get them scared, and drive them across that there creek at the bottom, you understand me?”

  Infected with the General’s aggression, the colonels yelled back, “Yessir!”, snapped off salutes, and went back to their regiments. Forrest counted down the minutes, then looked to his bugler and mouthed the word “Go.” The bugler tooted the call to charge, up went a peal of shrieking from several hundred voices, and the butternuts surged forward.

  Forrest’s hilltop counterattack went forward only about 50 yards before it collided with a hail of bullets, stopping it instantly. Grierson’s troopers had pulled back just out of sight, and with plenty of fight left in them, they rammed home a ragged, but still devastating volley of carbine fire at their enemies. The Alabamans and escort troopers slowly worked their way back up the hill to safety, helping those wounded who could be easily moved along with them.

  Scowling, Forrest kicked a rock downhill. He wanted a complete victory, and that meant chasing the Yankees off like whipped dogs, tales tucked in between their legs and mewling all the way back to the Nashville works. But he wasn’t going to get it, he knew it, and he didn’t like it.

  Looking up, he could see the hue of the evening sun and knew the sun was setting. Soon it would be dark. He also realized if most or all of Grierson’s Division was here, it meant that Grierson hadn’t gotten through those hills to the east, and that was their only way of getting in front of or in the middle of Polk’s column tomorrow.

  So, Forrest thought, I have kept the army safe and I have given Grierson a kick or two, but I ain’t licked him. And he needs a licking. That Minty fellow too, lest them two get airs about themselves. But not tonight, no, not tonight.

  10:30 P.M.

  Rutherford County Courthouse

  Headquarters in the Field, Military Division of the Mississippi, USA

  Murfreesboro, Tennessee

  Sherman paced on the lawn outside the courthouse, hands clasped behind his back and energetically puffing down the cigar clamped between his teeth, as was his habit. He knew that Grierson had been in a fight today near Triune and was lustily anticipating his report, so much so that he couldn’t bring himself to focus on anything else.

  He looked up at the sound of approaching horses, half-expecting to be disappointed again. “Finally!” he said loudly, relaxing ever so slightly at the sight of McPherson and Grierson riding out of the dark towards him.

  Sherman bellowed, “Good evening Mac, Ben. Have you eaten yet?”

  Dismounting, the two men came forward. McPherson nodded that he had, while Grierson said “No, Bill, I have not yet had the chance.”

  While shaking Grierson’s hand, Sherman called out to an aide, “Rustle up a meal for General Grierson here.”

  He regarded the man for a moment, who looked tired and soiled from many road miles in the saddle. Ben Grierson, Illinois music teacher and band leader turned hard-riding horse soldier. Sherman grinned widely at the pluck of it.

  “Well, come on in, and tell me about running into that devil today.”

  The trio retired into the courthouse and into a chamber that Sherman was using for his office tonight. Closing the door behind them, McPherson said, “Bill, I’m surprised you didn’t move into Fortress Rosecrans. It would be more secure.”

  Sherman stubbed out his cigar butt in a half-filled marble ashtray. “You’re right about that, but it’s too busy. Van Cleve is getting that place back in order. My couriers and business would get tangled up in all that. Now, Ben, what do you have to tell us?”

  “My prisoners say I met with W.H. Jackson’s whole division today. We got ambushed south of Nolensville, chased that pack of Rebels down to and out of Triune. Since I wanted to get by them for a look around farther south, I attacked them in a po
sition south of that place. We didn’t get by them, but I can tell you that Polk’s Corps must have been about Eagleville and Riggs Crossroads this afternoon. They brought up infantry support, and I guarantee you Cockrell’s Brigade was a part of it. We know from Stewart’s Creek that Cockrell’s Missouri secessh are armed with captured Henrys, and that’s what counter-attacked us at Triune. A thousand screaming sons of bitches armed with Henrys.”

  Grierson shook his head before concluding. “My estimate is I was fighting five brigades, three of cavalry and two of infantry. We ended the day with a stalemate, which seeing as how my boys were low on ammunition, was the best I could hope for.”

  Pointing to the map that was pinned up on the wall, McPherson said, “So, if Polk’s Corps is here, then it’s a good guess the rest is bypassing Shelbyville, since Minty didn’t report anything in that direction. That would put them around … Unionville, Gideonville.”

  Grierson murmured, “Are they crossing the Duck River, do you think?”

  Sherman shook his head. “My guess is they are making for around Columbia, either above or below the Duck. Not that it matters to me! I’ve got him! Yes, I’ve got him! I am out of that corral, in open country, and now I’ve got Stonewall Jackson, dead and buried!” He slapped his hand down on the desk for emphasis, striking so hard he toppled an ink well.

  With a quizzical eyebrow raised, McPherson said, “I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Bill.”

  “Look here. When we were in Nashville, we didn’t have any room to maneuver. We also had to advance with only an insufficient wagon train to supply us. Insufficient and vulnerable.”

  McPherson replied slowly. “Yes. I know all that.”

  “Now we’re astride the Nashville and Chattanooga. And as we move west, we hop over to the Nashville and Decatur. By moving west and south from here, our supply line is more secure, and we can sustain an advance. I want you to swing around to the south, get around Jackson’s flank, drive deep into his rear, and cut him off from his base down in Alabama.”