by R. E. Thomas
The guns quieted, the bugles sounded, and Nathan, Captain Bell, and First Sergeant Halpern all jumped up at the same time, followed by the rest of the company. They formed up swiftly, with Bell and Halpern inspecting the company line as Tillman and the Sergeant Major inspected the line of the entire regiment. Just out in front of them all stood Brigadier General Francis Walker, sword on his shoulder and closely observing his brigade.
“Hurry up! Straighten up!” Walker pointed a finger at the 50th Tennessee, forming up next to the 41st. Half a minute later, he hollered, “Fix bayonets!”
Nathan smirked as he slid his bayonet socket over the muzzle of his rifle. Walker was a good man, as good as Maney had been, and they were lucky to have him.
The smile fell from Nathan’s lips as he heard the bugle call to advance, replaced by a tight frown. He had expected a brief speech from Old Frank before they set out. Instead, Walker called out, “For our sweet home, Mother Earth! Forward! March!” and they all stepped off together.
The brigade shouted back as they trod forward in a neat formation, muskets at the shoulder. Nathan picked up the battle cry a quarter beat behind. “Mother Earth! Mother Earth! Mother Earth!”
A shell burst harmlessly, far overhead, fired by guns from the higher ground across the creek, so far away they couldn’t be seen except for the puffs of smoke. That shell was followed by another landing behind. Less than a half-minute later, a third bomb exploded in right over and behind another company, felling a pair of men with splinters. Then they were safe from the Northern artillery, down on the plain and out of sight. That was when the bluecoats stood up from behind their ruined wall, leveled their muskets, and fashioned a new wall with the hammers of their musket locks, one made of flame, acrid smoke, and bits of lead.
Standing to Nathan’s right was Jim Marsh, one of the fellows Nathan had lost his pay to a few weeks before. Marsh jerked violently and toppled over, his back torn to ribbons by exit wounds. On his left, he felt that Willie and Pete were still there, knew it without looking. He heard Tillman yell, “Double quick! Double quick!” Nathan picked up his pace to a jog and went on.
Through the smoke, Nathan could see the broken wall and the battered ranks of Yankees across the way, and the sight evened his keel, balancing his restrained sense of dread against a new sense of delight. The Yankess have suffered over there, he thought. Oh yes, I can see it. They’uns have suffered.
He could also see them busily reloading. The blue line brought up its arms and fired a second volley. Now Nathan felt the tremor on both sides. At least one man had been shot on his right, but also someone on his left. He saw Willie still standing, still jogging forward, and knew it was greenhorn Pete.
Willie yelped, “Pete got it in the leg!”
A few more fast strides, and the word came to halt, to ready, and to aim. Drawing a bead square in the body of an anonymous, blue-clad figures reloading muskets just on the other side of the cloud of acrid smoke, lazily dissipating in the hot, humid air, Nathan waited. The tick of a clock crawled painfully by, and the first free shots of the fastest loading Billies cracked, and only then did Nathan hear the first half of the next order. Only then did he hear “Fi-!” and squeezed the trigger. The musket butt bit into his shoulder, and the world stopped oozing by. Things very suddenly began to move very quickly.
Mechanically, Nathan lowered his rifle in the first motion of reloading it only to hear the bugle call “Charge!” Without sparing a thought for what to do next, he pushed his bayonet forward, gave a yell that was somewhere between growl and howl, and sprang forward.
Sprinting through the smoke, Nathan reached the rubble of the wall, events rushing by in a frenzy. He jabbed the point of his bayonet past the rock pile, and leapt past to the other side. Then the blurry rush came to a jarring halt, and Nathan realized he was on the other side of the ruined wall alone, encircled by murderously hostile men.
By instinct, Nathan stabbed at where he felt the most menace, slicing through the jacket and fleshy side of his target, who jinked back wildly. He also felt that the man on his hard left was about to club him, and in the corner of his eye, he saw him scream, speared in the back. Willie was there, stabbing from the other side of the wall.
Nathan dropped his musket and stumbled half a step back, reaching for Captain Fletcher’s service revolver as he did so. He then lunged forward upon the man whom he perceived as the only one carrying a loaded rifle and elbowed him in the face as he drew the pistol.
But there were still four of them. Too many, far too many. His nerves burned and his gut felt sick, and he knew he was about to be clubbed or stabbed or shot. Then came the dull crack of a pistol shot, then another, and Captain Bell was over the rubble and standing beside him.
Bell came forward wild-eyed, gunning down the Billy that was on the verge of piercing Nathan’s back. The Northron dropped to the ground, and Bell shot him a third time, screaming “Die you bastard! Die!”
His pistol free now, Nathan pulled the hammer back and fired at an enemy, not three feet away. He swung his arm around and fired again. Then a third time, and then a fourth, but now at the backs of fleeing bluebellies.
Nathan bent forward, panting with his hands on his knees. He felt dizzy, and noticed for the first time that he had wet himself. God dammit, he thought. How in the blue blazes of Hell did that happen?! Shee-it!
Willie said hesitantly, “Nathan, are you alright?”
“Yep,” replied Nathan, wheezing. “Yep, I am.”
“First Sergeant, rally these men!” bellowed Bell. “Behind the wall, and wait for orders!”
4:45 P.M.
South bank of the Duck River
1 ½ miles west of Fishing Ford
While Cleburne’s artillery was still cannonading the stone wall, the musketry along the Duck River crossing became too hot for the forward blue pickets, who were driven back onto the woods. At the same time, the Confederates brought artillery up onto the knolls flanking the crossing and began shelling the woods.
Across the river, A.P. Stewart walked up to the top of an open knoll and into the midst of a very preoccupied gray battery of 12-pounders, busy pelting the front of the woodlot with rangy canister fire. His horse and staff he left behind the knoll, keeping them out of sight so as to not attract Yankee sharpshooters. A thousand yards downriver, a second battery enfiladed the woods, creating a deadly crossfire.
Watching the carnage through his binoculars, Stewart grinned wolfishly. Half of Stevenson’s Division was fixing the attention of the force covering Fishing Ford, but the other half was here. Caught in that crossfire, all he needed to do was get some troops over the river chase the Federals off. Do that, and he would flank Fishing Ford. Do that, and he would have Stevenson marching down the Nashville Road in less than an hour.
A captain, the battery commander, waved exultantly. “Old Straight, sir!” he shouted. “Are we keeping it hot enough for you, General?”
“Perfectly hot, Captain!” Stewart then went back down the knoll and sent Reynold’s Brigade in.
Brigadier General Alexander Reynolds’s mixed outfit of Virginians and North Carolinians was drawn up on a dirt track in a compact column, six men wide. Reynolds, “Old Gauley” to his men, led them tromping down to the Duck River in person, and contrary to the normal practice of sinking back once the advance was well under way, at the fore Reynolds stayed.
Holding their muskets over their heads, the assault column plowed into the cool, meandering waters and over to the other side. Across the river, Reynolds led them storming up the river bank, out of the trees and into the open, where they were instantly halted by a tempest of repeater fire. The head of the column was cut down, and the survivors behind tumbled back to seek shelter behind the river banks. Reynolds himself fell wounded through the forearm and had to crawl back to safety.
Having emptied his entire magazine into the graybacks, Spear put his back to a tree to reload. Not that the tree was especially safe, what with shot and shell ripping thr
ough the trees by the left. He knew the Major had sent for reinforcements, and he knew that until those reinforcements came they had to hang on, but he also knew they were in a desperate place.
Thumbing the last cartridge into the butt of his Spencer, Spear cast a quick glance at the men around him, then rolled over and around to fire. A hundred yards away, he could see the Johnnies spreading out along the river bank. He set about aiming and firing on the moving shapes behind the trees, counting down each pull of the lever.
Spear had reached four when the world went bright, dark, bright again, and then came the sensation that his ears were ringing. He was suddenly aware that his face was in the dirt. Spitting bits of leaf and grit from his mouth, he looked up, shook his head, and saw Rose lying with a red stain spreading across his back. A black chunk the size of shot glass was stuck in the middle of his back, and his fingers were twitching.
As he belly-crawled over to Rose, the stench of feces reached Spear. He involuntarily paused and felt his insides churn and quiver. Blood and shit, that awful slaughterhouse smell. Spear took a hard swallow, and inched across the last couple of feet, gritting his teeth.
Rose’s eyes were alert, and he mumbled “I can’t feel them. My legs.” The black thing was a piece of shell iron, and it was stuck in Rose’s spine. He might live, but as a cripple if he did.
Steeling himself, Spear clasped Rose’s hand. His instinct was to jerk that hand away, but he didn’t. Instead, his eyes became wet, and he yelled, “Stretcher bearers! Stretchers!”
He held Rose’s hands, repeating, “You’ll live, you’ll live” over and over until the stretcher bearers came for Rose minutes later. Spear then picked up his Spencer, unscathed from the shell burst, and numbly resumed firing by rote. So numbly, in fact, he missed the call to retreat, and Captain Vale had to come over and shake him on the shoulder.
Getting back on his horse and galloping away restored Spear most of the way to his senses. Arriving on the Nashville Road, he saw thick files of blue-clad foot soldiers marching off the road and towards the river crossing they had just abandoned.
A tall, fit man with a star on his shoulder rode over to Major Jennings, and had a hurried conversation with him. He wore a fierce expression, and with his thick mane and bristly beard, he gave the impression of an angered timber wolf. After talking to the Major, he spoke to the battalion with a booming voice.
“Boys, my name is Joe Mower. The Major here tells me you’ve got a rough business of it down by the river, but we need to drive those fellows back! And you still have ammunition, do you not!? You can see my infantry right here, and I’m going to send them straight in. Will you ride around their flank, and stick the bastards in the liver while my boys stick them in the chest!? Will you do that for me?!”
Spear felt himself carried along by the revived spirit of his comrades. They yelled together, “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!” The battalion turned about, riding beyond the flank of Mower’s “gorilla guerillas,” as men of the XVI Corps styled themselves.
The bluecoats advanced, put the opposing skirmishers to flight, and caught the advancing main line of Rebels in the midst of traversing the deep gully of a 200-yard wide, C-shaped bend in Rich’s Creek, a small tributary of the Duck. Threatened with being trapped in the gully for slaughter by the bluecoats, the graybacks withdrew into the field where Crowder and others had previously stood as fourth men, holding horses and brewing coffee behind the woodlot.
Kneeling behind a hedge on the edge of the field, Spear put a Rebel officer in his sights, a man busy putting his troops in line as his regiment readied itself to renew the contest with Northern infantry. Seeing bars on his collar, Spear judged him a captain or lieutenant, but he was too far away to make out if it was two or three bars.
Definitely not just one bar, Spear thought. Sitting behind his woody bramble, he waited for orders to fire. They weren’t long in coming.
Spear squeezed the trigger. The officer fell, riddled by more than just Spear’s shot. Over 250 troopers were shooting from along that hedge. Spear fired as fast as he could work the lever and hammer of his Spencer, emptying his seven shots in seconds. Hunkering down into his kneeling position, he thumbed cartridges into the butt of his weapon.
When Spear came back up, the blue infantry had arrived to tear at the North Carolinians and Virginians on the front, while the troopers savaged them from flank and rear. The Johnnies on the flank were melting away under the repeater fire, and when Federal buglers sounded that charge, the whole mass of butternuts turned and ran as one.
The butternuts fled back across the river crossing, unmolested for the most part, as Mower’s “gorillas” were wary of placing themselves between to the pair of Confederate batteries across the river. They waited for their own artillery to come up before advancing any further.
Exhausted, Spear tumbled around and down. Only after he spent a couple of minutes collecting himself did he look to either side, check to see if any of the boys were wounded. None were.
Suddenly, Spear became aware of the taste of bile in his mouth. His hands trembled. He took his canteen with both hands and took a sip. The water was warm, and upon touching his tongue it made the awful flavor in his mouth much worse, so he spat it back out. After a few moments, the nauseating taste faded, and he sucked down the rest of water greedily.
5:20 P.M.
Headquarters in the Field, Polk’s Corps, CSA
The Confederate Right
1 miles east of Lewisburg
Sitting atop his horse, Polk looked on as Jackson stepped down from his ambulance. He smiled genially and offered up his salute, but inwardly resented Jackson’s presence.
Finally I have a chance to shine, Polk thought. We have the Federals outnumbered, not by much perhaps, but outnumbered. With our superb Southern manhood, all we must do to drive him from this field on this glorious day is go out and smite him, and God has given me this chance to do the smiting. I do not need Stonewall or anyone else holding me by the hand as I do it!
Despite his brooding, Polk still appeared happy as Jackson reached him. “General Jackson, sir, we are very pleased to have you with us. I trust the ride was not uncomfortable?”
Jackson’s face twitched, an obvious sign of irritation. He hated riding in that contraption and was already finding his injured wrist a drain on his patience.
After a moment to restrain his temper, Jackson said, “No, no. Not terrible. General Polk, I want you to supervise General French very closely. It is imperative that he march deep into the Federal rear and seize the Shelbyville Road to the east of Farmington. After he strikes the Federal left and starts them running, get French moving on. Leave pursuing the enemy to Maney and the rest of the army. Do you understand me?”
Of course I understand, Polk thought, growing more annoyed. But his mask of serenity never even so much as twitched.
“Yes, sir. I shall stay close and see to it, rest assured.”
“Good, good,” replied Jackson, who then turned his attention to directing his staff as to where to set up his tripod and telescope. As he did so, Polk rode forward to where French had massed his division, just behind a dense forest of hollys and beeches. Having just received word that Maney was attacking to his left, French was in the midst of sending forward three of his four brigades: Ector’s, Sears’s, and Cantey’s, this last now under Colonel O’Neal.
Polk stopped himself and his staff long before reaching French, coming close enough to observe his advance, but staying far enough away to avoid direct communication. With a petulant and spiteful sense of glee, he had decided he would avoid interfering in either Maney or French’s commands unless absolutely necessary. In a matter of minutes, French’s advancing infantry were out of sight, disappeared into the dense forest.
On the other side of the field, General Harrow hadn’t strayed far from his Parrott guns since Logan had left him more than an hour and a half before. Pacing back and forth, he watched the Confederate advance upon his line nervously, even though
his men were well-entrenched and he had twelve guns in support.
Taking a swig of whiskey from his flask, Harrow observed that his line overlapped the advancing Confederates by a couple hundred yards. “Lieutenant!” he barked. “Go tell Walcutt to not neglect that opportunity. Tell him to blaze away at that open flank. Blaze away, I say! Rake them!”
The message proved unnecessary. As soon as the advancing Confederates came down to within 250 yards, Harrow’s entire line erupted with flame and smoke, unleashing a sharp, sudden flood of canister and musket balls. With hundreds of extra rifles aimed at it, the Johnnies standing in Maney’s right flank first shuddered and then recoiled, all over the protests and pleading of their leader, Brigadier General William Quarles. The remainder of Maney’s Division was soon forced to follow them back to their starting line.
Hampered by the forest, the first brigade of French’s Division, Ector’s Tar Heels and Texans, came out only after Maney’s soldiers were already backing away. Their bearing had them advancing straight onto the corner of Harrow’s refused line, but they advanced upon it alone and were easily driven back onto the protection of the woods. Next, Sears’s Mississippians came out of the forest, advancing on the leg of the refused Federal line. They too came on alone, and they too were sharply repulsed.
Absorbed with the repulse of his disjointed attack, Polk didn’t notice Jackson’s ambulance clatter up until Jackson was out of it and almost standing next to him. He only noticed then because one of his aides announced Jackson’s arrival.
“General Jackson,” Polk said with aplomb, “I…” Seeing Jackson’s eyes, Polk was startled into silence. Those eyes, Polk thought in awe, they burn! They positively blaze!
“I have word, General Polk, that Cheatham has taken the stone wall. General Cleburne’s other troops still face some stubborn resistance, but they are driving the enemy back on East Rock Creek. You must coordinate your men, drive our enemies from their works, and send General French into their rear, and you must do it now. Now, before he can consolidate a new line behind that creek. Now I say, now!”