Talons of Eagles (10 page)

Generals Pillow and Floyd finally found some backbone and quickly followed suit.

Buckner's command was captured, but thousands of other Rebels managed to escape and make it to Nashville, where they quickly regrouped and continued on to finally stop and turn in Northern Alabama.

Jamie and his men, all of them disgusted to the core at this sour turn of events, met on the outskirts of town while in Nashville itself, rumors were flying about that the South had lost and surrender was in the wind.

“General Johnston has cut us loose,” Jamie told his four companies of Marauders. “We really have no orders other than a request from Colonel Nathan Forrest. We can go, or we can stay.”

“What's all this damn talk of surrender?” Captain Jennrette asked.

“Just that,” Jamie replied. “Talk. Colonel Forrest is taking over from General Floyd and calming matters in Nashville.”

“What's Colonel Forrest want with us?” Captain Sparks asked.

Jamie told them and Captain Dupree smiled. “Now I like that. I surely do.”

What Colonel Nathan Bedford Forrest was doing was stripping Nashville of anything of military use and controlling the frightened mobs of civilians now that the Federal army was drawing closer to the city.

He asked if Jamie would take his men outside of the city and discourage any advancing units of Yankees, giving him time to complete his task.

Jamie and his four companies of guerrilla fighters rode north and took up positions and waited.

“Finally get to do some damn fightin,' ” Captain Sparks said. “Maybe.”

Just as Forrest was finishing up his work in Nashville, and preparing to head south to the Alabama/Tennessee border, the first forward units of Union cavalry reached Jamie's position.

Union spies in Nashville had sent word to the Federals that Jamie and his Marauders were acting as rear guard.

“They won't fight,” one Union commander scoffed. “We all know that. Over the past few months we've all seen that. Jamie MacCallister is a big blowhard. I'll personally lead the first troops into that damn nest of Rebels and clean their plows.”

The Yankee cavalry came riding up, singing a popular war song as they rode along. Jamie and his Marauders came galloping out of the woods, screaming like Comanches, and slammed into the Yankee colonel's command. The colonel, a lawyer from Massachusetts, had about as much business commanding a cavalry unit as tits had on an alligator, and he was promptly knocked off his horse and landed on his butt in the dirt. Just as he was getting to his feet, a Rebel galloped past him and conked him on the head with the barrel of his pistol, knocking the colonel unconscious.

The four companies of Marauders and the four companies of Union cavalry mixed it up briefly . . . very briefly. The Union troops (a volunteer unit of militia) had never been bloodied before that brief encounter. It was a morning those who survived would never forget. The Marauders killed and wounded over a hundred before the second in command, thinking his colonel was dead, ordered his bugler to sound retreat and galloped away with the remnants of his shattered companies in full rout.

Jamie, seeing the big-mouthed colonel was not dead, got water from a nearby creek and poured it on the man's head, rousing him. The colonel opened his eyes and began coming to his senses. Seeing himself surrounded by hundreds of hard-eyed guerrilla fighters, a terrible-looking pirates' flag stiff in the breeze, the man promptly fainted.

Jamie stripped him down to his underwear, tied him backward in the saddle, and sent the spooked horse galloping back to the north.

The colonel, after his men found him and restored some of his dignity (and his pants), resigned his commission, went back to Boston, and never went past the northern boundaries of the Mason-Dixon line again.

Never again would the Union commanders entertain the thought that the Marauders would hesitate to kill. Jamie Ian MacCallister's reputation grew another notch, and he and his Marauders became one of the most hated and feared units in the Confederate army.

* * *

The winter dragged on, and the fighting slowed to a standstill in the East. Out west in Texas, Falcon MacCallister had joined up with Henry Sibley, a former U.S. army officer, who now was commanding officer of a brigade of Confederate militia. In January of '62, Sibley and his men marched out of El Paso and straight into battle with four thousand Union troops at what is now called the Battle of Valverde. The Rebels whipped the enemy soundly and then, full of confidence, proceeded on to Albuquerque and took that city. Sibley then sent several companies on to Santa Fe. His plan was to take Fort Union and then march straight into Denver and the gold and silver mines of Colorado. But that was not to be.

Colorado, solidly on the side of the Union, sent a volunteer force who called themselves the Pike's Peakers to help the Federal Regulars. The Blue and the Gray clashed at a place called Glorieta Pass in the Sangre de Cristo mountains late in March. The Rebels won the day but lost the battle when a group of Union forces captured their supply wagons. That was the end of Sibley's brigade. It took Sibley and his men more than seven weeks to retreat back to El Paso.

Falcon had left Sibley shortly after the battle and, after visiting briefly with his mother, headed east to try to find his dad.

In Arkansas, General Van Dorn came up with a plan to invade Missouri and secure it firmly under the flag of the Stars and Bars. He had about seventeen thousand men in his command, and the only force that stood in his way was about ten thousand Union troops. They met in what is called the Battle of Pea Ridge, and it was there that the Rebels learned that the Yankees could fight, and fight damn well.

Near New Madrid, Missouri, a major battle was shaping up for Island Number Ten, a small Rebel-held island blocking the Mississippi. But the major battle for the spring of '62 would be fought near Pittsburg Landing in Tennessee. Nearly forty thousand men in the Gray, against almost seventy thousand wearing the Blue.

Bloody Shiloh.

* * *

All during March, General Grant moved his army into place by boats on the Tennessee River, landing the thousands of troops at Pittsburg Landing. General Buell's army, some fifty thousand strong, marched from Nashville to join Grant. Neither man, nor their chiefs of staff or aides, ever even entertained the thought that the Rebels, under the command of General Johnston, just might attack them first.

Jamie's Marauders, acting as the eyes and ears for Johnston, constantly were bringing back reports of new troops arriving and where they were being positioned. Jamie wanted to slip into Grant's headquarters, in the small town of Savannah, Tennessee, and kidnap the man. Johnston nixed that firmly, thinking it could not be done.

Jamie thought it could, but obeyed orders, and the plan was dropped.

Grant was over-confident about the outcome of the upcoming battle, feeling he could easily whip the Rebels. He was flat wrong about that.

Jamie, known for speaking his mind and not adhering very much at all to military protocol, told Johnston, “We need to strike before Buell's army gets in place. Once he joins the troops already in place, we'll be facing about eighty thousand men.”

Beauregard beamed, for he, too, felt the same way.

General Bragg offered his support to the plan, even though General Van Dorn's army had not yet arrived. General Johnston finally agreed and ordered battle plans to be drawn up.

Beauregard was put in charge of drawing up the plans and shaping the army. There would be four armies, each with at least two divisions. First Army would be commanded by Major General Breckinridge, who had been vice-president of the United States during Buchanan's administration. Second Army was commanded by General Polk, an Episcopal bishop. Third Army was under the command of General Hardee, and Fourth Army would be commanded by General Bragg.

Beauregard, frankly, did not know what to do with Jamie and his Marauders. “Wait until the battle starts,” he told Jamie. “We'll find a place for you and your men.”

The Confederate troops blundered about getting into place.

“They make enough noise to raise the dead,” Jamie remarked. “There is no way this attack will come as any surprise.”

Buglers tooted away in practice and drummers hammered. Rifles were accidently discharged, and Jamie shook his head in disbelief at all the racket.

“Personally,” Captain Malone said, “I wish Beauregard would send us to Jackson, Mississippi. With all this commotion, the Yankees will be in place and ready for us.”

Incredibly, the Union forces were not ready for the Rebels, having paid absolutely no attention to all the noise of thousands of men milling about and stumbling over things in the dark and cussing.

On April 4, Rebels captured some Yankee stragglers and took them to Johnston for interrogation. Acting on a hunch, Jamie and his single company rode over to near the spot where they had been taken and, rounding a bend in the narrow road, ran right into a company of Federal cavalrymen.

Jamie and his Marauders put the green Union troops on the run, after killing several and wounding several more. The Union officer raced back to his commanding general's HQ—William Tecumseh Sherman—and slid breathlessly off his mount.

“The Rebels!” he shouted. “They're on the move.”

But Sherman just waved it off and returned to his maps, leaving the young cavalry officer standing there feeling very much like a fool. “But . . . ,” he stammered.

“Leave the general alone,” one of Sherman's aides told him. “Don't bother him with twaddle.”

The next day, plenty of Rebels were spotted by the Union troops, and those sightings were consequently reported to various Union commanders. No actions were taken. Patrols reported seeing light reflecting off of brass cannons. The sightings were dismissed. Union troops got into a small skirmish with a group of Jamie's Marauders. The report went no farther than the regiment commander's field desk. The hours ticked by, the day waned, and the Rebels drew closer to Union lines.

Jamie watched, astonishment on his face, as Rebel troops exchanged shots with Yankee troops for a few minutes, until the Union troops ran away to report the incident. Jamie and his men braced for an attack. None came. The Yankee commanders had dismissed the report as only a minor action.

“Great God!” Jamie breathed. “If this is the best they can do, we might actually win this war.”

Night fell around the thousands of Blue and Gray, and the Union troops still took no offensive action.

In the early morning hours of Sunday, April 6, a probing force was sent out from the Union lines. The front was about five miles wide, with Sherman's command on the extreme western side and Stuart's men on the far eastern side, only about a thousand yards from the Tennessee River. On the north side of a creek, near the center of the miles-long front, Union troops saw movement across the water and opened fire. The Rebels returned the fire, and the battle was on.

General Sherman would later call that Sunday “The devil's own day.”

Without any orders, Jamie was acting on his own. He rallied his men and rode off to the east, to throw up a line facing Stuart's troops along the Savannah Road, just north and west of Lick Creek, an area that was wide open and undefended by Rebel troops.

“We're not here to commit suicide,” Jamie told his men. “We'll hold as long as possible. If we aren't reinforced, we'll gradually fall back.” He looked at Little Ben Pardee. “Ride, boy. Tell Johnston we need help. We're facing some ten thousand troops.”

Beauregard had drawn up the battle plans, and in a word, he goofed.

But Stuart did not cross the road. He had no orders to do so and stubbornly held to the east side, not knowing that for more than an hour, he was facing only five hundred men.

Johnston was furious when Little Ben found him and made his report. His entire right side was exposed, and Breckinridge and Jackson were more than a mile away, to the southwest. He immediately ordered reinforcements up to Jamie's position, with several artillery pieces.

But Stuart had still not crossed the road when the additional Rebel troops arrived.

“What the hell's he waiting on?” the commander of the newly arrived Rebels questioned.

“I don't know,” Jamie replied. “I'm just glad he did.”

Then Stuart attacked. Jamie quickly observed that he had not been facing a full division as he had first thought, but a small brigade. His men, all battle-tested and expert rifle shots, on the vanguard of the line, opened fire and stopped the Yankee charge cold before the first Union soldier could set his boots on the Savannah Road.

The commanding officer of the reinforcements was young, green, inexperienced, and scared. Jamie quickly took command and ordered the field pieces up and the muzzles lowered, for the range was no more than a hundred yards.

“Load 'em with grapeshot and stand ready,” he ordered the gunners. He glanced at Little Ben. “Get back to Johnston and tell him we can hold. We're facing only a short brigade.”

Little Ben jumped into the saddle and was off. A half mile away, his horse was shot out from under him, pinning the young man under its weight and badly spraining Pardee's ankle. It would take him precious minutes to dig his way free and more lost minutes finding a branch to use as a crutch to limp around on.

Unable to find Beauregard in the heat and smoke and confusion of battle, Johnston worried about his right flank and finally ordered Breckinridge's reserve up to assist Jamie. The troops were not needed there; they were badly needed elsewhere. But Johnston had no way of knowing that.

Stuart again ordered his men across the road. They didn't make it. Jamie opened fire with his six cannons, and the grapeshot shredded human flesh and drove the Union troops back and into whatever cover they could find, mostly a few ditches and a low ridge. And there they would stay for some time.

It was nine o'clock on the morning of Bloody Sunday. And the blood was just beginning to pour.