Talons of Eagles (12 page)

Central Tennessee was now under firm control of the Union army. The Mississippi River was in Union hands all the way down to just north of Memphis. Vital rail lines had been taken by the Yankees. But if the Federals thought that the war was nearly over (and many did) they were badly mistaken.

East Tennessee was a hotbed of pro-Union feelings, with civilians and soldiers alike prone to taking potshots at each other. Neighbor feuded with neighbor over the war, and as in other parts of the divided country, families would be forever split.

Jamie and his Marauders had made it through East Tennessee on the way west without incident. It was much different this time. The four companies of Marauders had been ambushed by civilians half a dozen times on their way to Chattanooga, and to a man, they were getting damn sick and tired of it. Just across the Tennessee border, Jamie received orders by wire to turn his Marauders around and ride back to northeast Alabama. The Yankees were burning civilian homes in retaliation for attacks on Union held railroad lines.

“Now that is evil,” Captain Jennrette said.

Jamie agreed. “We'll see if we can't do something about that.”

For a very brief period of time, the North had come up with its own version of the Marauders, a group of Union soldiers led by a spy named Andrews. They called themselves the Raiders. But they weren't too successful at the guerrilla business. Early in April, they did manage to steal a Confederate train in Georgia and drive it to within about twenty-five miles of Chattanooga. There, their luck ran out. They were stopped and captured, and the leader of the Raiders and half a dozen of his men were hanged as spies.

The Union just didn't quite have this business of guerrilla warfare down pat as yet.

But Jamie MacCallister did.

“This Yankee bastard come up to our house,” an elderly man told Jamie, pointing to the burned-out hulk of what had once been a modest house. “Said there had been an attack on a train. Said we was gonna have to suffer the consequences. The son of a bitch then kilt our cows and hogs and chickens, stole our horses, and then burnt down our home. He and his men been doing that all over this part of the country.”

“Does he have a name?” Jamie asked, feeling rage building deep within him. If the Yankees wanted to fight this war in such a despicable manner, Jamie would show them that both sides could play at this game.

“General Ormsby Mitchell and some foreign-talkin' bastard named Turchin. We call him the Turd.”

Colonel John Turchin had been born in Russia and spoke heavily accented English.

“So they're making war on civilians?” Jamie asked.

“You bet,” the old man replied. “And that ain't all. Turd Turchin turned his men loose over in Athens, and the Damn Yankees looted the town and raped women. Now they've started hangin' men.”

Jamie gave the old couple some food from the Marauders' supply and led his men up the road for about a mile, then halted them.

“Sparks, take some men and find out if what that old man said is true. If it is, we've got a little score to settle.”

With a grin, Captain Sparks and a dozen men rode off.

“The Yankees had no call to do harm to that old man and woman,” Captain Dupree said, anger evident in his tone. “Just no call at all.”

“No,” Jamie replied. “But for every home they burn, we'll kill ten Yankees. For every town they loot, we'll kill fifty, for every man they hang, we'll kill a hundred, and for every woman they rape, we'll kill two hundred. And that is a promise.”

The next few weeks were going to be bloody ones in North Alabama.

* * *

Jamie sent a messenger to Beauregard, telling him of the atrocities committed against civilians. Beauregard was furious. He sent the messenger back with orders for Jamie to “Act as you see fit against the Yankees who are waging war against civilians in North Alabama.”

Captain Sparks had returned and verified that Union troops were indeed looting and burning and terrorizing and sometimes raping Southern women in retaliation for Rebel raids against the railroad.

Other men Jamie had sent out reported back that the commanding general of the Army of the Ohio, Major General Carlos Buell, knew nothing of the rapine and rape taking place by some of his troops.

“He will before long,” Jamie vowed. “When he starts finding shot, hanged, or horse-whipped Yankee soldiers.”

The words were spoken with such a cold hardness that the men close to Jamie had to suppress a shudder.

Jamie walked off, his back stiff with anger.

“He's takin' this right personal, ain't he?” Sergeant Major Huske said.

“Rape has touched his family, I believe,” Captain Dupree said. “And his home has been raided more than once by renegades. Yes. He takes such things very personally.”

Beauregard's message to Jamie concerning the unsoldierly like behavior of some Union troops, and Jamie's disposition of the same, was one of the last orders he would give as commander of the Army of the Mississippi. Davis replaced him early that summer with General Bragg.

Jamie sent scouts out to locate the camps and the strength of those troops who seemed to take satisfaction in the looting of towns and the raping of women and the hanging of civilians. Two days later, he had the locations of ten camps, and the information checked and verified.

One camp was less than eight miles away from Jamie's present location. His companies had been broken up into small units so they could better hide in the brush and timber. With his scouts back, he had gathered all his men together.

“What is the strength of this unit here?” Jamie asked, pointing at the map.

“Two companies, Colonel.”

Jamie was thoughtful for a moment. Then he smiled a very hard curving of the lips. “We'll hit them late this afternoon. Just when they're settling in for supper. We take everything we can, and what we can't, we burn. Those left alive we strip naked and tie them in a line and put them on the road.”

Captain Jennrette chuckled. “I wouldn't miss this for the world.”

Just as the sun was beginning to set over the horizon, Jamie and his Marauders had walked their horses to within easy striking distance of the Union camp. This particular bunch of Yankee renegades were so confident their guards were careless and not very alert. They were standing at their posts, rifles on the ground, eating supper.

The Marauders hit the unfortunate camp from four sides, screaming like banshees and striking hard. The Federals must have thought the devil had unleashed his demons from hell; for many of them, that was their last thought as the Marauders shot and cut and slashed their way through the camp.

These troops were accustomed to ordering unarmed civilians about; they were used to taking what they wanted by brute force. Up to now, they had seen no real combat. The survivors would know the horror of it and remember it for the rest of their lives—as well as the humiliation that was about to follow.

The attack had been so sudden and so completely unexpected, Jamie's companies suffered only four wounds, and they were minor. The two companies of Federals sustained more than fifty dead and at least that many wounded, some of whom would not last out the night.

When the Federals saw the battle flag of the Marauders, a few of them became so frightened they dropped to their knees and began praying.

The battle—if it could be called that—lasted for less than two minutes.

Jamie's men worked swiftly. They loaded up the supplies on pack horses, tore down the tents, and threw the blankets and spare clothing onto the growing pile.

Jamie faced the line of prisoners. “Strip,” he told them. “Right down to the buff.”

“I'll do no such thing!” an officer blurted, his face red from anger and embarrassment.

Jamie hit him in the mouth with the butt of a Sharps rifle with such force several teeth were knocked out and the officer hit the ground, unconscious.

“Strip!” Jamie roared, and the troops quickly began peeling out of their uniforms.

The Marauders had brought hundreds of feet of rope with them, and it was quite a sight: a hundred men buck naked right down to the soles of their feet, all in a line, hands tied behind their backs, their ankles hobbled so they could only take very short steps. Another rope was lashed tightly around each waist, then running to the next man, until they were all tied together, from the front of the line to the rear.

Using the Yankee's own meager medical supplies, the doctor and his assistant assigned to the Marauders did what they could for the wounded.

Then Jamie repeated what he had told his own men several days before. “Tell your commanding officer this,” he told the line of naked men. “For every home you burn, I'll kill ten Yankee soldiers. For every town you loot, there will be fifty dead Yankees. For every Southern man you hang, we'll kill a hundred of you bastards, and for every woman raped, there will be two hundred dead Union soldiers. Now get the hell moving!”

The long line of troops silently began shuffling off up the road.

“I wish we could give these tents to the people whose homes were destroyed,” Captain Malone said.

“No,” Jamie told him. “If they're found with Yankee property, that would be grounds for imprisonment. Burn everything.”

The out-of-uniform Yankee soldiers were found by a Union patrol just after dark and quickly taken to the nearest encampment.

Colonel John Turchin was livid with rage when he was awakened later on that evening and informed of the events.

“I'll not have my loyal troops humiliated in such a manner,” he said. “I want this goddamned Jamie MacCallister. Dead or alive.” He moved to a map and pointed to a tiny settlement located in the northeast corner of the state. “Burn this town to the ground,” he ordered.

The settlement was wiped from the face of the map the next morning.

The next day, Jamie and his Marauders struck a Union camp, and the few soldiers who were left alive staggered wild-eyed into Turchin's camp in a near hysterical state.

Turchin was taken to the battle site and stood stunned for a moment: dead troops lay all about, at least a hundred of them. But the wounded had been taken care of as best they could be in the field.

“What manner of man is this Colonel MacCallister?” he murmured.

“He's a devil!” one of the surviving officers of the attack said. “And so is every man who rides with him.”

Turchin said nothing in reply to the frightened officer. Back at his headquarters—a nice home that he had commandeered, throwing the owner and his wife out into the road—Turchin ordered the looting and burning to continue and an all-out search for the capture of Jamie and his Marauders.

Before those orders could be carried out, Major General Don Carlos Buell came in and took command. He ordered the looting and burning to stop and vowed to hang any Union soldier who engaged in rape or pillage of civilians. He very quickly had Colonel Turchin arrested and court-martialed and drummed out of the service. But not for long, however. President Lincoln earned the everlasting hatred of many Southerners when he personally intervened and ordered not only that Turchin be returned to active duty, but promoted to general. It was one of Lincoln's major blunders.

The looting and sacking and raping and burning in North Alabama ceased—for a time, anyway. But for several weeks during the summer of 1862, Jamie and his Marauders left their mark forever in the minds of those Union soldiers who served in North Alabama.

Their orders completed, Jamie and his men took a different route to the border of Tennessee, crossing without incident, and rode on toward Chattanooga.

Except for a few minor skirmishes, Union and Confederate forces had spent the first few weeks of summer rebuilding their armies, for Bull Run and Shiloh had taken a terrible toll on both sides.

Now they were ready to bloody each other again.

Jamie and his Marauders had just made camp and set up picket lines when they heard the sounds of approaching horses. Two heartbeats later, the Marauders were in a defensive position, behind cover, with rifles and pistols at the ready.

But the approaching men were Rebels, dressed in plumed hats and gray coats with a red sash around the middle. One was a lieutenant, and he let out a rousing yell at the sight of the Marauder's battle flag.

“By God, it's MacCallister's Marauders!” he yelled, and jumped from his horse. He strode up to Jamie and saluted smartly. “I'm Lieutenant Will Smith, from Morgan's Raiders. And I have some news for you, sir.”

After introductions all around, the lieutenant and his men settled down for bacon, pan bread and coffee.

“The news, Lieutenant?” Jamie pressed the young officer.

“By all means, sir. We are attached to General Edmund Kirby Smith. We, being Colonel John Hunt Morgan and his Raiders. Colonel Morgan got a wire from President Davis telling him that you and your fine band of men were on the way and instructing you to join us, if you will.”

“Fine with me,” Jamie said.

Will Smith beamed, fairly busting with more news. Jamie, amused, waited, sipping his coffee and eating bread and bacon.

“Your son, Falcon, is a scout with us, sir.”

Jamie smiled, and then slowly nodded his head. “I want to see him as soon as possible, Mister Smith.”

“How about tomorrow morning, sir?”

* * *

Father and son first shook hands, and then embraced for a moment, to the cheering of Morgan's Raiders and MacCallister's Marauders. Then they walked off to stand alone for a few moments of private conversation.

“I got some letters for you, from Ma,” Falcon said, handing his father a packet of letters, tied with two ribbons, one Blue, one Gray.

Jamie smiled. “Your mother always did have a touch of the dramatic in her, Boy.” Jamie put the letters in his pocket. “How'd you come by these?”

“I went home for a visit. Stayed a few days. Ma is well. Ian is fighting for the Yankee side; so is Matt. Two of Juan's boys, Jorge and Tomas, have joined up with the Gray. Joleen's husband is with the Blue. Sam, Jr., joined up with the Blue. Wells and Robert are with some Negro regiment up north. Swede and Hannah's oldest boy left to join up with some unit in Iowa. Of course, Morgan is still scouting for the army out west. I hope he stays out there.”

“There are plenty of men still in the valley to protect the people?”

“Ample, Pa. Ample.” He smiled. “I heard about you and your men teachin' the Yankees a hard lesson about ridin' roughshod over civilians.”

“I think they got the message, all right.” Jamie gave his youngest son a good once-over. Falcon had leaned down some, but was still almighty big, with bulging muscles in his arms and shoulders. He was a handsome young man, lean-hipped and cold-eyed; but his eyes could fill with good humor in an instant. “But those men weren't representative of most Union soldiers, Falcon. We have an equal amount wearing the Gray who are just as bad, or worse.”

Falcon studied his father for a moment. “How come, Pa?”

“How come what, boy?”

“How come you joined up with the Gray?”

“I don't know that I can put the why of it into words. It just seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Me, too, Pa. Thing that worries me is, when this war is over, no matter who wins, is this goin' to tear our family apart?”

“I don't believe it will, boy. We'll probably argue about it for years to come. There might even be a few blows exchanged. But we're too close a family to let it destroy the way we feel about each other.”

“I hope you're right, Pa. But it's not been that way among a lot of other men. Right here in Morgan's command there's a man named Ferguson who has a brother fightin' for the Blue. They've sworn to kill each other. They hate one another. Really hate. They go into battle lookin' for each other. Here in East Tennessee and Eastern Kentucky times are cruel. Meaner than any place I've seen fightin' in this war. Some units—on both sides—kill prisoners.”

Jamie gave him a sharp look. “Colonel Morgan?”

Falcon shook his head. “Oh, no, sir. He wouldn't stand for that. His men hit hard and fast and they don't mess around. But a prisoner is treated well. But I never seen such hate as I've found in these mountains.”

“I would imagine, son, some of these families have been feuding for years. The war is just an excuse for many. I hold no rancor toward any man who follows his conscience in this conflict. And when it's over, it will be over, and then we've all got to get in double harness and pull together to rebuild this nation . . . or nations, as the case may well be.”

Falcon smiled sadly. “You know as well as me, Pa, that we ain't gonna win this war. But I'm gonna fight 'til it's over. The Federal government just don't have the right to tell me what I can or can't do as long as I'm doin' my best to live right.”

Jamie put a big hand on his son's shoulder. “I think, boy, you just summed up why the both of us are here.”

* * *

Morgan's Raiders and MacCallister's Marauders had a combined force of over sixteen hundred men, and they were an awesome sight as they rode west the following morning. General Smith had ordered the guerrilla fighters to harass and disrupt Federal forces along the supply line between Nashville and Louisville.

Along the way, Morgan acted as recruiter for the Southern Cause, and enlisted several hundred volunteers. As they rode toward a town just across the border in Kentucky, where a unit of Union troops were garrisoned, pro-Union bushwhackers harassed the long column.

After one of his own men was shot and wounded from ambush, Jamie personally charged Satan into the brush and came back half-dragging a young boy of about twelve or thirteen. His musket was taller than he was.

“You better throw that one back, Colonel,” one of Morgan's men good-naturedly called. “He's not big enough to be a keeper.”

“I'll have the cook make him up a sugar tit,” Morgan said with a laugh. “Then we can send him on back to his mama.”

Jamie dismounted and put the boy over his knee and proceeded to tan his butt proper until the boy's rear end, under his homespun britches, was hot enough to heat bathwater just by sitting in it.

Then Jamie set the lad on his bare feet and glared down at him. “Boy, you use this rifle to help keep your family fed. You use this rifle to defend hearth and home in case of attack. But we're not attacking your home or bothering your ma.” He handed the lad his musket. “Now you git, boy. Move!”

The boy took off like the devil himself was nipping at his heels. He did not look back.

Years later, he would still be boasting that Jamie MacCallister was the one who put him squarely on the path of righteousness.

Jamie walked over to the man the boy had wounded. The ball had just grazed the man's arm; it was a burn, but not a serious one.

“You all right, Jennings?”

“Oh, I'm fine.” He chuckled. “But that boy will long remember that hidin', I'm thinkin'.”

With a twinkle in his eyes, Morgan had personally mixed up a bit of sugar and butter, tied it in a knot at the end of a clean handkerchief, and solemnly handed it to Jennings. “Here, son,” he said. “With a terrible wound like that you'd best be pacified with your own sugar tit!”

Red-faced amid the laughter, Jennings climbed back into the saddle, and the column rode on ... but with a grin, Jennings sucked the sugar tit dry.

“I'd like to have one of them myself,” Falcon muttered.

* * *

The Raiders and the Marauders attacked the garrison just across the border in Kentucky without losing a man. The battle lasted about fifteen minutes before the Union commander, seeing that he was badly outnumbered, surrendered. Jamie noted with satisfaction that the prisoners were all well-treated. One of Morgan's men, Ferguson, a man who hated Yankees, wanted to kill them all.

“Restrain yourself, Champ,” Morgan told the man. “Or leave my command.”

The man gave up his habit of killing Yankee prisoners—for the time being.

In less than a month, Morgan and MacCallister seized tons of supplies, hundreds of horses, tore up miles of railroad track, took more than fifteen hundred prisoners, captured twenty towns, and demoralized the Union forces between Nashville and Louisville. By the time the Union forces were strong enough to launch any type of effective assault against the guerrillas, the Raiders and the Marauders were heading back to Chattanooga, to receive accolades for a job well done.

* * *

Matthew and Ian MacCallister, now both officers in the Union cavalry, were on the march toward Tennessee. Jorge and Tomas Nunez were part of Hood's cavalry, and they were on their way from Texas to Tennessee, as part of an advance unit. Sam Montgomery, Jr., and Jamie's son-in-law, Pat MacKensie, were part of a cavalry unit from Ohio. And Swede and Hannah's boy, Igemar, was part of an infantry unit coming in from Iowa.

Tennessee was about to come under full siege, with members of the MacCallister family caught up right in the middle of it . . . some in the Blue, some in the Gray.

* * *

General Bragg finally came up with a plan of action. But it was a plan that no one, on either side of the conflict, expected. Bragg was to march north through Kentucky, securing that state for the South, and then take Louisville and Cincinnati. The news of that quickly spread, and the citizens of both cities went into a panic. Which was exactly what General Bragg wanted.

Meanwhile, Jamie and his Marauders, Morgan and his Raiders, and Nathan Bedford Forrest were still busy raising hell with the Union's supply lines and railroads. But this time they concentrated on Yankee forces in Tennessee. Their objective was twofold: by constantly harassing the Yankees, the commanding general of the Union army in Tennessee could not advance his troops to Chattanooga . . . he was too busy dealing with the Confederate guerrillas.

Jamie came up with a plan, and it was met with approval and smiles.

Launch a sneak attack against the Federal garrison at Louisville.

* * *

The commanding general of the Union forces around Louisville put out a call for civilian volunteers to aid his forces, in the form of a militia; his regular troops were mostly green recruits, as yet not battle tested. They were about to be, in a limited way.

In small groups, Jamie and his Marauders had left Tennessee, riding north through Kentucky, heading for Louisville. Thanks to the hundreds of Southern sympathizers along their preplanned route through the state, the Marauders were able to get supplies and be warned of any Yankee patrols that might be in the area. They also had places to stable and rest their horses, sleep, and have a hot meal they didn't have to cook.

Far in the back of Jamie's mind, another raid was still just a tiny seed; but it was growing, and just the idea of it amused Jamie. But he spoke to no one about it. He would let the idea nurture for a time—for the more he thought about it, the better he liked it.

While Jamie was moving his men toward Louisville, and Forrest and Morgan were raiding south as a diversion for Jamie, Lee handed the Federals a smashing defeat in Virginia when McClellan tried to take Richmond in a campaign that would be known as the Seven Days' Battle.

Up to now the war had been going decidedly in the Union's favor; now it had become more like a seesaw. The Federals would attack and be victorious; then the Rebels would attack and take back the ground. In the nation's capital there was much grumbling and finger pointing and placing of blame. Generals on both sides (but mainly in the Union army) were losing their jobs and being demoted and promoted, and transferred and shifted around from post to post. In many instances, after only a few weeks, or at best, a few months, many of them would be returned to their original commands. It was difficult to keep up with just who was commanding what army and where.

To make matters worse, as they always had and always would, the Congress of the United States stayed busy running their mouths, constantly attempting to direct the war while sitting on their penguin asses in Washington . . . that much would never change.

In mid-August, 1862, Jamie and his Marauders began massing just a few miles outside of Louisville and only a mile from a garrison of very green Union troops. They would not be green after this night, for the ground was about to be stained red with their blood.