21
The battlefield was littered with thousands of wounded, and since the killing field was so long, stretching for several miles, many of the wounded did not receive aid until the next day. Still others froze to death, their blood sealing them to the cold ground. A cease-fire had been ordered from both sides. Rebels aided wounded Yanks, and Yanks aided wounded Rebels. Nearby towns were filled with the injured, no one paying any attention to the color of the uniforms. Makeshift hospitals were set up, and the doctors were so busy sawing off mangled arms and legs, a lot of the severed limbs were just tossed out the nearest window.
No one on either side slept much that bitterly cold night, for both sides were busy regrouping their exhausted and widely scattered troops. Many of the troops were short on food and ammunition, but it was desperate on the Union side, due to those hundreds of wagons that had been seized by Jamie and Wheeler containing badly needed supplies.
No commander on either side slept that night, for they were too busy rallying their men, preparing them for the fight that both sides felt sure would resume at dawn.
Dawn broke gloomy and sunless, and the men were simply too cold, too hungry, and too tired to pick up the fight. Both sides finally rose stiffly to their boots and roamed the miles of battlefield, picking through the equipment and taking what could be used, and that included taking weapons and ammunition off of the stiffened and frozen dead.
Few shots were fired at Stones River on that first day of the year 1863. During the night came the rain, then sleet, and then the whole mess turned to snow, making life even more miserable for the Blue and the Gray.
But on the second day of the new year, the commanders roused their men and the battle resumed, reluctantly at first, for the overall commanding general of the Confederate troops at Stones River, Bragg, very nearly had a mutiny on his hands: one of his own generals was threatening to kill him over some point or slight that was never really brought to light . . . although many rumors persisted for months. Whatever the reason, passions cooled and the threat never materialized.
Fighting commenced at about twelve o’clock, in the midst of a raging sleet storm.
Jamie and his men had been ordered back to plug up a gap in the Confederate lines. Jamie now commanded over a thousand men, with some thirty pieces of horse-drawn artillery. He forded the river and positioned his men on a ridge near the center of the now U-shaped Union lines and, without orders (nobody really had orders other than to attack), opened fire with his cannons until he was forced to halt the barrage for fear of hitting Rebel troops who were charging across an open field and up a slight hill. Leaving a captain in charge (the captain’s company had been virtually wiped out several days back), Jamie and his Marauders mounted up and joined the charge.
They broke through the Federal lines, putting the Union troops into a retreat. Cresting the hill, Jamie stared at what seemed to be thousands of blue-coated men running to help plug the hole the Rebels had torn in their lines.
The Rebels thought they had the Yankees on the run. From where he sat his horse, Jamie knew better. “Fall back and take up positions on the hill!” he shouted.
“No!” a full colonel countermanded his orders. “By God, sir, we have them on the run.” Waving his saber, he ordered the charge to continue.
They charged straight to their deaths. The foolhardy colonel took a bullet in the head and was dead seconds after he ordered the charge, as were the color-bearer and all the other men in gray who had followed his orders.
That seemed to turn the tide for the Blue. They mustered up their courage and began pushing the Gray back on all fronts. As night fell, the Confederate officers managed to halt the retreat and turn their weary and bloodied men around. They were out of food, out of ammunition, and very nearly out of hope.
The Union forces on the other hand, as Jamie reported verbally to Bragg, “Have received several brigades of reinforcements and hundreds of wagons of supplies.”
Bragg brushed the report aside. Filled with anger, Jamie left the command post and returned to his men. “It’s over,” he told his company commanders. “Bragg doesn’t realize it, but it’s all over for us here.”
With the breaking of dawn, Bragg could see with his own eyes that the situation was hopeless. Jamie’s scouts had brought back prisoners who confirmed Bragg’s feelings.
“They’ve been reinforced all during the night,” General Wheeler told the man. “They’ve got almost eighty thousand men, and we’ll be lucky to field twenty thousand. It’s over, Braxton. It’s over.”
Bragg would later say, “I had the coppery, bitter taste of defeat in my mouth.” But that day he was forced to utter the hated words, “Retreat. Fall back. Chattanooga must be saved.”
Jamie’s Marauders and Wheeler’s Cavalry stayed to act as rear guard as the weary Rebels picked up their gear and began moving out toward the east. They left behind them over twelve thousand dead and wounded comrades. The battleground was still littered with the dead and the dying.
The Union forces did not immediately pursue the retreating Confederate army. Jamie and his Marauders were the last to leave Hell’s Half Acre.
Sparks twisted in his saddle for one last look at the still smoky killing fields. “What the hell did all that death and suffering accomplish?” he questioned.
“Nothing,” Jamie replied. “Absolutely nothing at all.”
* * *
Jamie had lost twenty men killed and fifteen wounded during the battle. But as usual, he was back up to strength within a week as volunteers flooded in to join the Marauders. Bragg ordered him to take his Marauders and roam from, “Border to border of this state, wreaking havoc on any Union soldiers who might dare to pursue us.”
“And in addition,” Captain Dupree added acidly, well out of earshot of the general, “we get to blow up bridges and tear up railroad track.”
“And raid Yankee supply wagons,” Captain Jennrette finished with a boyish grin.
* * *
Jamie had learned that Matthew had recovered fully from his wounds and was once more commanding a company of Union cavalry. Ian had been promoted and had his own command of cavalrymen. Jorge and Tomas Nunez were with Hood and were heading toward Chattanooga. Pat MacKensie and Sam Montgomery, Jr., had arrived as part of an advance unit and were in Central Tennessee. Swede and Hannah’s boy, Igemar, was with the Iowa Fifth.
But Jamie had other troubles that he was unaware of, in the form of one Colonel Aaron Layfield, a blue-nosed Yankee who hated all Southerners with something that far surpassed mere fanaticism. He hated anything and everybody south of the Mason-Dixon line. His idol was John Brown, whom he considered to be the second finest man to ever walk the face of the earth. The first was Jesus Christ. The third was himself.
Aaron Layfield was the organizer and commanding officer of something called the Pennsylvania Revengers, a unit of brigade strength made up of rabid anti-slavers and anti-everything Southern, and they were fast approaching Tennessee. Aaron Layfield considered himself to be a very religious man, a person who insisted upon his men praying before every meal and Bible reading before retiring for the night. Every man in his command considered himself to be an extension of the arm of the Lord, and of course they interpreted the Bible to suit their own bloody aims.
Aaron Layfield was not originally from Pennsylvania; no one knew exactly where he was born, but he had lived there for a number of years, where he had run a variety store six days a week and filled the pulpit on Sundays, where his church was well-attended. It was thought he was from New Hampshire, and it was rumored he had been run out of there for his radical views. Many in Pennsylvania felt the same way, but the town where he lived and worked and preached just loved the Hellfire- and Brimstone-spouting radical, and they filled his church every Sunday and Sunday night to listen to him spew hate toward the South in general and Southerners in particular. They came from miles around to shop at Layfield’s General Store, and there, they got the same message: hate. He was so loved that the citizens changed the name of the town to Layfield.
It was going to have a very short history.
As Layfield and his heavily armed brigade, complete with horse-drawn artillery, rode south they had information as to what towns were sympathetic toward the Southern Cause. So far the Revengers had burned and looted and sacked half a dozen towns, killed several hundred men, either shooting or hanging or dragging them to death, and terribly abused several dozen women—all in God’s name, of course.
During the long ride south, Layfield picked up several hundred more volunteers along the way, swelling his ranks with fanatics, all of whom waved Bibles in one hand and pistols in the other, shouting out hate to anyone who would listen; fortunately, not many did.
But enough did, and his ranks continued to grow as he pressed on through the mountains of West Virginia and Kentucky... gathering not only men and supplies, but pocketfuls of money from people who fell under his snake-oil charm.
Layfield especially hated one man in particular, a man who had lived with Godless savages (Layfield also hated Indians), and who had adopted many of their heathenish ways, and then had turned his back on the Union to fight for the Confederacy—Jamie Ian MacCallister.
Exactly why he hated Jamie so was never really established, but men like Layfield, and those who listened to him and followed his wild teachings, never really need a valid reason. They’re just real good haters. They live to hate; they love to hate. It fills them with meaning and gives them a purpose.
Layfield didn’t really have a great deal of use for Negroes, either; but he loved the Union, or so he said, and anyone who fought for the South, or supported the South, deserved to be punished. And Layfield was God’s appointed punisher. God told him so, personally and up close. And he really believed that he could talk to God and God would answer. And to prove it to any who might doubt that, during his services Layfield sometimes got the spirit and talked in tongues.
Most Pennsylvanians thought Layfield to be about as full of shit as a fattening Christmas turkey . . . but there were always a few who would follow.
In this case, a few too many.
* * *
The long, cold winter drifted by with only the occasional raid by one side or the other; the war on all fronts seemed to lag for a time. General Rosecrans’ Army of the Cumberland still had Chattanooga to wrest from General Bragg’s Army of Tennessee, but he seemed to be in no hurry to do so. Meanwhile, Bragg was slowly rebuilding his army while Grant was sending wire after wire to Washington, demanding more men be sent to him down at Vicksburg.
The only troops in Tennessee active during the winter months were the Confederate cavalry. Bragg had just over sixteen thousand men mounted, and he used them with great effectiveness. He sent Joe Wheeler, Nathan Bedford Forrest, Morgan’s Raiders, and Jamie’s Marauders on rampage after rampage all over Central Tennessee, especially against the railroad, which was busy night and day supplying General Rosecrans’ army.
As the warm breezes began to blow, signaling an end to the bitter winter, the commanders of the two great armies in Tennessee started making plans for attack.
Rosecrans knew that Chattanooga must be taken, for it was a vital railroad link; Bragg was not going to give it up without one whale of a fight.
Rosecrans knew nothing of Colonel Layfield’s reputation and his hatred of anything pertaining to the South; he was just glad to have the reinforcements of such a capable-looking group of cavalry, for more reasons than one. Rosecrans himself was a deeply religious man, a convert to Catholicism, and he was glad to have another man so firmly committed to the Lord in his command—even if the man was a Protestant.
“I want you to concentrate on finding and destroying Jamie MacCallister and his band of Marauders,” the general told Layfield.
“You can count on me, sir!” Layfield said. “The Union must be preserved and kept from the bloody and lawless hands of the brigands from the South. Tell me, sir, is it true that MacCallister actually worships the pagan gods of the red savages he once lived with?”
“I have heard that.”
“The goddamn heathen!” Layfield roared, causing Rosecrans’ aides in the next room to stop what they were doing and look up.
Rosecrans blinked at that but said nothing about it, figuring that every man has his own idiosyncrasies. “Good luck, Colonel Layfield.”
“I don’t believe in luck, sir. For I have God with me at all times.”
“I’m sure you do,” Rosecrans said drily. “I try to keep Him with me at all times, too.”
Layfield saluted smartly, wheeled about, and marched stiff-backed out of the room.
“The man’s a bit odd, don’t you think, sir?” a Union colonel asked.
“Oh, I suppose so,” the general admitted. “But he is committed to the Cause.”
Committed was a good choice of words, if only the connotation had been changed.