Talons of Eagles (14 page)

Jamie had the telegraph wires tapped into by his man and a coded message sent to Smith's HQ advising him of the spy in his camp. And just in case the spy intercepted the message and could break the code, he added that he was calling off his attack on the garrison of Union troops outside Louisville and instead heading down into Central Tennessee to launch guerrilla strikes against the Yankees. Then Jamie ordered his men to get ready to hit the Union garrison outside of Louisville.

At the beginning of the third week in August, 1862, MacCallister's Marauders struck the green troops garrisoned outside of Louisville and raised bloody hell with them. The Marauders rode their horses right down the center of the camp, over tents filled with sleeping men, shooting and slashing and burning their way through.

The Marauders stampeded horses, destroyed supplies, and blew up the armory. Then they skedaddled into the hills and thickly timbered area south and east of the city, toward the Kentucky River, and melted into the landscape, with the help of Southern sympathizers.

At the same time Jamie and his men were terrorizing and demoralizing the Union troops around Louisville, Confederate troops, under the command of General Smith, were moving deep into Kentucky—their objective was to take Lexington.

It was a daring move on the part of the Confederacy, and one that struck fear in the hearts of those citizens who supported the Union forces in the struggle.

Meanwhile, Jamie and his Marauders were busy blowing up railroad bridges and attacking small garrisons and roaming patrols of Federal troops. For the first time in the war, a price was put on Colonel Jamie Ian MacCallister's head, for “Scurrilous, traitorous, treacherous, and cowardly assaults against the Union forces.”

Matthew MacCallister, who was now leading a unit of Union cavalry, found one of the wanted posters tacked to a tree and ripped it down and took it to his commanding officer.

“Sir,” Matthew said, holding out the flyer. “If the Federal intention was to make my father angry, and have him go on a rampage that will cause more damage than a hundred tornadoes, they will soon find out how successful they are with this piece of garbage.”

The commanding officer took the wanted poster and quickly read it, shaking his head in disbelief as he did so. “Somebody has lost their mind!” he said. “This is going to backfire right in the Federal face.”

“You bet it will, sir,” Matthew agreed, unaware that General Buell was standing just behind him and to the right of the opened tent flap. “This is a direct challenge to my father. And believe you me, sir, it is a challenge that he will be more than happy to take.”

Buell stepped into the tent, and both Matthew and his commanding officer snapped to attention. “Stand easy, men,” General Don Carlos Buell said with a smile. “Let me see that paper, Major.” He read the flyer, and his frown deepened as his face, under his beard, darkened with anger. “All this will do is further strengthen Colonel MacCallister's resolve. Colonel MacCallister is certainly no coward. As for these other accusations, they're nonsense. This is war, not a church social. You cannot condemn a man for fighting for what he believes in his heart is right.”

“Oh, my father doesn't necessarily believe the Southern cause is right, sir,” Matthew said.

“I beg your pardon?” Buell gave him a sharp look.

“My father is adamantly opposed to slavery, General. I grew up working right beside Negroes, going to school—such as it was—with them, and playing with and spending the nights with colored boys my age. My father was captured by the Shawnees when he was about five or six years old and made a slave in their village, General—he hates slavery.”

The general sat down in a camp chair and waved Matthew to a seat. “I don't understand, Lieutenant. Colonel MacCallister hates slavery yet he fights for the South.”

“He's fighting for the right of a people to govern themselves, General. For states' rights. Not for slavery.”

Like many men on both sides of the issue, Buell shook his head in confusion. “Do you have any idea where your father is at this time, Lieutenant?”

Matthew smiled, then chuckled, and Buell could not keep his own smile from showing. “General, my pa was raised by Indians and taught the Way of the Warrior. The Indians called him Man Who Is Not Afraid. Man Who Plays With Wolves. He could be standing right behind this tent at this very moment, listening to every word that is being said. My father is about fifty years old and still does not know his own strength. He's the most powerful man I have ever known. He can move like a ghost and fight like fifty men. And I am not exaggerating, sir.”

“And when your father sees this . . . document?” He held up the wanted flyer.

“I think he and his men will go into action immediately. They'll begin striking at any Union garrison or patrol they encounter. And it's not going to be pleasant.”

“For us, you mean?”

“Yes, sir. For us.”

* * *

The bridge blew up just before the Union patrol reached it, sending timbers and deadly splinters flying in all directions. Before the blue-coated troops could get their frightened and rearing and bucking mounts under control, the Marauders struck them from ambush. Only a very few got away.

The next day, the Marauders attacked a Federal supply train and plundered it, taking rations and ammunitions and explosives. Then they destroyed the locomotive's boiler and set the cars on fire before vanishing into the woods.

During a three-week period, MacCallister's Marauders destroyed miles of railroad track, attacked and destroyed three Union trains, blew up three supply depots and one armory, captured hundreds of Union soldiers, and sent a dozen or more terrified prisoners back to their commanding officers with this message from Jamie: “I am no coward nor am I a traitor. You can keep the price on my head, but you'd damn well better reword that flyer!”

By the 15th of September, 1862, the price had been taken off of Jamie's head, and no more wanted posters were printed.

Even the usually dour Buell was secretly amused at how fast the government could act . . . when they were being poked in the ass with a Bowie knife.

* * *

Jamie and his men and horses had very nearly reached the stage of exhaustion as they rode into a small Kentucky town that was solidly in the Confederate camp. A scout had been sent ahead to check out the town and alert the citizens that they were coming.

The town's band tuned up, and the citizens gathered along the street. The band played “Dixie” while the folks cheered and shouted as the weary Marauders rode slowly up the street.

The townspeople took care of the tired horses and put the Marauders up in private homes, where they could bathe and shave and have a few hot meals. The mayor personally took Jamie home with him. After the colonel had taken a long hot bath, shaved, and changed into clean clothing, the mayor took Jamie into the sitting room of his home.

Over whiskey, the man said, “You don't remember me, do you, Jamie?”

Jamie stared at his host, then slowly shook his head. “I'm sorry, sir, but I do not.”

The man smiled. “I'm Jim Jefferson, Robert Jefferson's brother. His younger brother. We went to school together after you and Hannah escaped from that Shawnee camp.”

“Well . . . I'll be darned. Sure, I remember you now. How is Robert?”

Jim shook his head. “Killed years ago, Jamie. By some kin of the Jacksons' or the Olmsteads'. We never did know for sure who did that awful deed.” He sighed. “I don't reckon that feud will ever die.”

“I'm sorry. I truly am. Robert was the first friend I made in that village.”

Jim smiled. “But you put a pretty good dent in that feud, so I hear.”

Jamie laughed. “I sure tried.”

The two men talked until the long shadows of afternoon lay dark upon the ground; then his wife called that dinner was ready—and it was excellent, the table fairly groaning under the weight of food. Jim tactfully kept the talk away from the war, something that Jamie was very grateful for.

Jamie slept well and deep that night on a soft feather tick and ate a hearty breakfast, then, after seeing to Satan, napped the remainder of the day away, as did most of his men. On the morning of the third day in the village, Jamie received orders by coded wire.

The Marauders were to proceed at once, by the shortest route, to an area just north of the town of Perryville, located on the Chaplin River, and wait for orders.

“What the hell is goin' on there?” Captain Jennrette asked.

“I don't know,” Jamie replied. “I never heard of the place. I don't even know where it is.”

“I do,” a young Marauder spoke up, opening a map and spreading it out. “It's right here, Colonel.”

Jamie looked. “So it is,” he muttered. “But what's there?”

No one knew.

“Saddle up,” Jamie ordered. “Let's go find out what's so important about Perryville.”

While Jamie and his Marauders were carefully making their way toward Perryville, events were unfolding very quickly all around them, but without their knowledge, since the Marauders were traveling cautiously, avoiding villages and towns. Rebels, under the command of General Smith, had taken Lexington. The Federal forces, under the command of Buell, had pushed north to Bowling Green. General Bragg, meanwhile, had circled around and was now close at hand, ready for a fight. But he hesitated, and Buell pressed on to Louisville, leaving the Rebels far behind and without adequate supplies.

It had taken Jamie and his Marauders days to reach the Chaplin River, and when they got there, they found absolutely nothing. They still had no way of knowing they were about to be caught smack in the middle of a raging fight.

“I got a bad feelin' about this whole thing, Colonel,” Sergeant Major Huske confided in Jamie.

“So do I,” Jamie replied. “Send out scouts, Top. Let's find out what is going on.”

Plenty, as Jamie was about to find out. But for now, he was cut off with no way of communicating with any of his commanders; having no orders countermanding his original orders, Jamie and his men made camp and waited, unaware that a Federal force of more than seventy-five thousand men were camped to his east, and getting ready to move . . . in his direction.

The days dragged on and Jamie and his men rested, reread letters from home, and fished in the shallow river to supplement their supplies. To make matters worse, the river was growing dangerously low because of a terrible drought.

A scout came boiling back into camp, all smiles. He leaped off his horse and reported. “Confederates in Perryville, Colonel. 'Bout ten thousand of 'em. We're fixin' to mix it up with the Yankees right soon.”

“Who's in command?”

“Generals Wood and Johnson, sir.”

Jamie quickly saddled up and rode into the town.

“Where in God's name have you been, Colonel?” Bushrod Johnson asked, when Jamie reported in.

Jamie told him.

Johnson's mouth dropped open. “By whose orders, Colonel?”

“They came out of Chattanooga. That's all I know. General, I don't even know what month it is.”

“It's October, Colonel. The fifth of October. Get your men in here to draw supplies. We're about to have one hell of a fight on our hands. When you're supplied, waste no time, sir. Get over to link up with Wheeler's Cavalry.” He pointed to a map. “Right here.”

Wheeler's face brightened noticeably when he saw the Marauders ride up, battle flag uncased. “MacCallister's Marauders reporting as ordered, General,” Jamie said.

“Glad to have you, Colonel. Most glad. Let's dismount and give our butts a break and go over a very bad situation.”

When Jamie looked at the map, his heart sank. He could see at a glance that General Bragg had his men positioned all wrong. Wheeler read the big man's face.

“Yes, Colonel. I know. But I'm a soldier, just like you.”

“My God, sir,” Jamie blurted. “We're going to be cut off way down here to the south, with a short regiment of cavalry, facing a full division of Federals.”

“That is correct, Colonel. And we are expected to hold this road and keep that division from advancing and flanking Powell, up here.”

“But Powell is facing more men than we are!” Jamie lost his temper. “What the hell are all these brigades doing being held in reserve?”

Wheeler shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.

“Well . . . I'll do the best I can, General.”

“I'll not throw away good men, Colonel. You may be assured of that. We'll fight, and fall back, regroup, fight, and fall back. But do it slowly. And while we're doing that, we've also got to watch this Federal force south and west of us. We don't want to get flanked.”

Jamie met the man's eyes, and both realized that the other knew Bragg's plan was badly flawed. “Yes, sir,” Jamie said softly, as in the distance, shots were heard.

Wheeler held out his hand, and Jamie took it as he towered over the much smaller man. “God be with you, Colonel MacCallister.”

“And you, sir.”

* * *

For the next several days, God chose not to smile on either side. About seventeen thousand Rebels were poised to strike at over sixty thousand Yankee troops. Bragg thought the number of Union soldiers was much less than that. When he discovered the true figures, it was too late to turn back. He was committed. On the morning of October 8, Bragg gave the orders to attack.

The Confederates charged under a covering fire of artillery, and Wheeler's Cavalry and Jamie's Marauders held firm, much to the surprise of both of them, for they were vastly outnumbered.

During a lull in the fighting, Jamie rode over to Wheeler. “What's happening over there?” he asked. “The Federals have enough troops to shove us all the way across the river.”

“I can't imagine,” the hard-charging Wheeler replied. “Something is certainly all haywire over there.”

It certainly was. The commanding general of the troops on the road defended by Wheeler and Jamie, Crittenden, stayed well back, at least several miles back, and refused to commit his troops. He had sent out several advance parties, company strong, and they had been so thoroughly bloodied by Wheeler's Cavalry and Jamie's Marauders, Crittenden was convinced he was facing a much larger force than he actually was.

That first day was to be a series of Federal foul-ups, one right after the other.

The Federal troops did advance at widely scattered points, mainly the hard-fighting Sheridan, but those few units under his command that did advance found themselves in danger of outdistancing their allies and were forced to pull back for safety's sake.

Back on the road some two miles from the town and about the same distance south from the heaviest fighting of the day, Jamie and Wheeler could but look at each other in astonishment.

“I don't believe it,” Wheeler said.

A scout rode and whispered in Jamie's ear, then quickly withdrew. Jamie shook his head in disbelief, and then turned to Wheeler.

“General, my men just finished questioning several Union officers. Are you aware that we've been fighting the whole damn Army of the Ohio this day?”

Stunned, Wheeler stared at Jamie for a moment. “Let's ride for Bragg's HQ!” he said. “We've got the Yankees on the run, and if we press hard right now, we can strike a major blow for the South.”

“No,” Bragg said. “No. We could not possibly hope to win by doing that. We retreat back to Harrodsburg. Now.”

It was yet another case where the South won the battle, but eventually lost the war.

* * *

Surprisingly, General Buell did not pursue the retreating Confederates as they reached their objective and began setting up a strong defensive line. Their objective, which surprised everyone, was to march over two hundred miles, clear out of Kentucky, and all the way down to Knoxville, Tennessee. With a victory at hand had he pressed it, Bragg instead chose to retreat, and his officers and men had no choice but to obey. Jefferson Davis was furious. The comments about Bragg from general officers ranged from his being an idiot to an incompetent—and those were the nice things said, the others being unprintable.

But Davis and Bragg were close friends, and Bragg was not replaced.

To make matters worse, many of Bragg's troops were sick and all were hungry, even though warehouses around the area were bulging with tons of food and warm clothing. That food, they were told, was to be sent to the Army of Virginia. They had to remain healthy in order to repulse any attack.

Jamie's reply to that was, “Hogwash!” He immediately started sending teams of his men out on night forays to break into the Confederacy's own warehouses to steal and cache enough food to keep body and soul alive.

Winter lay white and heavy on the ground when Bragg received orders for his command to head for Stones River. Davis also appointed a new overall commander of the Army of the West: General Joseph Johnston. But the South had the same problems with command as did the North: the damned politicians insisted upon running the war, especially Jefferson Davis. Johnston and Davis came nose to nose and eyeball to eyeball in Richmond at a private meeting.

“Get your goddamn aides out of here!” Johnston thundered at Davis. “Let's settle this command issue once and for all.”

The room cleared, Davis took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, preparing to fist-fight the general. It would not have been their first fight, for the two had gone out behind the barracks several times while at West Point and duked it out. They just simply did not like one another.

Reason quickly overrode anger, and the respect the men had for one another prevailed. They didn't like each other, but they did respect each other.

“Mister President,” Johnston said, after the men had passed a few amenities and passions cooled. “You have thirty-five thousand men sitting over in Arkansas doing nothing. Use them to reinforce Vicksburg. Don't strip men away from other vital areas.”

“I'll think about it,” Davis replied, and the meeting was over.

He didn't think on the suggestion nor did he act on it.

Back in Chattanooga, Jamie was chafing at the bit to get into action. But Davis was coming for an inspection soon, and Bragg wanted Jamie and his Marauders to be there to act as personal guards for the Confederate president.

“I suppose that's better than a lick up 'side the head,” Sergeant Major Huske lamented.

For more than six weeks, the war had been reduced to skirmishes, and the South was clearly the victor in most of those brief battles.

It was the middle of December, 1862, when Davis came to Tennessee for a visit and dealt Bragg a terrible blow. He ordered Bragg to send more than ten thousand of his troops to Vicksburg. That cut Bragg's forces by one third and left him with about thirty-five thousand men to face a Federal force estimated at more than one hundred and ten thousand. General Joe Johnston hit the ceiling and immediately traveled to meet with Davis. The home where they were meeting cleared like a whirlwind when the angry general stormed in.

One aide later said that when the door slammed closed, he heard Johnston yell at Davis, “Strip your blouse, goddamn you!” Then there were several loud crashes.

When the two men emerged a few minutes later, Davis had a black eye and Johnston had a bloody nose.

But ten thousand troops from the Army of Tennessee were sent to Vicksburg anyway.

* * *

Around Christmastime, the war virtually came to a halt—on both sides—and Colonel Morgan got married in Tennessee. While that was going on, Jamie, with no orders to remain now that Davis had returned to Richmond, provisioned his Marauders and hit the trail for Kentucky. During the next three weeks, Jamie and his men stopped and seized three Federal trains, burned the cars and blew up the locomotives, tore up miles of track, raided armories and supply depots, and captured over nine hundred Union prisoners.

“What the hell are we goin' to do with them?” Sergeant Major Huske asked.

“Watch,” Jamie told his Top Soldier.

“Go home,” Jamie told the startled prisoners. “Spend some time with your families if you can. I wish to God I could.”

Jamie and his men left the stunned Union prisoners standing alongside a ruined stretch of railroad and rode off into the cold afternoon.

“My captain is just not gonna believe this,” a sergeant from Indiana said.

“Hell with your captain,” another sergeant said, picking up his rucksack.

“I've said that a time or two myself.”

* * *

As Christmas day came and ebbed into night, the Rebel and Yankee armies in Tennessee prepared to fight. Peace on earth and good will toward men was about to be shattered by gunfire.

“Strike wherever you feel is necessary.” That's what Jamie's orders said.

“Idiotic orders,” Jamie muttered, as he wiped the cold rain from his saddle and mounted up.

“Which end do we support?” Captain Sparks asked, riding up alongside Jamie.

The Rebel lines were south of Nashville, stretched west to east, a line almost forty miles long.

“We have been ordered to strike wherever I feel is necessary.”

Sparks blinked. “Beggin' your pardon, Colonel, but we're gonna be needed damn near everywhere.”

Jamie smiled. “Yes. I know.”

They sure would be needed, for the Rebels were badly outnumbered.

After studying the battle map for a moment, sitting in the saddle, Jamie chose to once more link up with General Wheeler, knowing that the hard-charging young cavalryman—Wheeler was not yet thirty years old and one of the youngest generals in the Confederate army—would be right in the thick of things.

When Jamie reached Wheeler's position, he had to smile, for Joe Wheeler had chosen a position far north of the established Rebel lines. General Wheeler was determined to be the first to draw blood.

“People might say you were spoiling for a fight, Joe,” Jamie remarked, riding up to the young general's side.

But Joe did not smile. He tried, but the smile just couldn't form on his lips. He looked at Jamie through sad and serious eyes. “My men just took a few prisoners, Jamie. From a Yankee cavalry unit. That one facing us not five hundred yards away.” He pointed. “They're in those woods right over there. And they're not green troops; they're a crack outfit. Colonel MacCallister, you might ought to take your men over to the west some; get out of this area. Join up with General Hardee. As a matter of fact, I strongly suggest that you do that.”