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  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.

  13

  Sherman was forced to admit he had made a terrible mistake, and at ten o’clock that Sunday morning, he ordered his men to fall back, but make the Rebels pay in blood for every inch of ground.

  Both sides would pay in blood.

  All along the line, from eight positions, the Rebels charged the Union line with fixed bayonets, waving the Stars and Bars and screaming the Rebel Yell. Years after the war had ended, Union veterans said they could still hear that awful battle cry in their dreams.

  General Prentiss’ line was the first to break, sending hundreds and then thousands of men running toward the river. They clogged the trails and roads and prevented reinforcements from reaching the front.

  Sherman’s line began to buckle, but not break. He gave ground, his men fighting fiercely as they slowly withdrew.

  With so many of the Federals pulling back in huge clumps of blue uniforms, Beauregard and Johnston now massed their troops into three attack lines . . . and then the whole shebang halted for breakfast.

  When the battle resumed (both the Blue and the Gray on the front lines had paused for a bite to eat), there was no longer a clearly defined front and damn little organization. All up and down the chain of command, leaders lost touch with each other, and shattered platoons joined other equally shattered and leaderless platoons to form units of company size, often being led by officers from other divisions. For a time it was chaos.

  Back at the Savannah Road, Stuart had received reinforcements and was massing for a charge across the road.

  “We’d better get some help over here damn quick,” Jamie muttered.

  Help came rushing up just seconds before Stuart was to begin his charge, and the Union officer held his men back, for he was now facing the massed troops of Generals Chalmers and Bowen.

  “Colonel,” a general’s aide said to Jamie. “You and your boys have fought gallantly this day. Now you rest and let us put these Federals to rout.”

  Jamie could read between the lines of that statement but curbed his tongue and pulled his people back.

  Stuart’s brigade and several brigades from Ohio and Illinois were now facing the bulk of two divisions of Confederates, and they made ready to be slaughtered; for their orders were to hold at all costs, and the costs would be high.

  But in terms of slaughter, it was give and take that day. At just about the same time Stuart was preparing a defense, Rebel General Cheatham urged his men forward, and they went screaming and charging toward a Union stronghold that was called the Hornet’s Nest. Closer they came, then closer, and the Yankees held their fire. When the charging Rebels were less than a hundred yards away, the Union troops opened fire with rifle and cannon and it was carnage. The bodies dressed now in bloody Gray lay in heaps and piles. Some had been blown apart by grapeshot at nearly point-blank range.

  Moments after that attack failed, Bragg ordered Colonel Gibson to lead a bayonet charge against the Hornet’s Nest. Gibson led men from Louisiana and Arkansas into the battle. They were thrown back at a terrible cost of human life.

  Again the Rebels charged, and managed to breech the lines, only to be thrown back once more. The battleground was now covered in Blue mixed with Gray.

  Exhausted, Gibson was replaced by Colonel Allen. Allen’s charge was beaten back, with Allen losing almost half of his men. Gibson rallied his troops and charged the Hornet’s Nest for a third time, and for a third time, his battered brigade was thrown back. Gibson had no more men to give to the Cause on this Bloody Sunday.

  While Gibson’s brigade was being destroyed trying to take the Hornet’s Nest, Johnston was preparing to personally lead a charge against Union troops just to the Rebel right of the Hornet’s Nest. Jamie and his men had joined up with Jackson’s men on the other side of the Savannah Road and were locked in combat. The Marauders had dismounted and were fighting as infantry.

  Johnston led the charge into the peach orchard, now in full bloom. It was to be a successful charge, for the Union troops fled under the onslaught of Confederates; but it was to be Albert Sidney Johnston’s last charge. A minié ball tore through his right leg and he bled to death, lying on the ground, amid pink peach petals that had been torn loose by cannon fire.

  The command of the Rebel army in the West now was passed to Beauregard. But Beauregard was a mile and a half to the rear, at his own Command Post, so far back from the front lines he did not have the foggiest notion what was actually going on.

  * * *

  It was about three o’clock in the afternoon when General Johnston was killed. It took almost an hour for a runner to find Beauregard and lead him back to the fallen general. Standing over the body, Beauregard was momentarily distraught; then with a mighty sigh, clearly heard over the booming of battle, he personally covered the body with a gray cape, straightened up, and called for field reports to bring him up to date.

  “If we don’t start using artillery up the middle and start flanking the Yankees left and right,” said Jamie, who had ridden up shortly before Beauregard arrived, “we’re going to be chewed up and had for supper.”

  Beauregard’s aides fidgeted as the general gave the guerrilla fighter a sharp look, for the general wasn’t accustomed to anyone giving him orders. Then his soldier’s mind realized that MacCallister was right. “Your commander on the right, Colonel?”

  “They’re all dead, General.”

  “You are the ranking officer over there?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “Then you are in command.” He turned to an aide. “Make a note of that.” He turned to Jamie. “Return to your position and wait until the last echoes of cannon fire have ceased, Colonel,” Beauregard said to Jamie. “Then take your right flank and swing your men in.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jamie mounted up and was gone.

  “That is a very impudent and disr
espectful man,” one of Beauregard’s young aides sniffed.

  “My God, I wish I had ten thousand more just like him.” Beauregard put a very abrupt end to any further criticism of Colonel MacCallister.

  Jamie waited with the remnants of half a dozen different shattered and battered commands that he had gathered around him. Soon more than seventy cannons began to roar from the Confederate side, lashing out shell and shot. The cannonade lasted for about forty-five minutes, and it demoralized those Union troops it was directed upon, mainly those defending the Hornet’s Nest. The Rebel gunners were pouring on the fire, sending more than one hundred and ninety shot and shell per minute into the Yankee lines.

  The center of the Union line began buckling and finally gave way. On the Rebel left, Jamie and his men charged and put the Union forces into a wild retreat. On the Rebel right, Sherman and the other Union generals began a withdrawal.

  Some say the Rebels were fighting so fiercely because of the death of their beloved general, Johnston, but that was not so. Beauregard had ordered that his death be kept secret, and only a handful of officers and men actually knew he was dead.

  Jamie and his men smashed into the Union lines and secured their objective on the Rebel right. Jamie, following orders received during the devastating cannonade, stopped his advance and held, allowing his men some much needed rest.

  The Union troops defending the Hornet’s Nest began to scatter as the word came down the line that it was every man for himself, for they were very nearly surrounded by screaming, blood-thirsty Rebels. Most of the Union troops headed for the river—or where they hoped in all the smoke and confusion the river would be.

  Several battered units of Confederate cavalry had linked up with Jamie, and Jamie sent Little Ben Pardee, limping badly but very much still in action, galloping on a fresh horse to find Beauregard and get permission to attack straight on toward Pittsburg Landing. But Little Ben could not find the commanding general, for the general, by this time, had moved all the way over to the Rebel left to join Morgan’s cavalry, smashing against Sherman’s forces.