Authors: R.E. Thomas
Kilpatrick’s commanders rushed back to their units, just as one of the cannon to Kilpatrick’s left was smashed to bits, struck by solid shot. A third grey brigade emerged from the valley woods below, on the extreme left of Smith’s mixed bag of Hoosiers, Buckeyes and Kentuckians. Dismounted as well, these troopers advanced up the slope.
Kilpatrick mounted his horse, spurred to a gallop and caught Murray. “Colonel Murray, a new brigade is menacing our left. Lead your men against them. Charge them, give them the saber and roll them back downhill.”
Murray blinked. “You want me to charge massed, dismounted cavalry?”
Kilpatrick screamed “Damn your eyes! This isn’t a fucking debating society! Get your ass up there!”
Murray instructed his bugler to sound “Forward,” and then shot back at Kilpatrick “If we survive this, sir, afterward you can expect me to call on you to account for your manners.” Murray rode to the front of his men, waving his saber and pointing it forward as he led them at the walk up to the front line.
Just before reaching the crest, the brigade was ordered up to a trot. As they crested the hill the pace was increased to a gallop, and then for the second time that day, Murray’s Brigade charged downhill.
The advancing grey troopers halted and opened fired on the thundering blue cavalry, shredding the front ranks of Murray’s pair of Kentucky cavalry regiments. Their comrades in the main Rebel line savaged the charge’s right with fire. A section of Rebel cannon that was primed and ready to fire sent two balls slicing through the massed ranks of horsemen, creating still more bloody carnage. And still Murray went on, his horsemen cutting right through the porous skirmish line, slashing and shooting as they went.
The dismounted Rebel troopers were soon put to flight, but not soon enough for Murray. Gunners everywhere thought cavalry made for marvelous targets, and by that time all the Rebel cannon had shifted from counter-battery fire to shooting up his brigade. He was bringing the tattered remnants of his outfit about when a fresh brigade of dismounted troopers emerged from the woods, bearing Kentucky banners.
“Lyon’s Brigade,” Murray said, choking back a sob. Not this way, he thought. Kentuckians in grey. Please, God, not this way.
The Kentucky Confederates leveled their motley assortment of carbines, muskets and musketoons, and rattled off a volley into Murray’s troopers. What was left of the blue brigade broke, fleeing back to the relative safety of Smith’s lines. More were gunned down as they ran up the slope.
Kilpatrick was horrified, not over the rout and slaughter he had just sent Murray and his troopers to, so much as at the presence of that fourth brigade. On top of the 12 guns, it was clear that Forrest, if indeed Forrest it was, really did have him outnumbered.
It’s time to skedaddle, Kilpatrick decided.
He rode over to his artillery. “Captain, I want you to shift your guns over to the left, to meet this new threat. Give them a faceful of double canister, make them back off. Then limber up and put your guns on the Jasper Road.”
Beebe looked to his four remaining guns and shook his head. “General Kilpatrick, I barely have any canister left. I’ve been firing on them Rebel troopers, just like you said. I’m almost used up.”
“Dammit!” Kilpatrick screamed. He couldn’t count on anyone, he thought. Why didn’t this fool keep a reserve? Did he have to think of everything himself?
“Alright,” snapped Kilpatrick. “Limber your guns up and get on the Jasper Road.” He then went over to his left, to examine the situation there more closely. He arrived just in time to see the fresh Rebel brigade, formed in loose order, lap up and over Smith’s rapidly retiring lines.
Kilpatrick had just decided it was time to pull himself and his staff back when he felt a hard impact to his left leg, followed by a fiery, piercing lance of pain. Simultaneously, he felt his horse shudder and heard it scream. He instantly realized both he and his mount had been shot, and now the horse was falling over. His left leg was useless, so he could do nothing. Kilpatrick screamed as the horse slammed down on his wounded leg, crushing and grinding his mangled bones and pinning him to the ground. Mercifully, he passed out.
He awoke to the bitter odor of smelling salts and found himself laid out on a rough-hewn table in a log cabin. Kilpatrick realized it was late afternoon from the light. His left trouser leg was cut open, and he had to suppress gagging when he saw the frightful state of his lower leg, bones jutting out from his torn flesh. A tourniquet was in place, the only thing preventing him from bleeding to death. A young Rebel surgeon in a blood-stained smock was there, as was an even younger lieutenant in a tattered tan uniform.
The surgeon spoke. “Ah, General Kilpatrick. You are awake, sir. Lieutenant, go fetch General Forrest.”
Kilpatrick pushed down his tears of pain and despair. His leg lost, and he was Forrest’s prisoner. That it had come to this, and all because of blundering Murray. Stupid Beebe, not holding back enough ammunition. Cowardly Smith and Klein, who left him on the field to be captured.
The surgeon laid out the grim tools of his trade on a nearby chest. “I’m glad you responded to the salts, sir. I prefer my patients to be awake. No waking up in the middle of the operation, the worst possible time, thrashing about and taking us all by surprise. Also, unconscious patients have a propensity to heart failure, or so it is my experience.”
“Now, take this” he said, proffering a bottle. “It’s all I have, but it’s strong stuff.”
Kilpatrick often preached to his men against drinking, but was certainly no stranger to it himself, and at that moment he would have swallowed a barrel of whiskey if it would dull the agony of his leg. He propped himself up, took the bottle, and swallowed several large gulps. His stomach was empty, and the strong liquor went straight to work. Kilpatrick watched as the room began tilting slowly to the right.
As soon as the surgeon left to summon some orderlies to help hold Kilpatrick down, Nathan Bedford Forrest swept into the cabin, followed closely by the youthful lieutenant. He was a tall, strongly built man, but moved gracefully, and in his movements and appearance resembled nothing so much as a cougar. He seemed to fill what space remained in the cabin’s cramped confines.
Removing his hat, he said “I was sorry to hear of your misfortune, General Kilpatrick. If there is any...”
“Oh, you’ve done enough, you secessesh son of a darkie whore!” Kilpatrick spat, half drunk. He was a stupid, mean drunk. It was the reason he abstained from intoxicating liquors, insofar as he actually did abstain. “I don’t want any charity from the likes of you. A fucking bastard who sends his cowards out wearing enemy uniforms. When this war is over, I’ll see you all hanged!”
That last insult was a lie, and everyone in the cabin knew it, Kilpatrick included. Forrest had employed many ruses against his enemies, but never an attack by men dressed in full Federal uniform. He glared at Kilpatrick with undisguised, murderous contempt.
Forrest slowly pulled off his left gauntlet, one finger at a time. When the gauntlet was off, he took it into his right hand very deliberately, and then suddenly lunged forward to smack Kilpatrick across the face with his open left hand. He put most of his shoulder and hip behind the blow, snapping Kilpatrick’s head around.
Stepping back, he asked his aide for writing materials. As Forrest dictated a brief note, the alcohol-induced color drained from Kilpatrick’s face. Forrest fixed his signature to the note, handed it to the cowed Kilpatrick, then put his gauntlet back on, turned smartly on his heels, and left without saying another word.
The note bore more flourish than Forrest’s actual dictation, this added by his more literate aide, and it read:
April 19, 1864
Holly Grove Crossroads, Alabama
Dear Sir,
The man bearing this letter, Brigadier Gen’l Judson Kilpatrick, USA, was wounded on the field of Holly Grove Crossroads. He is to be accorded every possible courtesy, given the best treatment, and I request every effort be exerted to speed his recovery.
Gen’l Kilpatrick has unfortunately made insulting and intemperate remarks, provoking my person in a way no gentleman’s dignity could tolerate. Naturally, I have challenged him to fight. When he is well and fit enough to travel, I must further request you award his release, if that lies within your power, without waiting for exchange and on the sole condition that he seek me out for satisfaction at the earliest possible time. If this is not within your power, I request you notify me, so that I might press for Gen’l Kilpatrick’s parole under the described conditions.
Sincerely and respectfully,
NB Forrest
Major Gen’l of Cavalry, CSA
Once outside, Forrest’s mouth curdled in anger. He swung about on his heels, and punched the log wall of the cabin, skinning his knuckles badly.
Forrest had already been chafing at the bit before he paid his courtesy call to Kilpatrick. His blood was up from the battle, and he longed hungrily to pursue the fleeing Yankee cavalry. Then that damn, arrogant, ungrateful fool of a Yankee, Irish half-bred dog had the gall to say such things to him! It would serve Kilpatrick right, Forrest thought, to put him back where I found him, pinned underneath his dead horse.
Forrest thought it had been the easiest victory of his career, this battle. Scouts had kept him informed of Kilpatrick’s movements, and locals described the lay of the ground to him. He knew if Kilpatrick tried to defend that position at Holly Grove, he could easily work around his left, so he hoped that the fool would stay put.
What was more, the odds were probably even for once, Forrest having four smallish brigades to Kilpatrick’s three. On top of that, Forrest did away with the textbook practice of having one man in four hold the horses, and put every man into the assault, and he had more guns as well.
Even so, two-thirds of the Yankee cavalry got away. Most of his command was exhausted and low on ammunition, but Lyon’s boys were in good shape, and rode some fine Bluegrass horseflesh to boot. They could lead a pursuit. All things being fair, he ought to be chasing the enemy down, pushing them hard, shaking them to pieces.
But Forrest’s orders from Bishop Polk were very detailed, very specific, and very contrary to a pursuit. That bothered Forrest, and not just because he resented the tight leash or the lost opportunity. It was strange. The Bishop was usually more careless. It wasn’t like Polk, not at all.
Forrest shrugged. If Polk wanted a tighter rein, Forrest could deal with that later. For now, he would not mar his victory with blatant insubordination. Instead, he limited Lyon’s orders to sprinting for Jasper, where a hundred Yankee wagons were rumored to be waiting.
April 20
Late afternoon
Headquarters, XV Army Corps, Army of the Tennessee, USA
Watkins House
Huntsville
McPherson hurried up the walk to the Watkins House. A big Georgian-style town mansion endowed with a tower, the house served as the headquarters of the largest corps in his army, the XV Corps. He was met on the front steps by a pack of junior staff officers.
“I want to see Black Jack,” he demanded.
McPherson was quickly ushered into the office of John A. Logan, who rose from behind his desk. A dark, swarthy bull of a man, Logan welcomed his chief with the big smile, iron handshake, and firm slap on the shoulder of a career politician.
Before either of them had a chance to sit down, McPherson declared “Do you know what that damn fool Kilpatrick went and did with my cavalry? He rode down to Jasper, picked a fight with the Rebs and got himself a thorough drubbing, that’s what! Captured to boot! I just got the wire from Decatur not 15 minutes ago.”
Logan pulled up a chair instead of returning to his desk. “Go on.”
McPherson sighed and plopped down. “According to Colonels Klein and Smith, after he crossed the Tennessee he rode straight down the Jasper, raised some hell, and then went looking to pick a fight with the Rebs. Klein and Smith reckon they ran into Forrest, who hit them with four brigades and 12 guns. Got whipped, Murray’s Brigade is cut to pieces and Murray missing. The only good news is that Kilpatrick got himself captured, and spared me the trouble of a court martial.”
Logan sighed. “Kil-Cavalry. Glory seeking, scheming little man, in some ways worse than McClernand ever was. Why does Washington insist on sending us these no account failures from the eastern army?”
“The man had been to West Point. One would think that would drill some sense into him,” McPherson said, shaking his head.
“If you ask me, Mac, West Point is overrated.”
“You would say that, John, you would,” McPherson replied, smirking. Logan was in his late 30s, and had been an Illinois Congressman at the start of the war. A civilian at First Bull Run, he had snatched up a musket and shot back at the Rebels. Sherman in particular loved telling that story. Shortly thereafter, Logan raised his own infantry regiment, showed real talent for fighting and leadership, and rose accordingly.
“So, what will you do?”
“Well, thank God I didn’t send Kilpatrick off with all my cavalry. I still have Minty.”
Logan nodded slowly. Robert H.G. Minty was one of the Army of the Cumberland’s best cavalry officers, leader of the crack Saber Brigade. Despite the name, every man was armed with not just sabers, but also revolvers and Sharps breechloaders. Moreover, the outfit was made up of a mix of volunteer and regular cavalry, all veterans now.
McPherson spoke with the firmness of a man who had already made up his mind. “Smith and Klein are shaky, but intact. I’ll form a new cavalry division around Minty, and give him acting command. I will likely have to break up poor Murray’s survivors, fold them into Smith’s 2
nd
Kentucky. “
“Don’t let Sherman saddle you with Edward McCook. Man’s not as bad as Kilpatrick, but still not very good,” Logan replied.
McPherson got up, walked around a little bit. “I won’t. I want Minty, unless Sherman offers me someone better.” After a pause, he continued. “If nothing else, this disaster tells us that something is indeed simmering down in central Alabama. We need to get back out there, see what direction it’s headed, where the Bishop will try to cross the Tennessee.”