The Confederate 5: Blood Cavalry

Prologue

GRIFFIN STARK LAY like one already dead.

His naked body reposed on a straw-filled mattress, supported by a framework of interlaced strips of leather. The oppressive desert heat that filled the low-ceilinged, second-floor room of the small posada in Chihuahua City had slicked his long, lean, muscular frame with oily perspiration. Sleeping in an identical cubical next door, Temple Ames paid no heed to his stuffy surroundings. Ames, who had been Griff’s companion for the past year, snored noisily with the acquired ease of his former mountain-man existence. The grizzled frontiersman, in his mid-fifties, never let the vagaries of nature interfere with the important business of his slumber.

On the other hand, the distant rumble and sudden drop in temperature drew Griffin Stark upward from his restless sleep and set him to dreaming …

Ominous thunder rolled over the neatly tilled fields outside Manassas Junction, Virginia. Not a cloud showed in the cerulean sky, nor did a drop of rain fall on that day in late July, 1861. The brooding rumble came from the many batteries of Union artillery, located some five miles away, across Bull Run, the creek that meandered through a thick stand of woods which separated Centreville from Manassas Junction. Beyond those trees, according to the intelligence gathering completed by Captain Griffin Stark’s company of cavalry the previous day, General Irvin S. McDowell’s Army of Virginia, some thirty-five thousand strong, had deployed for battle.

Facing this threat, twenty-two thousand Confederate troops, commanded by General Pierre Gustave Toutant Beauregard, waited in their cantonments and entrenchments that guarded the critical railroad junction town. There at Manassas Junction, the Manassas Gap Railroad met the Orange and Alexandria.

Control of this vital rail center would virtually guarantee the rapid victory of the fratricidally abolitionist Union forces over the secessionist States Righters of the Confederacy. Both commanders and their subordinate officers were aware of this.

McDowell had moved into position near Centreville on the July sixteenth. Confederate forces had immediately tightened their defenses and acquired what reinforcements they could. The only hope for significant increase rested with General Joseph E. Johnston, whose eleven thousand men had been pinned down in the Shenandoah Valley, many miles distant, by troops commanded by Union General Robert Patterson. So far the major contenders had not been brought to battle.

There had been a brief engagement the previous day, Friday the nineteenth, at a horseshoe bend in Bull Run where Confederate elements had clashed in a sharp, hard-fought battle with the men of Anderson’s Brigade. Neither force had left the field with a decisive victory. Now, Saturday, the twentieth of July dawned to the incessant belligerence of Union cannon.

Griffin Stark awakened to this bellicose grumbling with an aching backside and throbbing head. After making his report the previous day, regarding the deployment of McDowell’s men around Centreville and Sudley Springs, he had rejoined J.E.B. Stuart’s cavalry half a mile to the south of Manassas Junction. There also was the artillery park of Beckham’s Battery. Beyond the thin, gray-white walls of his tent, Griff could hear the shouts of sergeants and corporals as they routed the men out of beds and into formation. Griff needed nothing else to inform him that the situation had changed … and for the worse.

McDowell is probing our defenses all along his front, sir, a young lieutenant informed Griff as the latter stepped outside, still buttoning his tunic. He’s got the creek before him and it makes a counterattack impossible.

But that’s what Beauregard is ordering, right? Griff countered.

Just so, Captain, the youthful officer acknowledged regretfully.

Buck up there, Randolph. This might be your opportunity to win fame and glory.

No such luck, Quinton Randolph replied gloomily. We’ve been ordered to remain here with Beckham’s Battery as part of the reserve. What reserve, I ask you, sir? We’re badly outnumbered and it will take every man simply to contain the Yankees on the other side of Bull Run.

There’s always Johnston’s men, Griff suggested hopefully, recalling part of the discussion he had heard the night before.

How can he get out of the Valley? Bobby Patterson may be old and a Yankee, but he’s a damned fine general. If he can hold Joe Johnston there for two and a half days, McDowell’s blue-bellies will go through us like you-know-what through a goose. If you’ll pardon my language, sir.

Don’t let that concern you, Lieutenant Randolph. There’s always the train, Griff suggested humorously, unaware of his prescience.

Hoo! That’s a good one. Begging your pardon, sir. Trains are fine for shipping goober peas and tobacco to market, but what good can they do an army? Just stop the locomotive right there, Mr. Engineer. Over by where those cannon balls are falling. Well get off and go fight the Yankees and thank you very much. It simply isn’t practical, sir.

Perhaps so, Lieutenant. Well, I’m for some coffee and a bite of breakfast.

I’ve already eaten, sir.

Very well, Lieutenant. I’ll see you at first call. And … were I you, I’d instruct my noncoms to see that the men have adequate cold rations and plenty of spare ammunition packed away in their saddlebags.

Randolph’s eyes rounded in surprise. Do you think, sir, that …?

One thing about war, Lieutenant, you never know. You simply never know what might happen next. With that, Griff headed off toward the officer’s cook tent.

Yes, you are engaging the Rebels all along the creek, General McDowell growled at Brigadier Generals Tyler and Hrintztruian shortly after dawn on Sunday, the twenty-first. You’ve been doing that since yesterday morning. That isn’t what I want you to do, dammit. I want you to attack. Is that too difficult to understand? Attack, gentlemen, attack!

Across Bull Run, sir? Tyler probed, unsure he had heard what he thought he had.

Of course across the damned water, General. You may not be able to walk on it, but you can run through it. McLean’s Ford in front of Anderson is nearly a dry crossing. For the rest of the creek, it’s only three feet at the deepest.

Isn’t that giving the advantage to the enemy, sir? General Hrintztruian protested.

"What difference does it make? We outnumber them and we have more and better artillery. ‘On to Richmond!’ "McDowell thundered, echoing a popular slogan recently coined in the Capital.

An orderly entered, followed by an agitated junior officer. He saluted the commander and spared all usual cordialities before expressing his concern. What do we do with the civilians, sir?

What civilians? McDowell demanded, uncertain of what this intrusion meant.

The ones coming in from Washington City, General. They’re arriving by the hundreds. Whole families are making a Sunday outing of it, complete with picnic lunches. They seem to think we are putting on some sort of … pageant or, ah, show for their entertainment.

The Union commander smiled at this. Then we will, Lieutenant. We, by God, will. Tyler, Hrintztruian, he snapped as he turned to his subordinate commanders, return to your brigades. Prepare to advance on my signal. We will press a frontal assault along the entire length of our position.

Reluctantly, the generals saluted. Yes, sir.

They’re still out there, sir, Colonel Morton Esterhazy reported late Sunday morning to Major General Robert Patterson. Our cavalry screen has reported encountering resistance at seven different points along where the Confederate line is presumed to be.

What do you mean by ‘presumed,’ Colonel? Patterson asked coldly. The Rebels are either there or they are not.

"Uh … they are there, General. Two of those contacts turned into right smart skirmishes."

Involving how many of the enemy, Colonel?

I … uh … there are no accurate figures, sir. The best estimates indicate some three to five hundred men.

Then the only reliable report you can make is that three to five hundred soldiers are presently holding up the advance of twelve thousand troops?

Ah … yes, General. That would seem to be the case. But—

‘But’ what, Colonel Esterhazy? I want reconnaissance in force, at once. We need to know where every Rebel unit is located, down to the last private and latrine orderly. Send out your patrols immediately. Double them … triple them if necessary. But get me that information.

Two hours later, a glum, though exceedingly agitated Colonel Morton Esterhazy reported back to his commander. They, ah, that is, er, General Johnston’s corps is gone, sir.

Gone! What do you mean they are gone?

"The enemy has decamped from the field, sir. Only a few pickets were left behind to create the impression the corps remained here facing us. We have captured most of them. Captain Carmichael has interrogated enough for us to form a picture of what happened.

They lighted fires last night, sparred with our patrols, even beat drums and blew bugle calls. A … ah, rather convincing ruse.

I’ll have someone’s head for this! the old general thundered. Colonel Esterhazy looked properly chagrinned and expectant of losing his own, so Patterson moderated his verbal explosion … before someone has mine."

Where could they have gone, sir?

Where? Where else? To Manassas Junction, you pluperfect idiot!

Men gathered from all around as the line of flatcars rattled into the siding at Manassas Junction late Sunday afternoon. One lanky Blue Ridge Mountain boy ogled the gray-and-butternut ranks standing on the rolling platforms and expressed his wonder in Griffin Stark’s presence.

Wall … would ye lookie at that. Them’s those Alabama boys what was with Joe Johnston. Wonner how they got ta here so fast?

The Manassas Gap Railroad always delivers, a fusty, rotund conductor in black suit and round, flat-topped bill cap told him. He consulted a fat gold watch in one hand. Made that run from the Shenandoah in record time.

None too soon, I’d say, Captain Griffin Stark remarked to the railroad functionary. The Yankees have been raisin’ hob with us all day.

The chubby conductor gave Griff a fisheye. Why ain’t you in the fightin’, then?

General Beauregard put us in reserve yesterday. We should have been committed three hours ago. Looks like this is what he waited for.

Hardly had the wheels stopped turning before the first soldiers jumped off onto the ground and adjusted their knapsacks in place. Another sharp-eyed cavalryman in the ranks behind Griffin Stark identified the various units.

There’s Elzey’s boys. An’ here comes ol’ Jubal Early, hisself. That’s Joe Johnston he’s talkin’ with. Musta brought Beauregard’s orders personal.

The designated officers came within Griff’s hearing and he listened closely to the instructions given by a staff officer accompanying Jubal Early.

General Smith is to take Elzey’s brigade forward and form on the left of our line, his left thrown forward. He is to attack the enemy in the flank.

At the request of General Smith, Joe Johnston inserted, I am to join him in his endeavors

Very well, the staff officer agreed. Then you can assume overall command of the second offensive from there, General.

Joe, Jubal Early drawled. I will be in reserve behind Longstreet and Jones, near Blackburn’s place and McLean’s Ford. I have orders to attach Stuart’s cavalry and Beckham’s artillery. When they are in line, I’ll be able to lend you support in such a manner that we can close on the enemy right like the pincers of a crawdad.

Despite the timely arrival of eleven thousand reinforcements, the Yankee forces under McDowell continued to press forward. A deep salient formed, from which Union artillery managed to shell the outskirts of Manassas Junction and rain fiery steel fragments into the redoubts and parallels of the Confederate entrenchments. While General Beauregard occupied his mind with containing the major advance, Joe Johnston assumed command of the reinforcements and support units.

Until this time, each successive Yankee attack had met with increasing advance. The entire Confederate front had reached a point of near collapse. A few untried men had already thrown down their arms and ran from the fight. Two units of Longstreet’s men milled about in confusion and nearly fired on each other. Then the Alabamans took the field.

Across a level stretch of grass, split by a thin sheen of water, the Seventy-first New York Volunteers waged a stand-up shooting contest with the brave boys from Alabama. Amid the litter of their dead, the New Yorkers came to a stop. Their ranks wavered as more men fell. Then an eerie, keening cry rose from the ranks of the Confederates.

"Yeeee-aaaah-hooo!"

Still howling like forest demons, the gray line charged, bayonets leveled and gleaming in the afternoon sun. Though more than a few were felled by Yankee bullets, the mass of Rebel soldiers bore down on their enemy. Behind them came the cavalry.

"Chee-aaar-ge!" Griffin Stark echoed the command of James Ewell Brown Stuart as the dashing cavalry commander led his regiment in a long, sweeping stab into the Union right flank.

Black plume trailing behind his gray hat, Stuart drove toward the heart of Yankee resistance. The unexpected change in tactics, from defensive to offensive, paralyzed the Union infantry. The huge, broad-chested bays and grays of squadron after squadron thundered toward them.

At first they returned fire. Then a few men at the rear abandoned arms arid reason and fled in terror. More quickly joined them.

To his right, Griff saw a young Yankee officer raise a short carbine. Before the lieutenant could fire, Griff triggered a round from his Starr revolver. The .44 ball smacked into the hollow of the Yankee’s throat and his head snapped backward, drawing the body along. He lay, flopping on the ground, as Griff galloped past.

Over to the right, Griff commanded when he saw the white, blank faces of green troops. Smash into them!

In quick order, Griff emptied his cylinder. He dropped three more Union soldiers in the process. Powder smoke stung at his nostrils and sweat ran down his face. He blinked rapidly to avoid being blinded by the salty flow. To his left a horse screamed in agony as it took a Yankee bayonet in the breast. As it reared, Griff hacked with his saber at another infantryman who tried to kill the dislodged rider.

Bounding like a furry ball, the unfortunate Union soldier’s head tumbled through the grass. A bugle sounded and Griff directed his men forward, through a screen of trees.

Water splashed high around the churning legs of the cavalry mounts as Stuart led his regiment through Bull Run and around the edge of another stand of hickory and elm. Suddenly they fell on the left flank of Tyler’s Division.

Yankee soldiers screamed at the sight of flashing sabers, and broke in a first panic that rapidly became epidemic. Emboldened by the cavalry’s lightning success, units of Longstreet’s and Jones’s corps swarmed forward to join in the advance of the fresh troops from the Valley. News of this untoward event quickly reached General McDowell

As he watched, his forward elements gave ground in a thick haze of powder smoke that obscured the individual tragedies and triumphs. Messengers arrived every few seconds at McDowell’s headquarters near Cub Run. They brought nothing but gloomy reports of intolerable slaughter from Hrintztruian’s Division, which took the brunt of the Confederate counterattack on its positions in and around Sudley Springs. Panic-flayed gallopers came from Tyler’s Division with similar stories of ferocious fighting among the trees on the east bank of Bull Run. Then Hunter sent word that his division had become engaged by the enemy.

Never had anything looked so black. When the Confederates should have been fleeing the field, as they had done under Beauregard at Shiloh, they had turned on their conquerors and driven them back. Impossible!

Where have these fresh troops come from? McDowell asked of no one, then answered his own question. The Shenandoah! Why didn’t Bob Patterson hold them?

Reluctantly, McDowell ordered a general withdrawal.

At first, the army fell back in a disciplined manner. Then panic erupted when rumors spread that Stuart’s hard-riding cavalry had smashed through Tyler’s lines and was gleefully hacking to pieces every Union soldier in sight. No quarter was being given, the frantic reports declared. Instantly, a terrible and disgraceful rout took form.

Companies, regiments, and brigades lost all semblance of military formation as these pitiful, frightened men flung away packs, weapons, equipment, and their very honor in blind flight from the imagined sabers of the Gray Ghost and his howling squadrons of mounted demons.

In the midst of this general madness, the smug Washington civilians found themselves caught up in streams of terrified men, fleeing from shot and shell, pressed closely by the screaming hordes of Confederate soldiers. The complacent spectators had packed their picnic baskets and driven out to watch their invincible army crush the Rebels. Now their macabre holiday had ended in abject terror as they became caught up in the reality of the war.

Carriages, barouches, buggies, and hired hacks raced pell-mell across the slopes and grassy fields, seeking refuge where none existed. Shell splinters and bullets of both armies indiscriminately bloodied, maimed, and murdered these hapless fools. Bright and fancy clothing was democratically torn and blood-soaked along with gaily designed uniforms and common soldiers’ tunics. Through the terror-stricken civilians, McDowell’s troops ran like stampeding cattle.

On their heels came the howling, victorious Confederates.

Look at ’em skedaddle! Sergeant Ernest Hackler told his company commander, Captain Griffin Stark.

Yes, Sergeant. Those Yankees certainly have a knack for snatching utter defeat from the jaws of victory.

Hey, that shines! I’m gonna remember that one to tell m’grandchillen.

Better you remember the awful losses we took before this turnabout was possible. I fear it won’t be the last, Griffin Stark told his First Sergeant …

Chapter One

CHIHUAHUA CITY STILL huddled under the cannonading of the roiling storm. One particularly vivid lightning bolt and calamitous, sky-rending peal of thunder brightly illuminated Griffin Stark’s small room. Locked in his enveloping dreams, Griff heaved upright in alarm. His hands groped for a weapon and his wide-open eyes stared sightlessly at the whitewashed adobe wall.

Look out, Colonel! Griff shouted in a rusty voice. Then he peripherally recognized his surroundings.

Wiping his sweat-glazed brow with the back of one hand, Griffin Stark climbed from bed. His hands unsteady, Griff went to the tiny washstand and poured water from a day jug into a glazed, handleless cup of the same material. Not yet entirely free of his powerful memories of the Battle of Manassas, he gulped at the liquid as his heartbeat slowed. Over the cacophony of the storm he heard a light rap at his door.

Despite the thick walls of mud bricks, Temple Ames had heard Griffin Stark’s warning cry and come instantly awake. Barefoot, in a disreputable set of long johns, he stood at the entranceway with a big Colt’s Dragoon pistol in one hand. A frown of concern creased his leathery face and only his eyes showed relief when Griff opened the door.

Bein’ et alive by these bedbugs? the former mountain man inquired when Griff opened the door.

No. Dreaming again.

About Jeremy?

Not this time. I … was back in the war.

Oh. Well, this chile’s got nothin’ to do an’ big ears, if you’ve a mind to talk about it. With all of this ... Thunder drowned out his words. …on, we might as well stay awake a while.

Come on in, Temple.

Any tequila? Or, better still, some genuine mountain dew? Ain’t tasted decent whiskey since we came into this forsaken country.

I have some bottles of beer and a small flask of mescal.

That’ll have to do. Ames made himself comfortable on the single chair in the room.

His hair, grizzled now with shoots of gray, projected from the top of his well-formed head in wild, fanlike tufts. He accepted a room temperature bottle of the local brew and pressed the hinged stopper open. After consuming an appreciable swallow, he smacked thick lips and peered through clear blue eyes at his companion.

Make free to say what’s a gnawin’ on ya, Griff.

Griff’s face lit briefly with a hesitant smile. He ran