McBee's Bloody Boots - Battle of Gaines' Mill

This post is an excerpt from my second Civil War novel, McBee’s Bloody Boots.  I plan to publish the novel via Amazon by the end of next month, but a modern connection with the contents of this particular chapter make it a good time to put forth a preview of the book.

In a few weeks, I will join a hundred other reenactor-historians from Texas to take part in a ceremony to honor the Texas Brigade of the Army of Northern Virginia at the National Battlefield Park at Gaines’ Mill, just east of Richmond, Virginia.  The ceremony is being conducted in conjunction with a Civil War reenactment being held a short distance from the battlefield park.

The excerpt is Chapter 13 of the novel and describes the participation of the Fifth Texas Infantry in their first major battle – Gaines’ Mill on June 27, 1862.  I hope you enjoy it.

 

McBee’s Bloody Boots

Chapter 13

Gaines’ Mill

Southeast of Richmond, Virginia

June 27, 1862

 

“Josh, you see that water moccasin slide off the log up ahead?” Cal Gilbert said as he stood in green slime-covered water that reached to his thighs. He looked over at Corporal Hodges a few feet away, who was taller, but was still above his knees in the muck.

     “Yea, Cal. I saw it. Be careful.” The men could hear the sounds of the battle raging beyond them and were already nervous. They had seen General Hood himself lead one of their sister regiments across an open field, drawing heavy fire as they went. Their own regiment, along with the First Texas Infantry, had been directed to attack from a different tangent. Their path took them through a low marsh known locally as Boatswain’s Swamp and heavy brush hid them from the Union defenders on Turkey Hill.

     It was slow, arduous going. More than one man slipped or tripped on roots that were invisible under the opaque water. Some men fell, submerging their leather cartridge boxes in the swamp water, making the paper cartridges inside useless. Men pulled their stumbling comrades up by elbows and jacket collars, steadying each other as they waded forward, repeatedly crossing the detritus of fallen tree trunks. As difficult as their path was, the sense of urgency among the officers and most of the men was palpable.

     “Come on, Corporal Hodges, get your boys up with to that dry spot!” At that instant Hodges felt someone knock into his shoulder and force his way past. Then Hodges felt a whoosh of air as he saw the flash of a blade slash down into the water.  He saw a black form twist away from the shiny steel and disappear under water, leaving a dissipating circle of red.

     “No bullets to waste on a damn cottonmouth,” Captain McBee muttered as he raised his sword blade to rest on his shoulder. “I said move faster, Hodges, we’re getting behind.”

     “Yes, Sir, and thank you,” the corporal replied as he lifted one leg over a floating tree trunk.

     McBee looked back at Hodges and said, “Can’t let General Hood and the boys in the Fourth have all the glory,” and waving his pistol in his right hand, he added, “And these rounds are for those two-legged snakes up ahead.”

     Rafe Fulton glanced at the captain, saying, “John, you couldn’t shoot a damn wigglin’ mocassin with a pistol bullet unless you stuck it up his ass, which ain’t too damned likely.  I hope you find a slower moving yankeeboy to aim at.”

     McBee glowered at his old friend and growled at him, “Not now, Rafe.”

     Fulton nodded and plunged forward again.

     McBee’s men reached the edge of the foul water without taking any casualties, and joined other companies from the regiment gathering on a hillock that rose above the flooded marsh. The spot was dry, and dotted with small trees and low brush. One hundred and fifty yards ahead, near the foot of Turkey Hill, McBee could see a line of defensive breastworks stretching around the slope of the hill. He could see three red, white, and blue flags above the log and earth obstacles and see and hear muskets being fired from behind the works. Further up the hill he saw an artillery battery in action. Then McBee noted movement near the base of the hill, between them and the line of breastworks.

     “Absalom, you have young eyes, what are those scattered dark spots near the foot of the hill? They keep moving.” As he posed the question, both officers saw several puffs of white smoke from the area.

     “Captain, those are skirmishers, and I think they’re wearing green, not blue,” Daniels replied.

     “I thought so. It’s that sharpshooter regiment we keep hearing about. Well, they aren’t shooting our way. Yet. Glad about that, but not so good for the boys in the Fourth, I reckon.”

     McBee’s attention was then jerked away, “Captain, order your men to kneel while we collect the rest of the regiment,” called Lieutenant Colonel Upton.

     Captain McBee turned to acknowledge the order, noting that the colonel wore a brown flat topped hat with a big white cloth star sewed to hold up the hat brim on one side, and a long over-shirt that reached to his knees. Upton was not wearing a sword belt or carrying his sword, but he held a long handled black frying pan in his right hand.

     On McBee’s order, Company C of the Fifth Texas Regiment, the Leon Hunters, knelt in the grass and began to fire up the hill. The captain knelt behind his men, watching his sergeants and lieutenants, and keeping one eye towards Colonel Upton, who McBee expected any time to give the order to resume their advance.

     He saw a rider with the buff sleeve facings of a staff officer on his coat make his way out of the swamp, and stop near his company, all of whom were engaged, firing up the hill. Several of the men were reloading their muskets, and like McBee, noticed the staff officer as he reined in his horse and started shouting, “Stand up, boys! Don’t run! For God’s sake, don’t run, but die here!”

     Next they saw an enraged Colonel Upton stomp over to the horse and grab its halter. Upton shouted up at the mounted officer while brandishing his skillet above his head, “Who in the hell are you talking to, Sir? These are my men. They are Texans, by God, and they don’t know how to run! Now you leave here, or I’ll knock the hell out of you.”

     The staff officer jerked his horse away from the fuming lieutenant colonel and hurried off, looking for less prickly officers to berate. Upton, seeing that the rest of the regiment was now out of the swamp, shouted, “Rise up, Men! Forward, we’re taking those breastworks!”

     The men of the Fifth and First Texas Regiments advanced straight forward, taking fire from Union musketry and artillery.

     The Union troops of Morrell’s Division that faced the Fifth Texas Regiment were growing increasingly uneasy. They had been fighting for almost two days and were exhausted. The chaotic noise of the cannons and muskets, the shouting of their own officers, and the high pitched yells of the Rebs overloaded the men’s hearing. Even worse, a ripple of fear spread as Morrell’s troops saw the Union regiments manning the breastworks to their left begin leaving their trenches to retreat up the hill, and the Rebs attacking their own positions were coming fast.

     When the Texans were still fifty yards away, just starting to climb the slope of Turkey Hill, the Federal soldiers facing them began abandoning their breastworks. The Union officers tried to keep their men in orderly ranks, stopping to fire as they moved backwards uphill towards the support of their artillery, but  the fighting withdrawal quickly dissolved into a disorganized run to safety.

     Sergeant Stephens was having trouble keeping the men of Company C together. The sight of the fleeing Yanks excited them and individual men surged ahead, eager to climb the log barricade.  As the man right in front of him let out a whoop and started to leap forward, Stephens reached out and grabbed his back by his leather shoulder strap. “Easy there, Smith, let’s go over that wall all together,” the sergeant cautioned. 

     Smith complied as he and several other men jumped into the shallow trench in front of the earthworks and began climbing their way up the log obstacle. As Smith neared the crest, a man near him pulled himself to the top of the barricade and stood tall and pumped his musket in the air in triumph. Then he fell backwards, shot in the chest. He landed on his back next to Smith, eyes wide open in death, impaled on the stub of a broken branch.

     Private Smith swallowed hard, pulled himself up the last few feet, and eased his head above the top.  He saw dozens of blue clad soldiers struggling up the hill, many without their muskets. Other Union soldiers were taking the time to stop and shoot, trying to reload their muskets as they retreated.

     Smith clambered over the crest of the log wall and dropped onto the firing step inside the barricade. He raised his musket and fired at a man not far away who had corporal stripes on his jacket. He heard a pistol discharge right next to his head, and turned to see Captain McBee cock and fire another pistol round towards the fleeing enemy.

     “Dammit! Rafe was right, I can’t hit shit with this damned pistol.” McBee muttered to himself.

     Flashing his black powder stained teeth, Smith grinned at his captain, and together they climbed the back wall of the trench and joined in pursuing the broken troops up the hill.

     Colonel James Simpson had commanded the Fourth New Jersey Volunteer Infantry regiment since its formation the previous year. This day had been chaotic marching to the sounds of the fighting, and late in the afternoon the regiment had been sent to reinforce the troops in the breastworks on the slope of Turkey Hill.  The Fourth New Jersey never reached their assigned position, as the Rebs had flowed over the defensive line while the regiments in the New Jersey brigade were still shaking out of march columns into battle-lines facing the downhill enemy.

     Seeing no hope of turning back the masses of Rebs that were crossing the barricade, Simpson ordered his regiment to hold their position near the edge of the plateau that topped Turkey Hill. In the confusion and heavy smoke from the fighting, he didn’t see that the other Union regiments near the Fourth New Jersey were reforming their march columns and moving away from the battle. Without any awareness of the regiment’s growing isolation, the Fourth New Jersey became an island engulfed in the Confederate tide.

     “To the left oblique, Fire by battalion! Front rank only. Ready…Aim…Fire!” Union Colonel Simpson shouted as loudly as he could. Company captains repeated the order and a moving wall of flame spread from the colonel’s position in the center of the formation, through the five companies in each wing, out to the ends of the regiment. The nearly three-hundred muskets held by men in the front rank spat fire, smoke, and minie bullets in their invisible wave of death.

      Within seconds of the volley by the front rank, Simpson shouted again, “Rear rank, fire by battalion! Ready, aim…Fire!”

     The two volleys smashed into the left-wing companies of the utterly surprised Fifth Texas Infantry, Only because the Federal troops were firing downhill, causing most of the riflemen to aim over their targets, the Fifth Texas suffered only a dozen casualties in the two volleys. One of the wounded was Colonel Robertson, commanding the regiment, who took a bullet in his arm and passed command to Lieutenant Colonel Upton.

     “Left-wing companies, Left wheel, March!” Upton shouted as he pointed his steel skillet in the direction of the firing on their flank. The command was heard and echoed, but the men were no longer in orderly shoulder-to-shoulder ranks. The graceful swinging door motion of a parade ground wheel being executed by five well-aligned companies was replaced by the staggered turning of over two hundred riflemen to face the new threat on their left flank

     As the enemy’s bullets poured into his formation, Union Colonel Simpson looked all around watching more and more of his men crumple to the ground. Through the heavy white smoke that swirled all around, he saw nothing but Confederates and Confederate flags moving past his position on all sides. He now understood his regiment was alone and that continuing to fight would mean the death of most of his command.

     “Lower the flags,” Simpson called to his color sergeant. “We are not going to all die on this hill today. Drop the damned flags!” he repeated, his frustration apparent. “Companies will ground arms!”

     Lieutenant Colonel Upton, now commanding the Fifth Texas, approached the cluster of officers who stood in front of the Union soldiers. Upton was a short man and glared up at the taller officer, who stepped forward, sword in hand. The slender Federal Colonel was resplendent in a double-breasted tailored frock coat of fine blue wool, sporting two dozen large brass buttons, a crimson silk sash knotted around his waist, and on his head, a regulation black felt hat adorned with a shiny brass eagle and ostrich feather.

     Colonel Simpson stared in disbelief at the little man facing him, wondering why he was wearing a filthy brown over-shirt fit only for laborers, and was holding a greasy black skillet. Surely, Simpson thought, this little rooster is not in command of a regiment.

     Gathering his wits, Colonel Simpson said as humbly as he could, “Sir, please accept my sword, and those of my staff, in token of our capitulation. Our circumstance is clearly regretful, and I acknowledge that further resistance is futile, and would only unnecessarily cost more lives.”

     In a hoarse, drawling voice, Upton replied, “You mean Yankee lives. Your lives. All right. You can surrender. But keep you swords. Never had much use for mine, sure don’t want more.”

    Colonel Simpson countered, “Sir, that is unthinkable. My men are watching us, Sir. If they do not see their officers pass the emblems of our authority over to you, they will not believe we are now your prisoners, and many of them will keep fighting and needlessly dying. I insist.” With that Simpson reversed his sword to hold the blade and offered the hilt to the Confederate officer.

     Lieutenant Colonel Upton sighed, and again said, “All right. Hand them over.” He took Colonel Simpson’s sword by the hilt and raised his other arm to tuck the weapon under his armpit with the blade sticking out behind him. He still held onto his greasy skillet as he added the blades of the Fourth New Jersey’s staff officers to the one under his arm.

     “Sir, Sir!” Upton turned to see an excited lieutenant pointing to the left end of the captured Union regiment.

     Upton climbed onto a fallen log, still encumbered by several surrendered swords sticking out behind him like tail feathers, and still holding his skillet. He saw a big Confederate soldier cursing loudly as he tried in vain to keep several captured Union soldiers from sidling past him into the wood line.

     “You! Big John Farris! What the hell and damnation are you doing?” Colonel Upton hollered.

     The big Reb private yelled back at the lieutenant colonel, “I’m tryin’ to keep these damned fellows from escaping. Sir!”   

      “Well, let ‘em go, you infernal fool. We’d a damned sight rather fight’em than feed ‘em,” Upton replied, his East Texas twang grating on the ears of the officers from New Jersey.

     Bugler Julius Sanders throat was parched dry from his long day of blowing commands on his horn, and he had emptied his canteen before the final charge up Turkey Hill.  As soon as the fighting evolved into corralling the captured Yankee soldiers, Sanders eased off down a ravine, hoping to a find a creek where he might refill his canteen. 

     “Don’t shoot, Reb! We surrender!”

     Sanders stared into the shadows and saw several Union soldiers.

     “I won’t shoot, but if you don’t throw down your muskets, I’ll blow this horn and ever’ Texan on this hill will come running and kill every one of you.

     “Now walk out here and line up. No muskets!” Sanders moved up the slope to stand behind the growing line of prisoners. When twenty-two men were standing with their heads down, Bugler Sanders commanded , “Right face, forward march.”

     Sanders led his captives out of the ravine, and turned them to the first officer who saw him. Then he hurried back down the ravine to fill his canteen.