The Sword (47 page)

Tyron’s eyes flew open, and he was alert immediately. “I hear it.”

They listened, and Clay nodded grimly. “That’s 1st Cav’s bugle call,” he said. “Just over to our left. Not too far either.”

They struggled to their feet. Lightning and Tyron’s horse had remained standing under the tree, not even grazing. As they mounted up, Tyron said, “Hope there’s something left of us.”

“And I hope,” Clay said grimly, “that we’re going to ride out of this wilderness and never come back.”

The two armies regrouped, leaving twenty-five thousand casualties in the Wilderness. The Federals lost almost eighteen thousand men, killed, wounded, and missing. Always before, such losses sent the Union generals scuttling back to Washington. But Grant pressed on mercilessly, and Lee had to use all of his considerable military genius to move about his numerically inferior forces to counter him. Of course, Jeb’s riders were all over the country, scouting out the lines and dispositions.

On May 11, Jeb was in the saddle early, and the weary 1st Virginia Cavalry rode out, heading south. As usual, Clay managed to work himself around until he was riding with Stuart. As always, Stuart was jovial, laughing, his manner as carefree as if they were going to a ball.

They had had several run-ins with Federal cavalry, which seemed to be crawling all over the countryside. Clay remarked,
“I think this is the most fighting we’ve done one-on-one with bluebelly cavalry.”

“Grant took the leash off Phil Sheridan,” Jeb told him. “No Union general has ever used the cavalry like they should. They keep nibbling away at the commands, using them to guard supply trains, escorting prisoners, and standing pickets. General Sheridan is a little bitty spitfire, ’bout as tall as an upright musket, with a temper like a mad dog. But he’s a smart man and a good officer. That’s why all of a sudden they’re everywhere we look. They’re out ahead of the main body of the army, but not just to scout. They send out enough to form a fighting force.”

“Guess we’ll fight them then,” Clay said.

“That’s what you joined the cavalry for, Tremayne,” Jeb said cheerfully.

They passed a pleasant oak arbor with a fresh spring bubbling up and running downhill in a fast-running, cold stream. Jeb called a brief halt for the men to refill their canteens and water the horses. As usual, he stayed in the saddle, right leg thrown over it, studying a map. Clay stayed mounted and idled near him. “Right here,” Jeb said, mostly to himself. Then he looked up at Clay and said, “A little nothing place named Yellow Tavern should be right ahead of us. I figure that’s where we’ll find some Yanks to shoot.”

“We’re ready, sir,” Clay said confidently.

Jeb took off his hat, smoothed his hair back, then settled it back on his head. The long ostrich plume waved airily in a light dusty breeze. “You know, Lieutenant, we’re only about six miles north of Richmond.”

“Yes, sir, I know,” Clay said.

Jeb’s blue eyes clouded, and he grew unusually grave. “I never expected to live through this war. But if we are conquered, I don’t want to live anyway.”

Clay stared at him. It was so unlike Stuart, and Clay had never suspected that his general felt that deeply about the war. Before he could think of a suitable reply, Jeb suddenly grinned and yelled at the men to hurry up. It was time to get moving again.

Yellow Tavern was named after an ancient inn that was painted a sickly yellow, and what town there was didn’t look much better than the inn. It was a shabby, mean little bunch of old houses and storefronts all huddled together. To the north were thick woods, clearing nearer the tavern. Fenced-in fields almost surrounded the small settlement.

They reached it about 10:00 a.m., and there was not one blue coat in sight. Stuart made dispositions of his men; because the cavalry corps had been split up to counter Sheridan’s numerous units, he had only about eleven hundred men with him. Basically they just took what scant cover they could find and then waited.

At about noon they saw the first Yankees, and by about two o’clock they knew they were badly outnumbered. Stuart had sent to Richmond for reinforcements and expected them at any time. The first attack came before any reinforcements reached them.

In the blue ranks of the 5th Michigan, a trooper named John A. Huff rode along, one in a sea of blue coats. He was forty-two years old and in 1861 had joined the 2nd U.S. Sharpshooters, a crack regiment that had become famous as Berdan’s Sharpshooters. He had won a prize as the regiment’s best shot, an expert among hundreds of crack marksmen.

Huff had been wounded and had gone home but had returned later and reenlisted in the Michigan cavalry. He was a good soldier, though he was not spectacular. He was married and had been a carpenter before the war. Huff had mild blue eyes, brown hair, and a light complexion, and stood only five feet eight inches tall. Late in the morning of May 11, he was moving toward a battle, but he, no more than the rest of his fellows, knew whom they were to fight.

Jeb Stuart’s cavalry, along with the rest of the Confederate Army, were accustomed to being outnumbered. But by four o’clock, they had taken some heavy losses, and though the Yankees had, too,
it seemed the distant woods never stopped crawling with more oncoming men. Every squad, every company, had wounded men.

Blithely Jeb Stuart rode here and there, whistling a tune, encouraging them. “Stay steady, boys,” he shouted. “Give it to ’em! Shoot them! Shoot them!”

Clay stubbornly followed him everywhere, and he grew more and more nervous. The fire was heavy, and he said, “General, there are men behind stumps and fences being killed, and here you are out in the open.”

Stuart turned, and there was laughter in his light blue eyes. “I don’t reckon there’s any danger, Lieutenant,” he said.

He turned and in a canter rode to a placed cannon on the near side of the road from the town. Every trooper manning it had been injured. On his big gray horse Stuart called out to them, “Steady, men! Line it up and give it to them!”

Suddenly a group of Federal cavalry that had gotten through the line of battle filed along to the left of the fence on the far side of the dusty road. They were passing within ten or fifteen feet of General Stuart. One blue-coated horseman who had been dismounted in a charge trotted along with them. Clay saw him pull his pistol, take what looked to be a casual aim on the run, and fire. The man was John Huff.

Just in front of him, Stuart reeled in his saddle.

“General, are you hit?” Clay asked.

“Yes.”

“You wounded bad?”

“I’m afraid I am. But don’t worry, boys. Fitz will do as well for you as I have.”

Clay and several other troopers surrounded Stuart. One of them, Captain Dorsey, rode very close and steadied the general so he could stay in his saddle. They rode toward the rear.

Jeb said, “No, I don’t want to leave the field!”

Captain Dorsey said gently, “We’re taking you back a little, General, so as not to leave you to the enemy.”

Stuart relented and said, “Take the papers from my inside
pocket. Keep them from the Yankees.”

Two troopers dashed off to get an ambulance and to find General Fitzhugh Lee, Robert E. Lee’s nephew, who served as divisional commander of the 1st Virginia under Stuart. Under fire, Clay, Captain Dorsey, and the other men surrounding Stuart had to keep falling back. Stuart said, “You officers need to leave me and go back and drive them.”

Clay said, “No sir, just a little farther in the rear now, and we’ll wait for the ambulance.”

“I’m afraid they’ve killed me, Lieutenant. I’ll be of no use. You go back and fight.”

“I can’t obey that order,” Clay said. “I’d rather they get me, too, than leave you for them. We’ll have you out of here.”

Very soon the ambulance, General Fitz Lee, and Jeb’s doctor, John Fontaine, arrived. As soon as Lee arrived, Stuart said, “Go ahead, Fitz, old fellow. I know you’ll do what’s right.”

They loaded him into the ambulance, and not a single word, not a groan, crossed his lips. But just before the ambulance pulled out, he raised himself up and called out in his booming voice, “Go back! Go back! Do your duty as I’ve done mine. I would rather die than be whipped!”

Troopers were all around them, falling back from the still-oncoming Yankees.

Clay’s mouth pressed together in a tight line. Wheeling Lightning, he turned and galloped back toward Yellow Tavern, shouting to the faltering men as he went. Stuart’s words had cut into his very soul, and he knew he must obey his order and return to the battle still raging behind them.

He was afraid it would be the last order he ever received from Jeb Stuart.

Although they were only six miles outside of Richmond, fighting raged all along the Brooks Turnpike, the main road into the city. The ambulance was forced to take back roads. They reached a quiet
little bridge on a deserted road, and Dr. Fontaine called for a halt so he could examine Stuart.

With his final order to his men, they had returned to the fray, so with Stuart now were Lieutenant Walter Hullihen and Major Charles Venable from his staff, Dr. Fontaine, two couriers, and three men of the general’s escort.

Dr. Fontaine unhooked Stuart’s double-breasted jacket and unwound his gold satin sash, now crimson with blood. His face grew grave.

Stuart turned to Hullihen, one of his favorites, whom he always called “Honeybun.” With weak cheer he asked, “Honeybun, how do I look in the face?”

“You’re looking all right, General. You’ll be all right.”

“Well, I don’t know how it will turn out, but if it’s God’s will that I shall die, I am ready.”

Dr. Fontaine had observed that the bullet was very close to Stuart’s liver and might kill him at any time. He poured out some whiskey into a cup. “Try some of this. It will help you,” he said.

“No,” Stuart said at once. “I’ve never tasted it in my life. I promised my mother that when I was just a baby.”

They urged him to drink, and finally he relented and held up his hands. “Lift me.” He took a drink of the whiskey and settled back, seeming somewhat eased.

For long hours they made their torturous, circuitous way toward Richmond. They went through small towns and passed many soldiers, and the word spread that General Stuart had been wounded.