no weapons, their equipment no doubt part of the scattered heaps alongside the road. He watched for any sign of aggression, his own instinct, a hint of danger from these enemy troops. But there was only the despair, the paralysis that comes from defeat, most of the Yankees with no energy for escape, for anything at all. His horsemen were gathering them up, forming them into uneven columns just off the road, and Forrest could see the exhaustion, filthy, ragged men, torn shirts, remnants of blue uniforms. The horsemen had dismounted, rough shouts to the new prisoners of what would happen to them, useless threats, the ridiculous boasting Forrest tried to ignore. He glanced back to an aide.
“Gather ’em up, send ’em to the rear. And tell my boys to keep that nonsense to themselves.”
“Yes, sir.”
Forrest sat high on the horse, spoke out toward a group of a dozen men, the prisoners closest to him, most too tired to stand.
“You boys get to your feet. The march is back that ways. There’s food, water. Get going.”
The Federal troops seemed to recognize his authority, something in his voice, the uniform, and they began to obey, rising up with slow, automatic movement. Forrest had no idea if there was food anywhere behind him, but to these men, it didn’t matter. Any promise was better than what they had now.
The air was damp and cool, and he thought back to the early morning, climbing into the saddle, the anticipation, pure excitement over what might come. The fight that had consumed this countryside for most of two days was over completely, nothing at all happening anywhere near Chickamauga Creek. But the Federals had left a rear guard behind, several squads of cavalry, protecting the troops whose retreat was absolute. From the reports of his own advance scouts, Forrest knew that through every mountain pass the Yankees were flowing away with the kind of panic that makes men vulnerable. But not all the Yankees were in disarray. He knew of General Thomas, the tough fight the afternoon before that required too many deadly attacks from most of the Confederate forces on the field. Forrest wouldn’t know anything yet of the army’s casualty counts. That would come later, all those official reports, commanders trying to elevate themselves above the bloodletting, that no matter the confusion, the mistakes, the loss of so many good men, the generals could, after all, claim
victory
. He thought of Thomas, the Virginian who went north. Thomas had gathered up what he could, hunkered them down on a broad hill, good high ground, beating back every assault. Now Thomas and his Yankees were gone, pulling what remained of the Federal forces northward with as much order as those men could muster, protecting the rabble, the rest of the Union army, from being annihilated.
With the dawn, Forrest had gathered a force of some four hundred cavalrymen, had pushed out hard into the misty daylight, sloggingthrough the mud and rain, driving hard to find the Federal position, if there was one to find. He had to believe, as they all did, that Thomas had given the Federal army the enormous benefit of time, that the Yankees might make good their escape through the mountain passes, a desperate drive toward the defensive lines around Chattanooga. If Forrest could cut them off, even a piece of that army, it would be a marvelous success. What he saw now was a hollow victory, his men finding only the basest remains of the Federal infantry. The cavalry was still out there, more of the Federal rear guard, but it was a toothless threat, a final effort to protect the men in blue slogging their way over the mountains.
He glanced back again, a larger column of his troopers gathering closer, coming together, re-forming after the latest skirmish, and called out, “Push on! No pause. Rest will come later. Care for your mounts, but we’ve got an opportunity here. I mean to make the most of it. Major Harvey.”
The officer moved closer, and Forrest could
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