by R. E. Thomas
Willie demanded, “Why haven’t y’all thrown any wood on these fires?” Looking over to the wettest clothes on the rack, he suspected he couldn’t trust the job that had been done on any clothes since he left the detail to get out of the sun for a while. Pointing to those suspect clothes, he said, “All this here will need boiling again!”
“Go fuck yourself, Corporal!”
Willie turned to see Raglan Lloyd standing a few feet off, wearing a contemptuous smirk.
“What did you say to me, Lloyd?”
“You heard me.”
Willie quickly realized what had happened here. The other conscripts were boys of 17, 18, or 19. All his age, come to think of it, but all as green as he had been in ’61. When the army came here, it was the first time the Confederacy had enjoyed sway over this part of Middle Tennessee since Earl Van Dorn got himself shot by a cuckolded doctor. Plenty of young men had come of age since then, young men who didn’t have the gumption to leave home and volunteer, but who weren’t going to run off when the conscription officer came calling either.
Lloyd was different. He was 27 and a hardened draft dodger who was caught napping when that conscription officer came around. Word had it that he had turned to robbing. Most men in his position did, but there had been no proof and no trial. So he was a robber and a draft dodger, and now he had set himself up as boss of these conscripts and was trying to bully his way up the chain.
Willie raised his voice. “You’ve kept out of it for long enough, but you’re in the army now, Private. You’re talking to a corporal. You’ll do what you’re told, and you’ll like it.”
Lloyd took two steps forward. He was very close now. They were the same height, and glared easily into each other’s eyes. Lloyd’s face was splotchy, framed by scraggly, long blonde hair, and his breath stank.
Lloyd sneered “What are you going to do about it, Corporal.”
Willie struck fast. He moved to step forward, but instead of punching, he jabbed his heel into Lloyd’s foot. As Lloyd began a howl and moved to throw a roundhouse punch, Willie’s other leg came up, smashing a knee into his groin. Lloyd doubled over, instinctively shielding his privates with his forearms. Willie brought a short right cross down on the corner of his mouth. Lloyd collapsed, dazed.
“Now, you sonofabitch, you listen good. This here is a Tennessee regiment, and that’s how we do things in the Tennessee volunteer infantry! Get your ass up and get to work. And the next time you give me any lip, I’ll give you to Halpern, and he ain’t so gentle!”
As Willie put the other new boys to work, and Lloyd moaned on the ground, Nathan Grimes sat watching from the edge of the shady grove, where he was playing dice with some of the other soldiers. Good for you, little brother, he thought. Good for you.
Nathan knew Lloyd was going to be trouble as soon as he laid eyes on him. He reckoned Halpern knew it too, which was why he put Willie on him. Willie’s first test. If he couldn’t put Lloyd in his place on his own, he ought not to be wearing those stripes.
Even so, Lloyd would bear watching. If I’ve got his measure, Nathan thought, he’s a mean and yellow sonofabitch. Ain’t worth beaver shit on a penny, but he still ain’t going to lay down. He’ll either try and get his own back, or he’ll run off and desert. Good money says he won’t run off before he tries and get even first. Willie’s back needs watching.
“Your turn, Nathan.”
Nathan took the tin cup of dice from Jim Marsh, a veteran of a year’s service. After giving the dice four shakes, he threw them down onto his unrolled gum blanket, on which six numbered squares had been drawn with charcoal.
“Dammit!” All of Nathan’s Chuck-A-Luck bets had gone sour on that roll.
“That’s it, boys,” he cried. “I’m broke!”
June 9, 1864
Evening
Headquarters, Cheatham’s Division, CSA
Hillsboro, Tennessee
Cheatham had just finished his first tumbler of bourbon for the night when there was a knock at his door.
“What is it?”
The aide called through the door, “General Cleburne is here to see you, sir.”
Damn, Cheatham thought. I was hoping to put this off until my mood was better. I’d scheduled a full day in the saddle tomorrow, inspecting the division to avoid this very thing! Leave it to Old Pat, honest, Irish, no drinking Cleburne to stumble in and shoot that idea full of holes.
Cheatham grumbled, “Show him in.”
He rose and shook hands with Cleburne and then motioned for him to take a seat.
Cleburne said, “I prefer to stand, Frank.”
“Suit yourself.”
“This is a nice place you found here, Frank. Fine, fieldstone farmhouse.”
“Yeap, that it is. I’d prefer to go home, of course. It’s right over there.” Cheatham motioned to the north. “Just some miles or so. You still in tents? You know, even Old Jack has set up his offices indoors at Harrison House. He just sleeps in a tent.”
“Yes, I know.” Cleburne shuffled his feet, but kept his dark eyes fixed on Cheatham. “You’ve heard, Frank?”
That’s Pat, Cheatham thought. Sincere to a fault, never much good at small talk, finesse, or beating around the bush. Still, I might as well help him out.
“I have. I suppose congratulations are in order.”
“Dammit, Frank, I feel terribly over this. I never sought promotion. You’re the senior man here, senior by a league. You have a fine record. It ought to be you replacing Hood, not me.”
Cheatham grunted. “Pat, I ain’t going to lie to you. I’ve been passed over, and that hurts. It makes me a little sick in my stomach, and I don’t mind telling you that. But God dammit, my ambitions and pride don’t make me blind or stupid. You are the best damn division commander this army has. And by army, I mean the Confederate States Army. I’m disappointed and bitter, but I ain’t mad at no one for it. Besides, you’re my friend. You deserve this. I wish it ain’t coming at my expense, but that don’t change the fact that you deserve it.”
Cleburne’s eyes became watery. “Frank…”
“Oh, none of that sentimental crap. I ain’t in the mood for it. Can we just celebrate your good fortune and put the rest to bed, Lieutenant General Cleburne?”
“Brevet Lieutenant General.”
Cheatham burst out laughing. “Are you screwing me up, Pat? You!?”
Cleburne smiled, chuckled even, although his dark eyes still reflected sadness. “It’s true. I could be back at my division tomorrow.”
“Aw hell, that brevet is all just Richmond politics. I’ll tell you plain, I don’t think Jefferson Davis was too pleased with the idea of putting a man who ain’t been to West Point at the head of a corps.”
“Or a foreigner.”
“That too. But come to think of it, I ain’t been to West Point myself. So where does that leave me? Anyway, will you just leave it all alone. I’m happy for you, Pat. Leave it at that. Will you celebrate with me?”
Cleburne nodded. “Pour yourself one and give me the flask.”
Cheatham shot Cleburne an incredulous look. Cleburne was a devoted temperance man. “If that’s what you want, but that ain’t what I meant by celebrating.”
“I know. But just this once. And just a sip.”
Cheatham poured another two fingers of bourbon into his tumbler, and handed the now almost empty flask to Cleburne. Cheatham had a drink, and Cleburne had his promised sip.
“Now,” Cleburne said. “Let’s take up our pipes, share a smoke, and talk about running this Corps.”
Chapter 4
June 9, 1864
Early Morning
Carter Stagecoach Office
Nashville, Tennessee
Sherman watched as the big sixteen-passenger coach made its way down the Gallatin Road. Once it had traveled a few hundred yards, he mounted his horse, struck a match, and lit a cigar.
After a few hard drags, still watching the departed coach and drumming his fingers on the
pommel of his saddle, he grumbled, “Alright gentlemen, back to the office.”
As Sherman and his pair of escorting aides crossed the fortified bridge leading to the southern bank of the Cumberland and into Nashville proper, he wasn’t sure which left him in a fouler mood: sending his brother-in-law away, or the docket of unpleasant business piled up and waiting for him clear through late afternoon.
Poor Hugh, Sherman thought. A good man, solid division commander, or at least he had been when he was serving under me. So how did he come to surrender his post without firing a shot? And this is after I wired him orders, in plain language directing him to give Forrest a fight? What did that devil have in him that scared a man like Hugh Ewing into staining his pants?
Perhaps it was his health? Sherman knew poor health had a way of wearing a man down, breaking his will. Hugh had been down with a frightful case of dysentery a couple of years before and was suffering badly from rheumatism now. The latter was the reason Ewing was commanding garrisons in Kentucky, and not leading men in the field.
Chewing on his cigar, Sherman muttered bitterly, almost inaudibly, “I’ll crucify Forrest if it costs ten thousand lives and empties the Federal treasury.” Paroling Ewing and sending him to Nashville instead of Louisville had been a deliberate insult, of course, and it had worked. Sherman boiled over the gesture, which was why Ewing was riding the stage out of Nashville at this very moment. Despite being family and a childhood friend, Sherman couldn’t bear having him around any longer.
Forrest was also the reason Ewing had to take the stage and not the train. The last of the track Forrest’s raid had torn up would be repaired in a day or two, if it wasn’t repaired already. Sherman’s efficient railroad repair gangs would see to that. The Munfordville bridge was another matter entirely and would require another week before it was rebuilt.
At least they wouldn’t starve while they waited for the supply line to Louisville to be restored, Sherman thought. Nashville held a mountain of supplies, and the garrisons in places like Murfreesboro, Pulaski, and Decatur were well-stocked, as was George Thomas and his Army of the Cumberland down in Chattanooga.
Sherman’s reverie came to an end with his realization that he had arrived at his headquarters, and that brought him to the day’s second unpleasantness: Brigadier General Samuel D. Sturgis.
He found Sturgis, a thick-set man with a mop of curly black hair, waiting in the foyer. Motioning for Sturgis to follow him, he said, “Come on, General.”
Sherman took a seat behind his desk, and regarded the man standing at attention before him. Early 40s, stout, very anxious. He reviewed the details of Sturgis’s career in his thoughts, clear as if it were from paper. West Point, Class of 1846; Mexican War service, 1st Dragoons; Indian fighter; fought at Wilson’s Creek, South Mountain, Antietam, Fredericksburg, Dandridge, and Fair Garden; current Chief of Cavalry for the Department of the Ohio.
“Well, General, I won’t draw this out. Let’s have your report.”
As Sturgis began describing his actions for June 7th’s Battle of Ringgold Mill, Sherman saw immediately how it all went wrong. His own stratagem had worked well enough, of that Sherman was certain. The fact that Sturgis drew Forrest into battle was proof of it.
With Nashville and the Army of the Tennessee encamped to the east, A.J. Smith with 10,000 men marching down from the north, and Sturgis with 8,500 coming in from the west, Forrest was effectively hemmed in. All Sturgis had to do, as the most mobile element of the plan, was either interpose himself between Forrest and his crossing at Clarksville or, failing that, to attack. Listening to Sturgis tell his tale, it was clear to Sherman that he had woefully mismanaged the battle. In his haste to get in front of Forrest, Sturgis had allowed his cavalry to get too far ahead. Forrest was able to lick first one part of Sturgis’s force, and then the other.
Sherman ruminated that if there was a flaw in his plan, it was that only one pincer could move quickly. He had wanted to send a third expedition after Forrest, Minty’s cavalry plus infantry, but Minty was needed patrolling the outskirts of Nashville. The Rebels were playing merry hell there, and the papers were full of William Hicks Jackson’s “visit” to his home of Belle Meade. There just weren’t enough men in the saddle to both chase Forrest and keep the Rebels out of the Nashville’s hinterland.
But at least he had fought, that was something, Sherman thought to himself, reflecting on his brother in law. Fought badly, but fought.
“General Sturgis, you know why I brought you here, from Memphis to Nashville?”
Sturgis was still at attention, staring straight ahead. “Yes, sir. I attempted to carry out my mission to cut off or engage the Rebel Forrest to the best of my…”
Sherman interrupted. “No, that became your mission only after you left Memphis. Granted, it was only a few days after you left Memphis. What was your original purpose?”
Sturgis gulped. “To bring reinforcements, particularly Grierson’s Division.
“Yes, and when you got here, you were to assume command of Grierson and Minty and run the cavalry for the Army of the Tennessee. That isn’t possible now. I have half a mind to send you back to Memphis and your old post as cavalry chief there.”
“There isn’t that much cavalry left in Memphis, sir.”
“Exactly,” Sherman said curtly. “You are to make your way to Louisville, how I leave to your discretion, and once there await further orders regarding resuming your duties or a new assignment. Dismissed.”
Sturgis saluted and left. Watching him go, Sherman felt grateful that at least Sturgis had accomplished his original mission and brought reinforcements. Grierson’s Division was intact and would effectively double his cavalry.
Sherman promptly attacked his paperwork, happily losing himself in facts and figures until there was a knock on his door, announcing the arrival of his third unpleasant appointment for the day.
“General Hooker is here to see you, sir.”
With some reluctance, Sherman said, “Show him in.”
Hooker entered the room and strode confidently up to Sherman’s desk. A tall, strongly built man blessed with handsome features and wavy blonde hair, Hooker offered a jaunty, lazy salute and then motioned to one of the chairs.
Sherman nodded, “Please, Joe, sit down. What can I do for you?”
Hooker plopped into the chair. “Nothing, Bill, nothing at all. It’s what I can do for you.” He pulled out a folded up newspaper from the inside of his coat and gently tossed it onto Sherman’s desk. “Have you seen this? It’s the New York Tribune from Monday.”
Sherman nodded again. He knew the paper and its contents. That particular rag was what Horace Greely had intended for every Republican delegate to the convention in Baltimore to take with him onto the floor. The lead editorial was harshly critical of Lincoln and the direction of the war in the West, and called for John C. Fremont, the famous Pathfinder and darling of the Republican Radicals, to replace Sherman, and for “Fighting” Joe Hooker to replace James B. McPherson at the head of the Army of the Tennessee.
“Well, I wanted you to know I had nothing to do with it. I haven’t been in communication with Greely or Wade or Chandler or anyone in Congress or the press, and if I had been, I would have told them I want no part in being a pawn in their schemes against old Abe Lincoln.”
Sherman noted that Hooker didn’t put Treasury Secretary Salmon Chase on that list. According to his younger brother, Senator John Sherman, Chase was Hooker’s most vocal advocate in Washington.
“May I offer you a cigar?” Sherman asked.
“Yes, Bill. I’d love a smoke.”
Sherman drew two cigars from the box on his desk, and handed one over, along with some matches. After taking his first few puffs, Hooker said, “Anyway, I wanted you to know. I have nothing against General McPherson, who enjoys my full support, and I’m delighted to have this opportunity to even the score with Stonewall Jackson. In fact, I have a proposal for a small operation that might clear up our difficulties out b
y Brentwood.”
Same old blabbermouth, Sherman thought. Offers McPherson his unqualified support one moment, and then makes a blatant end run around the chain of command the next. Classic Joe Hooker. Sherman took a couple of drags on his cigar to keep the contempt off his face.
“What did you have in mind?”
Hooker got up and moved towards a local map that was tacked on the wall. “My XX Corps has been in the Nashville lines since we arrived. Minty’s boys have been skirmishing with the Reb cavalry almost every day in Brentwood, past the Forrest Hills on the Granny White or Hillsboro Pike, or out here on Mill Creek. That Minty is a good man, by the way. Bully call on giving him that star.”
“Mac will be pleased to hear you say that. Minty was his choice.”
Hooker continued, as if Sherman hadn’t said anything about McPherson. “Now, the enemy has been using this gap in the hills below Brentwood, Holly Tree Gap, to move back and forth unobserved. My boys aren’t doing anything right now but drilling and tossing pebbles at each other. What I propose is to advance and seize those hills. They abut the Harpeth on the west, so we’d secure that flank, and the heights dominate the Franklin and Wilson Pikes. With infantry in those hills and cavalry on those roads, we’d have Jackson’s mounted arm stymied.”
Sherman nodded, but immediately saw the flaw in Hooker’s plan. Jackson would know Hooker was mustering for an advance before the first soldier had filed out of the entrenchments, and from there that soldier had to advance 15 miles. Jackson had Clayton’s Division in Franklin, less than five miles from the ground Hooker wanted to seize. An advance by a small force would certainly be checked, while an advance by Hooker’s entire corps might bring on a large-scale engagement. But that might very well be what Hooker wanted.
“I’ll take it under advisement,” Sherman said. “You should submit a written proposal to Mac, of course.”
Hooker replied flatly, “Naturally.”
