Mother Earth, Bloody Ground: A Novel Of The Civil War And What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy)

by R. E. Thomas

  Polk surmised Stevenson was not being cautious or polite, but meant what he said. There would be no nursing this one’s grievances with Jackson, Polk thought, because he has no such grievances to nurse.

  Noticing that a very well-attired darkie servant was speaking to the string and brass band that was serenading them with a dignified rendition of “Dixie,” Polk shifted his attention towards the front of the double parlor while continuing polite small talk with Stevenson. George and Sally had taken up a position there, waiting to greet their most honored guest. Stonewall Jackson was here.

  The same well-attired servant returned, and then disappeared into the entry hall for some moments. Even the least observant of the guests took note of that and surmised what it meant. The room quieted before the servant returned to announce “Ladies and gentlemen, the commander-in-chief of the Army of Tennessee, General Thomas J. Jackson.”

  The band began playing “Stonewall Jackson’s Way” as Jackson stepped into the room. He wore his best uniform, a parting gift from Robert E. Lee and Jeb Stuart, a thing of restrained splendor, adorned with just the right amount of gold trim and braid. The room broke into loud, enthusiastic applause.

  Jackson smiled weakly, his cheeks colored bright red. I should never have allowed Sandie, he thought to himself, to talk me down from ordering that song banned. “Good for morale”… in a pig’s eye! It’s an embarrassment, the way they play that tune everywhere I go.

  After shaking hands with George Polk and kissing Sally’s proffered hand, Jackson found himself mobbed by a small crowd of mostly civilian well-wishers. Politely mobbed to be sure, but mobbed all the same. No one noticed J.P. Smith or the saddle bags he wore over his shoulder, especially as Smith didn’t enter the double parlor, but slipped away to the adjoining day parlor.

  By the time Jackson had finished becoming properly acquainted with every civilian present, the time for the banquet had arrived. The party, some 32 in attendance, was led out of the house and to a flat patch of ground between the carriage house and the pond. Lanterns had been hung and a canvas windbreak erected.

  George Polk joked “I beg your forgiveness for the outdoor seating, but when I designed the house, I’m afraid in my abhorrence of company, I never anticipated the need to sit more than two dozen at my table.”

  While the others laughed, Jackson stared at George Polk for a moment before the jest occurred to him. “Oh yes. Yes,” he muttered. “Good. Hah.”

  The table was lavishly adorned with richly colored tablecloths, and brilliantly polished silverware and candelabras, and was heavily laden with sumptuous food. At the head of the table was a roast turkey and a roast chicken, both golden brown, while a roast suckling pig and a fine, glazed ham sat at the foot. Occupying the table’s center was a succulent round of beef and a whole roast lamb. Filling the spaces between were dishes of rolls, cornbread, field greens stewed in bacon, roasted potatoes and carrots, and corn on the cob, along with bottles of wine, tall-cut celery stuffed into stands and sauce boats with cranberry sauce and gravy.

  Jackson took up the place of honor, to the right of George Polk, who as host sat at the head of the table. Sally Polk sat to Jackson’s right, and across from them were “Lucius the Elder” and Leonidas. From there, the arrangement continued down in a fashion that mixed protocol with the intention of spreading the assembled major generals around.

  The house slaves began the banquet by pouring wine and serving not from the offerings on the table, but by ladling out a creamy oyster soup to the guests. Jackson placed his hand over the wine glass, and as a lifelong dyspeptic, looked down at the rich soup with little enthusiasm. While Leonidas Polk tucked into his soup bowl with relish, Jackson took a few spoonfuls over long intervals, consuming just enough of the broth to meet the standards of politeness.

  George Polk asked discretely, “Would you care for some pepper for that soup, General?”

  Jackson shook his head. “No, no. I do not care for pepper, as it weakens my leg. But I am much obliged.”

  “George, if you don’t mind my asking, where on earth did you find oysters for this soup?”

  Jackson looked down and across the table to see the woman who inquired of the host was seated next to Lieutenant Colonel Abram Looney. He remembered her name, Sally Todd Looney. The Looneys owned an estate in Spring Hill, and Cheatham had asked that Abram Looney be excused from his duties with the 1st Tennessee Infantry and permitted to attend, as he hadn’t seen his wife in years. Jackson had gladly assented, as it didn’t interfere with his intentions for the night.

  George replied, “You can thank my dear brother the Bishop for that. Excuse me, Leo, the General. Well, the General here was able to find us some canned oysters, brought up from Mobile. Like so many other things here—the servants, the silver—assembling things into a civilized affair, the way we had them before the Yankee invasion, is not impossible, but still requires ingenuity and a combination of our efforts.”

  With Jackson looking straight at them, Sally asked, “General Jackson, I hear tell you are from Lexington, Virginia? Neither my husband or myself have been there. Could you tell us about your homeplace?”

  Jackson placed his spoon down, grateful for a means to avoid eating any more of the overly rich broth and its shellfish meat. “Lexington is the seat of a county of prosperous small farmers, framed by green mountains to the west and east. A river runs through it, a river sharing the name of this very place, Maury. I hold if we are much different from the rest of the Upper Shenandoah, it must be because of our institutions of higher learning. We have two such places, Washington College and the Virginia Military Institute, where I was honored to serve as Professor of Natural and Experimental Philosophy, as well as artillery instructor.”

  The conversation at the table became more subdued, as everyone wanted to listen to what Jackson had to say, even about such mundane things. Sally Looney continued, “Will you go back there? After the war?”

  Jackson nodded. “Yes, yes.”

  “And not pursue a career in the army?” asked the elder Lucius Polk. “You are still a relatively young man, General Jackson. If I recollect, 10 or 15 years younger than the other men of your rank. I imagine Lee, Johnston and the others will retire before too long. You are, if I may say so, in line to become the top general of our army just a few years down the road.”

  “General Bragg is only seven years my senior, and General Beauregard only nine. But I have no such ambitions beyond returning to my wife and daughter and raising a family among my friends and neighbors.”

  Bishop Polk said, “I once suggested that after the war, our General Jackson here and General Stewart too should come to Sewanee and help build up the University of the South into a national university our Confederacy could be truly proud of, something to rival the hallowed halls of Oxford. I’m afraid he declined, but I was not entirely persuaded by his protests.

  Jackson looked across the table to Polk and smiled amiably. “I fear I would have a terrible time persuading my dear wife to come to Tennessee.”

  Polk smiled back, the picture of serenity. He had discussed the matter at length with Jackson during the past month and knew a powerful ambition lurked beneath his modest, sometimes awkward manner. He doubted very much that Jackson would refuse an offer to, say, found the Confederacy’s military academy, and he was certain that Jackson’s ambitions were channeled along two narrow channels: the army and the academy. He was no threat to Polk’s own ambitions of succeeding Jefferson Davis and becoming the Confederacy’s second president.

  Sally Polk said, “And how is your family, sir?”

  Jackson countenance darkened instantly. “Fled to Roanoke. A Federal army under David Hunter is approaching Lexington and may be there even now.”

  Many paled at the news, and Sally Polk said, “Surely not. I saw in the papers that the Yankees were moving south through the Shenandoah Valley again, but I thought we would turn them back, as the gallant Breckenridge did in May.”

  Shaking his he
ad, Jackson said “No, no. I have no knowledge of what General Lee plans to do about Hunter’s army, but I am certain he plans something. With the blessings of Providence, the invaders will be repelled.”

  George Polk stood and thrust his glass forward. “To the liberation of Virginia and Tennessee, and our victory in this war!”

  The toast met with many “hear, hear’s,” the glasses were clinked all around, and when the party resumed their seats the main course was served. None noticed how Jackson had turned his eyes down, nor how they were wet and glistening. His family were refugees and Hunter would be in Lexington soon, where he would no doubt put his beloved VMI to the torch, perhaps even his house. Jackson put nothing beyond the perfidy of some Yankees.

  He burned to hit them back, to smash Hunter as he had Nathaniel Banks at Winchester. But he was here now, in Tennessee. Providence must find another to punish Hunter, he thought, for my duty is to deal with Sherman. That must be my consolation. That and, as the scriptures say, knowledge that “judgment is without mercy to one who has shown no mercy.” Hunter will pay for his sins, of that I have no doubt.

  When Jackson had made his plate, all he had on it was a piece of cornbread, a helping of roasted vegetables, a pair of celery sticks, and a chicken leg, which was easier for him than meat that required a knife and fork. George Polk leaned over and whispered “My dear General, is everything alright?”

  “You have set a pretty table, Mr. Polk,” Jackson said in a subdued tone, “but one that is, for the most part, too rich for my constitution.”

  “Leo warned me of that. You needn’t worry. Dessert will be more to your liking. “

  That dessert lived up to George Polk’s promise: a simple bowl of fresh cherries and peach slices. Jackson was delighted, and ate with great pleasure. After dessert, the ladies returned to the double parlor, while the men went to the back porch and garden. Most partook of brandy and whiskey, accompanied by pipes or cigars. Jackson was furnished with a tall glass of fresh milk, and Bishop Polk took coffee.

  Jackson was approached by James Webster, an older gentleman in his early 60s. After introducing himself, Webster asked, “General Jackson, if it is not imprudent, some of the papers wonder quite vociferously why you didn’t keep on going north. I was wondering…”

  Frank Cheatham came up and slapped a friendly hand on Webster’s shoulder, “I’m afraid, Jimmy, that you won’t get much from General Jackson. He likes keeping his secrets. Why, once back in Georgia, when I asked him about nothing so innocent as what training he had planned for my division, you know what he said? That if his coat knew his plans, he would take it off and pitch it on the fire.”

  “I’ve known Jimmy and his family since I was a small boy. General Jackson here knows so little of these parts. Why don’t you tell him about your daddy? Just so he doesn’t come away with the impression that Maury County isn’t a fiefdom of the Polk clan.”

  Jackson listened attentively as Webster described how his father, a Revolutionary War veteran, came over from Georgia in 1807 and staked his landholding, which he and his brothers later built upon. As Jackson listened, he thanked Cheatham with a nod of his head. It was a stridently democratic country, sometimes too democratic, and many prominent civilians used to getting their way thought they had a right to know of military matters that were none of their business. Just last week Tennessee’s governor, Isham Harris, and Senator Landon Hayes came calling with inquiries as to his future plans and were fended off with lamentably less tact.

  When Webster finished, Jackson said, “Pardon me” and checked his watch. “Gentlemen,” he called out, “if Mr. Polk will be good enough to lend me the use of his day parlor, all general officers will join me there.”

  Jackson’s stentorian tone left no doubt among the generals that the party was at an end, politely made their goodbyes, and followed their leader into the hallway. In the day parlor, they found Jackson’s familiar aide-de-camp, Captain J.P. Smith, waiting for them with several fat envelopes.

  Jackson turned to face Polk. “Lieutenant General Polk, I apologize for using the hospitality of your family as part of my deception, but military necessity must take precedence.”

  Lucius Polk came up beside his uncle. “I think I see, sir. You see, Uncle Leo, it’s Saturday, and General Jackson’s observation of the Sabbath is well-known to the enemy. We’re more than 40 miles from army headquarters, and they must know we’re here.”

  Polk nodded slowly. “Yes, I see.” They might catch the Yankees napping and would at least muddy the waters. Whatever Jackson had planned, he had just gained a day’s head start.

  “Captain Smith has copies of your marching orders. You are not to share them with anyone outside your immediate chain of command. Generals Cheatham, Clayton, Stevenson, and Polk, your senior brigadiers will see to starting the march, under the supervision of Generals Cleburne and Stewart. You are to continue with whatever plans you had for the night, and join your divisions on their routes of march in the morning.”

  Stevenson said, “Sir, I would like to ride to my command at once. Would it not be better for us to be there as soon as possible?”

  “No, no. I saw this as an opportunity to give your deputies some experience in handling larger responsibilities. And their deputies as well.” And, Jackson thought to himself, Cleburne and Stewart are there to supervise.

  Looking to Polk, Jackson continued, “Your corps is closer at hand, and keeping that in mind I excused yourself and your officers to attend. Again, I thank you for your generosity, but you, General Maney, and General French must depart at once and implement your orders.”

  The Bishop saluted. “Of course, sir. I would prefer to study our orders here, so if there are any questions…”

  Jackson nodded, “Yes, of course.” He dismissed Captain Smith to his bed, left the assembled generals to study their orders, and went out into the hallway.

  “Mr. Polk,” he said audibly, standing in the doorway so the generals in the day parlor could see him. “You have such a lovely home. May I have a tour?”

  George Polk replied, “I would be delighted, General. Delighted.”

  Having designed and built the house himself, George Polk knew every detail and wanted to start with the front. Jackson grinned as they stepped outside. His officers and the civilians would think it strange, but sometimes people found a show of nonchalance very encouraging.

  June 12, 1864

  3:15 A.M.

  Camp of the 41st Tennessee Infantry, CSA

  Hillsboro, Tennessee

  Sergeant Marks shook Nathan gently on the shoulder. “Get up, Nathan.”

  Nathan’s head hurt, thick with hangover. He grumbled, “What? Hell’s bells, Ed. It’s Sunday, and I didn’t hear no horns.”

  Lying next to him under the half-shelter, Willie woke and muttered something inaudible. The other men nearby were waking as well.

  Marks said in a level voice, “All of you up. Get up! It’s assembly, so fall in. But don’t make a fuss. No bugles, no bells, and no shouting. That’s an order.”

  Once he was sure at least Willie was awake, Marks went off to rouse the others. In a matter of minutes, the company was dressed and moving to assembly, where Captain Bell stood watching and waiting in the dim lantern light. He gave a long yawn as he turned around and the company lined up beside him, along with the other companies in the regiment.

  With the regiment assembled, the Sergeant Major gave a hoarse, hushed call of “T’shun!” Then Colonel Tillman stepped out.

  “Boys, we’re moving out. Marching orders came down just a little while ago. See to your breakfast. We’re to issue what remains of the Yankee coffee, so boil it up and drink it while you can. Then strike the tents, roll up your gum blankets, fill your canteens, draw five days rations of that Yankee hardtack and salt pork, and 40 rounds for your cartridge boxes. We are the tail of the division this time around, so see if you can’t scare up a bandana or bandage to keep the dust out of your mouths. We’re on the road at six o’
clock. Dismissed.”

  The assembly broke up, with the officers meandering off either to their quarters or their mess, and the men sifting themselves out into their own mess groups, whereupon they set about the business of starting cooking fires. With three hours to do what for most was one hour’s worth of work, they enjoyed a leisurely breakfast of hoecakes and bacon.

  Savoring what he believed would be the last cup of coffee, the real rio, he would see for weeks or months, Nathan looked across the fire to Marks. “Care to place a wager on where we might be going, Ed?”

  Willie shot Nathan a look, to which Nathan smiled back pleasantly. With the coffee and some bacon grease in him, he felt much better, and pulling Willie’s leg was so easy. Damn, Nathan thought, I need to pinch Willie’s Bible thataway more often.

  “I reckon that Lucifer’s beard will sport icicles before Old Jack tells us where we is going,” Marks replied. After stuffing a small plug of tobacco into his cheek, he continued “Democratic, that man. We ain’t got no idea, colonel ain’t got no idea, them other generals ain’t got no idea. I guaran-damn-te you of that.”

  “Ain’t that more like a kingly way?” asked Willie. “Sitting at the top, not saying nothing to nobody.”

  Nathan said, “Naw, just the army way. Only more army.” Grinning, he raised his feet and wiggled his toes. “I declare, I’m looking forward to this one, wherever we be going. These here brogans from them Yankee prisoners from back in Lawrenceburg they gave me, these are the best shoes I’ve ever had. And I’ve had a few weeks to break them in, too.”

  The Johnnies kept chatting over their precious coffee until the appointed time came, and the regiment assumed its marching formation. There were no bands and no bugle calls, just the Sergeant Major calling out, “Forward… March!” They soon fell in behind the rest of Walker’s Brigade, which in turn came up behind the rest of Cheatham’s Division.