by R. E. Thomas
They were marching south, towards Hillsboro and the crossroads. That scrap of knowledge told them they weren’t going straight down the Hillsboro Pike to Nashville. An hour later, they were in the village of Hillsboro, marching towards the crossroads.
Waiting for them there was not Cheatham, who the Tennesseans expected, but Brigadier General Vaughn. No one knew that Old Frank was riding from Maury County to meet them, so rumors began flying up and down the column that he had finally done something to prompt Jackson to order his arrest for drunkenness.
It was full morning daylight by then, and as they approached the village, the men could see the billowing clouds of dust stomped up by the thousands of pairs of feet, clearly marking where the rest of the division was. And they were going west.
Nathan looked over at Sergeant Marks. “Kentucky?”
Marks nodded. “I reckon so. Ain’t much point in going to Memphis.”
Part II
Wagon Hunting
June 1864
Chapter 7
June 13, 1864
9:30 A.M.
Thompson’s Mill
Headquarters, Minty’s Division, USA
The courier found Minty in his tent and working at his camp desk, looking over the commissary paperwork for his horse fodder. Minty looked at the man as he saluted from the tent flap: dirt spattered, sweaty, agitated, but restrained. Whatever he wants, Minty thought, it must be urgent. Minty motioned for him to come into the tent.
“Message from Colonel Klein, sir!”
Minty didn’t take his attention from his papers for more than a few moments. He went back to work, and without looking at the courier, said, “On the desk, please. Then wait outside.”
After the courier left, Minty picked up and read the scrap of paper:
Monday, June 13
Quarter to 9 o’clock
Headquarters, 1st Brigade of Cavalry
Brentwood, Tennessee
To: Robert Horatio George Minty
Brigadier General of Volunteers, USA
Sir,
I report to you the following facts: 1. My forward patrols relieved my night pickets early this morning, as per standing orders; 2. These patrols bore reports of no Rebel presence to their front; 3. I ordered all patrols forward all the way to the Harpeth, reconnoitering the crossings at Franklin and the Hillsboro Road before I encountered any resistance. Franklin bridges destroyed, Hughes Ford occupied in force. Requesting further orders.
Lt. Col. Robert Klein
Cmd’ing 1st Brigade
Folding his arms over his chest, Minty considered Klein’s message. He was certain it was the first sign that Stonewall Jackson was finally on the move, and he had been anticipating it for some time now. He understood Sherman’s reasons for waiting in Nashville well enough, but he had expected it would be Jackson who went first all the same.
Minty stepped out of his tent and set his cocked, feather-plumed hat on his head. To his chief of staff, he said, “Major, we’ll be postponing that inspection of the 4th Michigan’s horses for another time.” Turning to the courier, he said, “My compliments to Colonel Klein. Go back to him and tell him to send a patrol out to the crossing at Harding Pike and report back. In the meantime, he is to issue rations and ammunition to his men. We might be in the field for a few days.”
His next orders were to Smith’s Brigade, now patrolling the Mill Creek line, and to his old Sabers, who were resting in reserve nearby, along with his horse guns. They too were to issue rations and ammunition, and be prepared to ride at moment’s notice. Only after that was in motion did he send a message by telegraph back to army headquarters, relaying the news to McPherson and requesting permission to cross the Harpeth for a reconnaissance in force. That done, Minty kept himself occupied by seeing his saddle and tack polished, his saber sharpened, and his accoutrements generally made dandy.
He didn’t need to wait long. In less than 20 minutes a signals clerk was at his headquarters stables.
“Your reply from General McPherson, sir.”
Minty asked placidly, “And what does it say?”
“And I quote: ‘You are hereby ordered to cross the Harpeth River at whatever point is most convenient, and ascertain the movements and position of the enemy, proceeding as far south as the Duck River if that be necessary. Good hunting.’”
Minty smiled knowingly. The orders could have been much more restrictive, but even so he wasn’t to ride south of the Duck. Minty knew McPherson trusted him—it was McPherson who had gotten him his star—but not two months ago that damnable fool Judson Kilpatrick had abused just such a mission and was badly beaten at Holly Grove Crossroads for it. James Birdseye McPherson was a cautious man and wouldn’t be burned twice.
“Thank you.” Minty jumped up, strode from the stables, and found his chief of staff. “Dispatch a two-gun section to Klein and tell him that if the Harding Pike Ford is unoccupied, he is to send a regiment across, and that they are to reconnoiter towards Franklin from the west. His remaining regiment and the artillery are to demonstrate before those Rebels now in possession of Hughes Ford. The rest of the division and myself are crossing by way of Trinity Ford, and will approach from the east and southeast.”
3:30 P.M.
7th Pennsylvania Cavalry, USA
Winstead Hill, near the Columbia Pike
Franklin, Tennessee
Thus far the “reconnaissance in force” hadn’t required much in the way of force, Spear thought. He had heard some of Klein’s Kentucky boys had a bit of a scrap at Hughes Ford, but once the artillery showed, the Rebs skeddadled. The Sabers came right over from Trinity Ford and on into Franklin without seeing so much as a scrap of butternut, easy as you please.
Now the Pennsylvanians were posted on the hills due south of Franklin, so as to block any Rebel approach coming up from Columbia or thereabouts. They knew the country well from much prior service there, including covering the retreat from Lawrenceburg the month before. Taking advantage of the break, Spear and the other troopers who weren’t on picket duty had broken into their messes, boiled up some coffee, and set about making a late dinner of skillygale, or crumbled hardtack fried with salt pork.
Spear muttered, “We really ought to mount those negro women we hired to cook for us. They can always make something tasty, even out of iron rations.”
Walther Rose puffed on his clay pipe from across the cooking fire. In a light German accent, he said, “I say this many times. You put a little water in the pan before you fry the sliced pig flesh. Then you take the pig flesh out, and cook the biscuits in the fat. Then you put the pig back in. But you never listen.”
Jim Crowder commented, “Besides, if we put them cooks on horses, we’d like as not have to put them in uniforms. Or at least them negro menfolk, anyhow. Then half-blind, hairless old sourpuss like Thaddeus Stevens would be all up in our faces about it, saying those negroes should have a Spencer, a six-shooter, and a saber too. They best stay with the wagons. Colored regiments is one thing…”
Finishing Crowder’s sentence, Spear said, “… but we don’t want them in here with us. Yes, I know.”
Spear messed with his glassblowing chums, friends who all worked in the same Pittsburgh works where he had been a junior foreman and who had followed him to the recruiting officer and into the cavalry. Because he had brought half a dozen troopers to the flag with him, and knew a little something about managing men, Spear had started the war as a corporal.
When they all signed up, Spear thought, hardly anyone cared a whit about slavery. Well, Walt was something of an abolitionist, but not hardly anyone else, and Walt’s father had some pretty strange notions about work and freedom that he had brought with him from the old country. But even Walt had joined mostly to preserve the Union, and Jim had signed up because he thought riding a horse and swinging a sword would be more exciting than blowing glass. So had I, come to think of it.
Then they all went to Tennessee, patrolling the state far and wide for pretty much th
e whole year of 1862. Seeing the “peculiar institution” up close had done more to harden their attitudes towards slavery than a hundred anti-slavery speeches. By the time Stones River was fought, they were all abolitionists, to the very last man. Being abolitionists didn’t mean they wanted negroes lining up with them at assembly, though.
Thinking about Walt’s father prompted Spear to say, “I’ll tell you again, Walt, your pap should have done like my grandpap and made his name all American. Less trouble that way, what with the Know-Nothings and all. Clinging to the old country and all is well and good, but not if it gets your teeth broke.”
Walt shrugged. “And what do you suggest? ‘Rose’ is spelt the same in English as German. I think this makes little difference. And when your grandpap came to the three rivers, the place was still full of wild Indians, and people thought all Germans were Hessians, come to kill them for the English King.”
Spear dug his spoon into the semi-burnt, imperfect skillygale. Bad as it was, at least he had strong, sweetened coffee to wash it down with. He had just taken his first bite when Crowder asked a question.
“Do you think we’ll bivouac here tonight, Sarge?”
Spear swallowed a spoonful and took a sip of coffee. “I believe we will, Jim.”
“How so? I imagine they’ll be hot to know where the Rebs went to, back in Nashville. There is plenty of daylight left.”
“Well, the way I see it is this. Us and Smith’s boys have already been in the saddle for 30 miles today. Now you are right, and there is plenty of light left, but to go on far enough to do any good pushes our horses hard. And we’ve got some good ground here, plus those fortifications back in Franklin if things go wrong. This is a right good and safe place to make camp for the night.”
After another bite of food, Spear said, “Our Bobby Minty, now that man is a trooper. He’s got cavalry in his blood. We might mount up before dawn and ride like the devil tomorrow, but I can’t see him wanting us to wear out our horses only to bed down in some God forsaken place where Forrest could turn around and hit us.”
Rose said placidly, “The rumors say Stonewall Jackson went west.”
“You never can tell with that one. We thought we were dealing with Polk and two corps at Lawrenceburg, and Jackson was over in Georgia.”
After a pause, Spear spat, “That man is full of surprises.”
Crowder asked, “Where do you reckon he’s going?”
Rose shrugged. “He may go to Kentucky. I believe that is very likely. We all thought he wanted to go to Kentucky before. But…” Rose paused to puff on his pipe for a time. “Perhaps he goes to Memphis and Vicksburg. To undo what Grant did last summer?”
“Well Walt, I promise you this much,” Spear said. “Wherever Jackson is going, our Bobby Minty will be out looking for his rear guard tomorrow.”
Both Spear’s deductions proved sound. Minty elected to remain around Franklin for the remainder of the day. By nightfall, the wire was extended from Nashville, and a telegraphy station was in operation in Franklin, not that Minty chose to remain there for very long. Hopeful of catching the butternut pickets napping, the Irish cavalry general made sure his men were up, breakfasted, mounted, and riding west well before dawn. Smith’s Brigade took the route south on Carter’s Creek Pike before moving west towards Charlotte, while Klein’s Brigade took the direct route by way of Hillsboro. The Sabers came up behind them.
Minty’s troopers found less sport than at Lawrenceburg. Buford’s horseman had been soldiering under Nathan Bedford Forrest for months by then and knew better than to fall asleep while on duty. Klein’s and Smith’s advanced guards exchanged shots with small groups of watchful, dismounted gray troopers in the early morning mist. The Federal cavalry pushed on, but soon found themselves stalled along the line of South Harpeth Creek.
The South Harpeth wasn’t much of an obstacle, and in mid-June men and horses could cross it at just about any point. Even so, Minty still needed bridges and fords to cross his artillery and the small wagon train carrying his ammunition and fodder. He dispatched the 7th Pennsylvania to feel its way cross-country to the gap between Klein’s and Smith’s fronts, whereupon they plunged across the creek, scattering the gray skirmishers they found screening the bank. Minty’s Division was across the South Harpeth before noon.
The blue troopers pressed on, slowed by fallen trees and the need to keep strong skirmish parties on their front and flanks to guard against ambushes. Then they reached Turnbull Creek and again found the crossings defended. Minty responded as he did at the South Harpeth, this time sending the 4th Michigan, his old regiment, across the creek. It was late afternoon by the time the division was across the creek and had Klein, Smith, and part of the Sabers gathered for a hard lunge into Dickson County. That was when Nathan Bedford Forrest came calling.
The Battle of Turnbull Creek was a small and inconclusive affair. Forrest hit hard with his initial foray, but was firmly repulsed. Minty dismounted, shook out a line, and stood his ground, while Forrest spent the few remaining hours of daylight shelling the Union front and feeling around for their flanks. After nightfall, Minty withdrew to the east bank of the Turnbull.
June 14, 1864
After Midnight
Headquarters, Military Division of the Mississippi, USA
Nashville, Tennessee
Major Audenried burst into Sherman’s office, where he found Sherman and McPherson standing before the map table.
Holding out a folded piece of paper, he said, “Sir, a wire from General Minty!”
Sherman took a staccato series of short, hard drags on his cigar as he snatched the message away from Audenried. His eyes danced quickly across the lines of text:
June 14
8:30
Headquarters in the Field, 1st Division of Cavalry,
Army of the Tennessee
Brig. Gen. Robert H.G. Minty Cmdg
To: Maj. Gen. James B. McPherson
Cmdr, Army of the Tennessee
Sir,
My division’s progress was halted at Turnbull Creek, where we fought an action this afternoon against a mixed force of horse and foot. Unconfirmed reports sighted Gen. Forrest on the field. Enemy regiments involved known to have been from Buford’s Division, which has been contesting my progress all day, and from Featherston’s Mississippi Brigade, plus 10 guns. I have withdrawn to behind the Turnbull for the night.
Today’s action suggests a strong Confederate presence in Dickson County. I propose to move around south of Turnbull Creek in the morning, swing around their right flank, and directly ascertain the strength, position, and direction of movement for the enemy’s main body.
Confirmation requested.
R.H.G. Minty
Sherman handed the message to McPherson, took a few more draws on his cigar, and then stubbed the butt out in a clay ashtray. “Since Grierson reports the crossings of the lower Harpeth strongly covered by elements of Red Jackson’s Division, that paints a clear picture. Stonewall Jackson is about Dickson, and because he is about Dickson, he must be making for Clarksville, or somewhere near it. I imagine that new garrison there will see scouting parties sometime tomorrow.”
McPherson looked up from the message. “Who is out there now?”
“Rousseau sent a colored regiment and a veteran Ohio regiment, plus a new set of cannon. They should be settled in by now. Round about a thousand men. Not that it matters. Forrest captured the place with a gaggle of cavalry and a few boats last time. Jackson has upwards of 40,000 infantry, several thousand cavalry, roundabout 150 guns, and a bridging train. I’ve already ordered that bridge there demolished.”
“I agree if he’s going for Kentucky, he will cross near Clarksville. Probably throw a pontoon bridge across downriver. The Cumberland is narrow there, so it’s an awful place for our gunboats to contest a crossing. They’d be fish in a barrel.” McPherson added in a heavier tone, “I just wish I were certain he was indeed going to Kentucky.”
Sherman drummed the table with
his fingers. “He isn’t going to the Mississippi. If he were doing that, he should have gone west from Selma a month ago, not north. And Forrest left that bridge in Clarksville standing for a reason, for all the good it will do him. No, Kentucky is the only place Jackson can go that draws us out of Middle Tennessee and the only place he can easily live off the land and provide for his army. The way I see it, he has always had two options: march on Kentucky or march on Chattanooga. Dickson isn’t on the road to East Tennessee.”
McPherson couldn’t argue with Sherman’s logic. What bothered him was how according to script it all was. If his battle with Stonewall Jackson had taught him anything about the man, it was the primacy Jackson put on playing close to the chest and keeping his trump cards safely tucked away in his sleeve. Invading Kentucky was certainly audacious and was the move they had been dreading from this very headquarters all the way to the War Department in Washington. Yet because it was so feared, an invasion of Kentucky was also what they expected, and doing the expected didn’t sound like the man he fought at Lawrenceburg.
“Well,” McPherson said with resignation, “we can’t simply sit here in Nashville, whatever he does. I’ll put the army in motion. The boys will be on the road for Springfield before dawn.”
“Cheer up, Mac.” Sherman smacked him on the shoulder. “Tomorrow is June 15th. We were moving out in the morning even before word of this reached us. Now we’re going north instead of south. We’ll catch Jackson, fight it out with him, chase him back down to the Cumberland, use the gunboats to cut him off, and destroy him. And best of all, Old Slow Trot is moving out in the morning too.”
McPherson nodded. Whatever might be happening in Middle Tennessee, George Thomas’s Army of the Cumberland was poised to give Bill Hardee a good, hard kicking in the mountains of northern Georgia. And by the grace of God, McPherson thought, that is exactly what Thomas would do.
