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

by R. E. Thomas

  No, the one thing Nathan knew he had, even as a poor dirt farmer’s son, was that he wasn’t as low as a darkie. He was white, and that was the ultimate guarantee. He would always be better than any free darkie. Nathan knew slaves and he knew free darkies, and he didn’t believe that they would run loose killing, raping, and thieving if they were freed, the way the preachers and the slick politicians said. He didn’t believe that any more than he believed the Yankees came South out of the goodness of their hearts or to save the Union.

  But that didn’t mean he wanted the darkies freed, freed so they could take what little Nathan could get out of life away. He knew that if darkies came up from slavery, they would become the same as the least of the white men, and that meant they would all become something only a little better than slaves together. It wouldn’t bring the darkies up, but instead would drag the lowest whites down, and he didn’t like his chances when should that happen.

  June 17, 1864

  7 P.M.

  Port Royal, Tennessee

  45 miles northwest of Nashville, near the Kentucky border

  Sherman paced in the confines of the front room of the Port Royal post office in his shirt sleeves, taking short, sharp drag after short, sharp drag on his cigar as he went. Even with the windows open, the front room of the modest, two-room clapboard building were thick with tobacco smoke.

  He came to a stop, having smoked the cigar down to the nub. He tossed the butt aside and went to his coat, hanging from the back of a chair. He retrieved another cigar and lit it, tapping his foot violently against the floor all the while, and then resumed smoking and pacing.

  “Jesus Christ, how long do they need to find out why the telegraph in Franklin is down?”

  Sherman had learned of the telegraph failure that morning. That small piece of news didn’t worry him at the time, because telegraph service frequently failed and for any number of reasons, such as Rebel partisans cutting the wire, or a poorly set telegraph post falling down.

  Then McPherson sent up the reports from Grierson and Minty that afternoon. Rebel cavalry was still on the south banks of the Cumberland opposite Clarksville, but they were nowhere else. The day before, the southern banks had been alive with Confederate patrols, just as they should be for an army setting up security and preparing to bridge a major river. Today, those patrols had vanished. He immediately ordered his own patrol sent out to ascertain why the Franklin wire had failed and then settled in to wait. And how he hated waiting.

  Then he thought he heard a faint clacking. Sherman spun on his heels and threw the door open into the next room, where the field telegraph had been set up.

  “God dammit, is that from Nashville? About Franklin?”

  The signals officer said, “Yessir and nosir. It is from Nashville, but not about Franklin.”

  “Then what the hell is it?”

  Used to Sherman’s nervous excitability, the signals man was unruffled. “I’ll have that for you in a minute, General.”

  When the cipher clerk was finished, the officer took the paper and promptly handed it to Sherman, whose eyes darted rapidly through every line. The message was about Franklin, just not about the Franklin telegraph. Instead, it reported that two reliable Union sympathizers, both men with an established track record for providing sound intelligence, had come separately into Nashville with the story that Jackson’s army had moved back into the area between Franklin and Columbia. Sherman’s Nashville intelligence office discounted the stories, but forwarded them anyway.

  “Fools,” Sherman scoffed. “I left nothing but blind men and fools in the Nashville headquarters.” He sprinted out of the telegraph office and out the front door.

  “Get McPherson,” he shouted. “And get him now!”

  As Sherman had made a point of keeping his headquarters near Hooker, and McPherson had been keeping his closer to the center of the army, summoning McPherson took nearly an hour. Sherman was outside the post office and in the street, pacing back and forth and slurping down black coffee from a tin mug when McPherson galloped into Port Royal and saluted.

  Sherman beckoned him into the post office and said, “Close the windows, Mac” before seeing to the doors himself. Alone and with a margin of privacy, Sherman began “You were right, Mac. You were right. Jackson’s been about his trickery again. He is marching east. East!”

  McPherson shook his head. “I can’t believe that, Bill. I always thought there was something more to this, but I never thought that. His whole army has been moving west. Such a movement cannot be merely a diversion.”

  “It can and it is.” Sherman handed him the message from Nashville. “Think about how long it will take us to turn about, cross the Cumberland, and catch up to him. He has hoodwinked us again.”

  McPherson read the message and said, “I know the movements of the Rebel cavalry are strange, but you want to me turn on the word of a pair of civilians?”

  “I do. I’ve known Jackson was throwing sand in our eyes and marching east for hours now. This is my confirmation. He waited for us to set off after him, and once he knew we had, he turned himself around and marched east as fast as he could. It’s almost 50 miles back to Nashville, and then we must cross the entire army. It will be four or five days before we are south of the Cumberland and ready to give chase.”

  “Perhaps,” McPherson said slowly, “we should send Grierson across the river in the morning. Have a look around, just to be certain.”

  “I,” Sherman said firmly, “am certain. What is more, that mission would take all day, and then only to confirm the Rebel army isn’t in the vicinity of Clarksville. Actually finding it would be days more. I’m not waiting for that.”

  McPherson sighed. “Since you put it that way… I’ll turn the army around. I’ll force the march and get back to Nashville, quick as I can.”

  Sherman clapped a hand down on McPherson’s shoulder. “Good, Mac. Good. The boys can rest a little when we get to the river. Crossing the bridge will take time, and we need to put the entire army across before we can move on.”

  June 17, 1864

  Shortly Before Midnight

  Headquarters, Army of Tennessee, CSA

  Spring Hill, Tennessee

  Captain Quintard spoke quietly from outside the closed tent flap. “Sir, General Forrest is here as requested.”

  “Good, good. Let him pass.”

  Jackson got up as Forrest entered the tent and motioned for him to come over to the map, laid out on a card table and anchored with flat stones. Only then did he look at Forrest, who appeared rested and restored.

  Good, good, Jackson thought. He will need his strength in the coming weeks. We all will.

  “General Forrest, could you indicate to me the current positions of your cavalry?”

  “Yessir.” Forrest pointed to different points on the map as he spoke. “I do not know the exact whereabouts of Rucker’s Brigade. You know we left him south of Clarksville to deceive the Yankees, sir, and his orders were not to leave that place until after sundown today. Buford is screening us from Nashville, in about Franklin and Petersburg, and Red Jackson’s boys are facing east, at Jordan’s Store and Riggs Crossroads.”

  “Good, good. General Forrest, tomorrow I want your cavalry to go to Murfreesboro. I am informed you fought a small battle there in July 1862, so I gather you know the roads and the country.”

  Forrest was astonished. He had been expecting a move to cut the railroads, but not this. “Murfreesboro, sir? Yes, I know the roads and the country. Very well, I reckon. I also know that down Murfreesboro way is Fortress Rosecrans, and after Nashville, that be the greatest fortress I know of.”

  Jackson nodded. “You are not wrong. It is a formidable place. Truly. I reckon the defensive power of Nashville and Washington about equal, and if my reports are accurate, Fortress Rosecrans is not far behind them. But you need not concern yourself with that. Your orders are to advance Buford down the Franklin and Bole Jack Roads, and Red Jackson down the Salem Pike, with strengt
hened leads, flankers, and advanced guards. When your divisions encounter Federal roadblocks or patrols, or when they close to within ten miles of Murfreesboro, whichever should come to pass first, they are to dash forward and descend upon the town.”

  “I want any enemy resistance encountered on the roads broken up. You are to select two parties of a few dozen picked men, one for each division, and when you make your lunge into Murfreesboro, these are to ride out and cut the wires going north and south. When you arrive in Murfreesboro, you will surround the fortress and isolate it. You are not to attempt an assault on the fortress.”

  Upon hearing he wasn’t to attack Fortress Rosecrans, Forrest felt some relief. Even so, he asked, “Not even if I see an opportunity?”

  “No. Not under any condition. You may parlay with the enemy, and attempt to procure their surrender, but only if they agree to the general terms described in your written orders. Your main task is to silence all communications coming from the fortress and the town. I do not want even a single runner or Unionist traitor sneaking out of either place and bringing word to Nashville.”

  “Yessir. I’ll wrap them up in a gum rubber bag for you.”

  Jackson handed Forrest his written orders. “Good, good. Then be about your business. Dismissed.”

  As he watched Forrest leave, Jackson couldn’t help but muse about what his strict secrecy had wrought. He had his staff prepare sets of orders covering several eventualities, as was his habit, both because he liked to be prepared and because it kept even those closest to him guessing about his intentions. He assigned the Coleman Scouts and other not just Murfreesboro, but many other things to spy upon. Only Sandie and President Davis knew what he had intended for weeks now, and Davis had only been informed by means of a message hand-delivered by a trusted courier on the day before the march began. Thus, the President had been given due notice and sufficient time to object and cancel the new campaign before it began, and he had not.

  Even now, Jackson thought, part of me wants to cross the Cumberland. It is the audacious thing to do. But it was too dangerous. Far too dangerous.

  Three times before, Southern armies had abandoned their base to invade the North. In Maryland and again in Pennsylvania, Lee had used the country he passed through to feed his troops, relying upon Virginia only to supply ammunition and medicines when needed, and then only periodically. Bragg had done much the same in Kentucky, as had Winfield Scott in the Mexican War. Jackson had first-hand experience of Mexico and Maryland, had studied Pennsylvania and Kentucky, and came to his own conclusions about the advantages and disadvantages of the practice.

  He knew that when an army brought its “tail” with it, it had no rear to defend. That army could therefore move more rapidly and was spared the need to leave garrisons behind it. A large army operating so had to disperse, so it could cover more ground and gather more food and fodder. But when an enemy approached, that army would have to concentrate, and in doing so its supply base would become only what it had with it in the wagons at the time. The army’s flexibility in terms of where, when, and for how long to fight would instantly shrink to the size of its wagon train.

  That knowledge had weighed heavily upon Jackson’s mind when he considered whether or not to go through with going over the Cumberland and into the fatter country of northern Tennessee and southern Kentucky, but more important was how he might get back if he should suffer a reverse. When Bragg invaded Kentucky, he did so knowing he had a line of retreat through Cumberland Gap and back unto Chattanooga. That route was now closed to Jackson, so he would have to fall back the way he came, over the Cumberland River.

  Federal gunboats could blast a pontoon bridge to matchwood, and there were only a few places where such a bridge could be protected from them. That made any crossing of the river a hazardous undertaking, let alone a crossing made on the retreat with a hostile army at his back, and Jackson doubted that Sherman or McPherson would allow such an opportunity to slip through his fingers. They would strain every muscle to trap him and annihilate him.

  All these considerations together persuaded Jackson that he needed to do two things before he could cross the river and carry out his original plan of cutting the railroad to the North and compelling the Federals to abandon the invasion of Georgia. First, he needed to increase the size of his wagon train, to enlarge the “tail” he would bring with him. He had once told the War Department he couldn’t invade barren East Tennessee without an additional 900 wagons, and he needed a similar number to mount an invasion of Kentucky. Second, he needed to wear down the reinvigorated Army of the Tennessee in battle.

  Hence Murfreesboro. In Jackson’s mind, the taking Fortress Rosecrans would solve many problems. He would capture supplies, but most importantly wagons, horses, and mules. Also, the fortress had several heavy guns, guns that he would need if he needed to lay siege to Nashville or fortify his river crossing against Yankee gunboats. And finally, it was both a move that the enemy expected least and a move guaranteed to draw the enemy out of Nashville on his chosen terms.

  Having finished his reflections, Jackson muttered, “The time has come. After a month, it has arrived.” He raised his hand into the air and quietly prayed.

  Chapter 8

  June 18, 1864

  Noon

  Fortress Rosecrans, USA

  Murfreesboro, Tennessee

  The first hint Major General Robert Milroy received of his predicament was when the telegraphy to Nashville and Chattanooga went out, but he paid that no mind, as that was a common enough occurence. So, Milroy was taken aback when his cavalry patrols came rushing back inside the earthen walls of Fortress Rosecrans, with tales of huge masses of gray troopers on the roads to the west, not more than a two hours’ hard ride from Murfreesboro.

  Milroy pondered his situation as he waited for his senior officers to arrive in his office, an affair improvised with camp furniture in a stout log building. Charged with defending the Nashville and Chattanooga Railroad, he transferred his headquarters to Fortress Rosecrans upon hearing that Stonewall Jackson’s entire army was moving into his territory, bringing some reinforcements into the fort with him. Fortress Rosecrans was by far the strongest post in his area of responsibility and therefore the least likely place to be attacked. The Rebels might send their infernal horsemen to try to cow them into surrender, but nothing more. Milroy had decided that Stonewall Jackson himself would never want to become bogged down in a siege trying to take the place.

  He looked to Brigadier General Horatio Van Cleve, as if to confirm his assessment. A thin, balding man with a flowing beard and spectacles, he resembled a kindly old professor. Milroy knew Van Cleve had been banished to Murfreesboro after a poor showing at Chickamauga.

  Van Cleve was a good enough man, Milroy thought, but lacking in the fire needed to purge this wicked land of its sins. Standing up, Milroy decided that if the design of Providence put him in this place, it must be to stiffen the spines of these men.

  Milroy cut a fit, fiery figure as he stepped forward to confront Van Cleve and the gathered colonels. “Gentlemen, I’m sure you have all heard that our cavalry has been driven in. A large force of Confederate cavalry is on the roads to the south and east of Murfreesboro, perhaps two brigades strong. It seems the Rebels are about to raid this place in force, and we’re going to meet them. We will hold this fortress, and if they are imprudent enough to relax their vigilance, we will strike at them.”

  Van Cleve sat, phlegmatic, his arms folded across his chest. “You have my support, sir, and I’m sure the support of all present. But if I may say one thing?”

  Milroy nodded, so Van Cleve went on. “This fort is more than 200 acres square. We have less than 3,000 men to hold more than two and a half miles of walls, a place that was built to accommodate an army of 50,000. If a sizable force of cavalry makes a determined attempt at storming this place, I fear we will be too thinly spread to repel them. In my opinion, we should contract our lines. We can throw up a line of new earthworks behind
Stones River and between Redoubts Thomas and Wood, pull back behind it, and abandon the western third of the fort. That will shorten the perimeter up nicely.”

  Milroy recalled his last attempt to hold a fortress in the face of a Rebel army, when Dick Ewell rooted him out of Winchester the previous June. The only thing his resolute actions had earned him there was the indignity of a court of inquiry, and he knew General Sherman was adamant that no post was to be given up without a fight.

  “No, I will not yield one inch of this fortress to the enemy. The walls are high, the stakes in the ditches sharp, and we have ample artillery. If they come here, we will kill every last Rebel. You all have your assignments. Take care to make sure your men remain rested and alert, especially for night duty. Dismissed.”

  But as the day wore on, and butternut troopers blocked the roads leading out of Murfreesboro one by one, Milroy’s determination to hold the fortress faltered. It also seemed to him that after Winchester, he was censured for holding his ground when he should have retreated, so he became worried by doubts that perhaps withdrawing from Murfreesboro was the proper course of action. He also fretted over the fate of his regiment of colored soldiers, should they fall into the hands of the Rebels.

  A devout Presbyterian and abolitionist, Milroy had embraced the war with religious fervor, seeing in it the hand of Providence, the Lord’s will that the slave-powers be thrown down, broken, and trodden from memory. That black men now bore arms, wore blue, and served as the instruments of their own liberation was only further proof that the destruction of the South was God’s own intention. Yet the damned Rebels massacred colored troops whenever they could, more proof in Milroy’s mind that Southerners were a wicked and vile people. He knew that if he surrendered the fort, or worse, if the fort were taken from him, most of his coloreds would be slaughtered, and the survivors put back into bondage.