by R. E. Thomas
The now large party rode down a country track and through the camps of Maney’s Division, formerly Loring’s and then Featherston’s. The Bishop was cheered by the men at their breakfasts, and so was Jackson, but with noticeably less enthusiasm.
Jackson noticed the tepid reception and privately dismissed it as the lingering demoralization left by Loring’s flawed leadership, and perhaps the resentment the men felt at having George Maney, an outsider, placed over them. It bothered him only very slightly, for he cared little for cheering except as a display of the men’s morale, feeling as he did that feeling any further interest in adulation would cause him to succumb to vanity.
Polk knew better. Maney’s soldiers resented their new general alright, believing Jackson had slighted them for Loring’s sins, and so they felt the bitter animus of both the unjustly wronged and that of the spurned and unloved. He knew too that Featherston simmered in his own disappointment at having his hopes of retaining command of the division dashed, that some of the other brigadiers supported Featherston as one of their own, and they encouraged the bad feelings in the ranks.
But Polk said nothing of this, for if the men resented Jackson, they remained his by default. The sentiment they were seeing in the camps just now proved it.
Jackson and Polk entered the area occupied by French’s Division, and soon came into the camps of Cockrell’s Brigade. There both generals were popular, and the cheering rose in volume accordingly. As they approached the tents of the Cockrell’s headquarters, a fife and drum band struck up “Bonnie Blue Flag.”
Jackson climbed down from his horse and found Cockrell, a man who would have looked unremarkable except that he was a brigadier at 30, waiting for him with a salute and an excited greeting.
“General Jackson, this is a magnificent surprise! It is an honor to have you in our camp, sir, a great honor!”
Jackson acknowledged the flattery with some slight nodding. “General Cockrell, I’ve never seen one of these pieces of Yankee ingenuity that they raise so much fuss about. I want to see one of your Henrys, please.”
Cockrell motioned to the nearest private. “Hanks! Yes, you there, Private Hanks! Cheer up, it’s not every day Stonewall Jackson wants to inspect your rifle.”
The private gulped as he jumped forward into attention and presented his rifle. At Cockrell’s request, he showed Jackson and Polk how the weapon was loaded and fired and how the sights were operated.
“And how does it operate in practice?” Jackson asked. “Is it sturdy? Does it misfire often, or the mechanism bite your fingers? I know of a breechloader or two that worked fine in the shop, but were not fit for field use.”
Calmer now, the solder replied, “It needs more love and care in the camp than an Enfield, sir. But the rifle is no dog, sir. I reckon that for sure.”
“May I?” Jackson took the rifle, examined it, and murmured, “Hmmmm. No place for a bayonet.”
Polk said sourly, “Infernal Yankee artifice.”
“I wish we had more of these ‘infernal Yankee artifices’ General,” Cockrell said, “and more ammunition to accompany them. I’ll say this, those guns are hungry. I had to set the standard ammunition issue at double, up to 80 rounds per man. We captured enough cartridges for two, maybe three big fights at Lawrenceburg, but I’m told our country lacks the industry to make these newfangled metal cartridges, nor did we capture any more of them here at Murfreesboro. We make do for now by collecting the brass casings after practice, but we won’t be able to do that in a battle, sir.”
Jackson became downcast. “Before the war, the fire-eaters and charlatans were too prideful, scorning the Northrons as a race of pasty mechanics. Unworthy, they said. I fear that we have come to regret the hubris of such men in so many ways, and this,” he said, holding up the Henry, “is just one of them.”
Polk nodded earnestly, saying quietly, “Amen.”
A grave silence fell over the group. Finally, Jackson said, “General Cockrell, assemble your men.” The bugles sounded, and as Jackson pulled himself back onto his horse, the Missourians ceased their drill and formed up.
Bringing around and himself before the assembly, Jackson addressed them. “Missourians! The trials of divine Providence have brought you far from your homes and families. I do not come from a speechmaking profession, so I have no sweet words of comfort for you, nothing to assuage the homesick. So I also will not tell you that with a tomorrow and a hurrah that your country shall be redeemed for you. Nor should you need such reassurances. We are all veteran soldiers here. So I promise you this. If we defeat our enemies tomorrow, we shall remain here, in Tennessee’s good Mother Earth. Do that, and Nashville shall fall. Take Nashville, and West Tennessee shall fall. And from that place, your country lies just across the Mississippi.”
Jackson’s brief speech was met with buoyant applause and cheers, as hats flew into the air and Missouri Johnnies broke ranks and mobbed Jackson. By the time the troops were persuaded to fall back into line, Jackson’s one hand was painfully sore from too many firm, manly handshakes.
When Cockrell’s men returned to their morning drilling, Polk walked up to Jackson. “Sir, unless I am mistaken, you are about to move along? May I have a word before you depart? In private?”
Jackson agreed and dismounted. As he did so, Polk said, “General Cockrell has offered us the use of his tent.” They went inside, and Jackson found the battered furnishing familiar, with the only novelty being the faded state banner of Missouri, sewn into one of the tent panels.
Drawing the tent flap behind him, Polk said, “General Jackson, I know the vicinity very well, having fought here at Second Murfreesboro, a year and a half past. In hindsight, I believe General Bragg made a serious error in fighting on the ground that he did. It offered no particular advantage to either attacker or defender. Now, I know you have put yourself on very different ground, with Stewart’s Creek as our front, a strong position and immeasurably superior to Bragg’s choice. But I must tell you, I have always thought Overall Creek, just behind where my corps is camped now, is the best ground to be had in these parts. It offers all the strengths of Stewart’s Creek, but only more so. Sir, I must urge you to retire behind Overall Creek. We still have time. The Federals should not arrive at this place until this afternoon, perhaps not until after dark.”
Yes, Jackson thought to himself, Overall Creek is the best defensive line hereabouts, and that is why I cannot occupy it. The enemy would never attack it. I don’t know Sherman, and while some say he is crazy, the record speaks to competence. I know McPherson better, and he is both cautious and able. Instead of attacking a position like that, such men would choose a turning movement instead. And that is not what I want.
But Jackson offered none of his design, instead replying, “We make our stand on Stewart’s Creek. Your corps stands in reserve, ready to support Stewart’s Corps, should that be required.”
“May I at least know more of your intentions for battle, sir?”
Instead of becoming irritated, as he often did when pressed for more information, Jackson said patiently “General Polk, do you know of Benjamin Franklin’s advice on secrecy?”
“No. What did esteemed ‘Poor Richard’ have to say?”
“That a secret between three is kept only if two are dead.”
Displeased, Polk blinked twice, but otherwise retained his composure. “I see. Yes, I see. Well, you must want to call on the remainder of the army, and I must attend to my own affairs. Including my service. Thank you for hearing me out, sir.”
“Of course, General Polk. Of course.”
Jackson joined Smith and the couriers, and they rode back to and down the Bole Jack Road, past the bulky, towering, forested mass of Burnt Knob, a dominating U-shaped chain of hills. He could see where some trees had been cleared and his signals men had erected wig-wag stations. The flags were already in motion, sending trial messages back and forth. A little over three miles from Polk’s camps was a large knoll, where A.P. Stewart had tucked his
headquarters in a fallow field just behind the rise, and Jackson noted with approval that caissons for several guns dotted the east slope. Coming among the tents, Jackson found Stewart just as he was preparing to mount his horse.
“General Jackson,” Stewart cried, genuinely pleased. “I was just about to inspect my lines. Will you join me?”
“That,” Jackson said, eyes dancing and smiling warmly, “was exactly what I had in mind.”
Jackson found the renewal of his acquaintance with A.P. Stewart one of the few real pleasures of his western command. He had first met the gaunt, bookish Tennessean when Jackson was a cadet at West Point, where Stewart had been a junior artillery instructor. Both men had left the army to become professors. But most important of all to Jackson, Stewart was a good Presbyterian, and the kind of quietly competent officer who did what he was told, with no complaints and offering his opinion only when asked for it.
Stewart began his tour with Clayton’s Division, lying between the Franklin and Bole Jack Roads, and dug in behind a line of breastworks that wound through pastures and fields, incorporating the cedar thickets, stands of scrub trees, and rock outcroppings wherever possible. Everywhere along Clayton’s front, the field of fire was clear for at least two hundred yards. His line was tied into Red Jackson’s cavalry pickets on Scales Mountain on its left, and Stevenson’s Division and the headwaters of Stewart’s Creek on its right.
Stevenson’s Division extended the line north, behind the eastern bank of Stewart’s Creek. Here the infantry were protected not by earthworks, but by tree trunk barricades. The creek itself was a natural ditch, improved by the plethora of sharpened stakes that were driven into the soft, muddy bottom. Along this stretch of creek the field of fire was clear for up to a quarter mile in places, but Stevenson’s men were spread more thinly than Clayton’s. Behind them was an expanse of pasturage, and then the rugged heights of Burnt Knob.
After Stewart indicated where he had formed his reserve, a brigade each from Stevenson and Clayton, Jackson ordered Smith and the other attendants to remain behind. He took Stewart with him out into one of the overgrown fields between the creek and the hills.
Noting the tall weeds and bald patches of flat limestone, Stewart observed, “Horses and cattle should be grazing here, don’t you think, Tom? And there are none.” With more sadness in his voice, he continued “See how poor two years of war makes a country. How shall we cope with all this? Our devastated land?”
“We shoot the Yankees. Then we rebuild.” To himself, Jackson acknowledged that Middle Tennessee looked more ravaged than anywhere he had ever seen in Virginia. “What do you think of this ground, Pete?”
Stewart grimaced slightly and met Jackson’s eyes. “It’s a good hard shell, but that big hill worries me.” Stewart nodded toward Burnt Knob, then continued. “If I get pushed back, I’ll have a stark choice of splitting my corps or falling back to the north, away from Polk. Stevenson has to fall back on Cleburne whatever happens, because the mountains back there are in the way. They will break up any formation trying to cross it.”
“You are perfectly correct, Pete.” Jackson paused, looking up towards the gray sky and shifting uncomfortably in his saddle. “Sherman may still try to turn us out of here, but I don’t think he will. As far as he is aware, Milroy and Van Cleve are still in Fortress Rosecrans. So he will think us in a desperate place.”
“Yes, I thought that might have something to do with it. Didn’t Napoleon once say the worst place for an army was between a powerful fortress and an enemy army?”
“He may have. I want Sherman to think you, Cleburne and Forrest are facing him, while Polk is back screening the fort. Because your left extends beyond the creek, and because you have Burnt Knob in your rear, I expect he will fall upon your front and flank and try to drive us onto Stones River for destruction.”
Jackson began pointing south, jabbing with his finger. “If Clayton is hard-pressed, withdraw him back to here. Pull his line back like a door on its hinges. Polk will then counter-attack directly west.”
Stewart digested that. It was a simple enough ambush in its conception. The only complicated parts were pulling Clayton back and preventing the enemy from rolling Stevenson’s flank up as he did so.
“Yessir. I understand.”
Jackson smiled warmly. No protests, no doubts, no questions. Not from Stewart.
A light drizzle started coming down. Stewart said, “Will you come in out of the rain with me? Take some dinner with me, perhaps?”
The mention of food made Jackson remember he needed to eat, which in turn made him feel a little peckish, so he decided a light meal was in order. “Yes, yes. That sounds lovely.”
Returning to Stewart’s headquarters, the two men doffed their damp coats and hats and chatted about the captured heavy cannons with the spirit that only a pair who were both academics and gunners could muster. After a while, a meal of split pea and bacon soup with hardtack was brought to them, all of it made from captured Northern rations.
As he spooned up the last of the hearty soup, Stewart asked, “Have you been to see General Milroy yet?”
Jackson didn’t look up from his bowl. “No. Nor do I care to. The man is a criminal, not a soldier.”
“Did you know he was a Presbyterian?”
“Yes, yes. I fought him at McDowell more than two years ago. I learned a bit about him then. I have never understood how our co-religionists in the North could be so deluded about the intentions of Providence in this war, but I dismissed those who were both Presbyterians and abolitionists as misled or deluded years ago.”
Stewart set his bowl aside and reached for his cup of coffee. He had never wanted secession or this war, but felt much the same way as Jackson that Southern society was the way it was because God wished it so. If they had grown so far apart from the North for it to come to war, that was divine design as well. Such was the course of human events, all of it predetermined. He was just less certain than his friend and commander of God’s ultimate intentions.
After draining his cup, Stewart asked, “What do you intend to do with him?”
Jackson replied flatly “Our government wants General Milroy on charges. I captured him, and my duty ends with handing him to the proper and relevant authority. So, I will send him to the rear, and from there Richmond can do what they want with him. Incarcerate him as a prisoner of war, exchange him, parole him, try him, deport him to Cuba, I don’t care, so long as my duty is done and the outcome is proper and legal.”
Stewart said softly, “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.” Except that Stewart was not sure. Richmond had inflated Milroy into one of the greatest Yankee miscreants, and he worried about what the government might do. Having possession of Milroy was trouble, political trouble, Stewart was certain of that. He was equally certain his country had more trouble than it could handle as it was.
He changed the subject to something happier, namely resuming their teaching careers after the war. He renewed the conversation over his idea that if the War Department did not offer one or both of them the role of founding the Confederate Military Academy, perhaps Jackson should come to Tennessee and join Stewart in establishing a private military college along the lines of the Virginia Military Institute.
When the rain ended, Jackson said his goodbyes and rode on with his small party to Cleburne’s Corps. He found Lucius Polk’s front was much the same as Stevenson’s. The men were stretched out in a single rank behind the steep banks of Stewart’s Creek and a wall of interlaced standing trees and felled tree trunks. Small details were improving the fortifications and tending to other camp duties, but for the most part the men were idle now, and thus Jackson was met by smiling faces and much waving of hats wherever he went. There was no cheering, for he had ordered all cheering and noisy displays stopped while enjoying his dinner with Stewart.
Jackson was just coming upon the joint between Lucius Polk’s and Cheatham’s Divisions when he encountered Cleburne himself, riding the other way. Upon
seeing Jackson, Cleburne put the spurs to his horse, but then had a frantic job of stopping again. Old Pat rode right by Jackson and his party at a gallop, coming to a stop only after riding a few dozen more yards. A shame-faced Cleburne then brought his horse around back at the walk.
“My apologies, sir.” Cleburne muttered. “I fear I have never been much of an equestrian.”
“No, no. You have nothing to apologize to me for. My own horsemanship is lacking, and I barely manage to get along with this old mare here. Truthfully, I haven’t had a horse I was comfortable with since I lost my Little Sorrell at Chancellorsville.”
Cleburne gave a single, heavy nod. “Yessir.”
Jackson smiled slightly at that. He felt he was coming to like Cleburne’s character and manner, earnest and severely grim as they were. “General Cleburne, would you share your thoughts on the advantages and disadvantages of your position with me?”
“Yes, General. The line itself is a strong one, well-protected. To storm the breastworks, the enemy will need ladders. Furthermore, those hills to the west are a mile or more away along most of the front, so our line would be on the outside of the effective reach of any long-range bombardment.”
Cleburne audibly drew a breath before continuing. “Against that, the lines of trees and fences that border the fields, as well as the wood lots and cedar thickets, obscure the enemy’s advance across that mile of low and rolling country between the creek and the western hills. And the line of the creek itself is held by less than two men per yard. Less than two men per yard for more than five miles of front. And as for my own corps, Cheatham’s Division is less by Strahl’s Brigade, as you know, sir. I have only one brigade in reserve. To my right, Buford’s cavalry is spread out even more thinly. Finally, if I am forced back I cannot retreat towards the southeast, towards the rest of the army, due to the presence of Burnt Knob.”
Jackson’s eyes sparkled. “You will not need to fall back. You will hold this ground, General Cleburne. You will hold it. I expect you to hold it.”
