by R. E. Thomas
Already sitting straight up in the saddle, Cleburne stiffened even more. “Yessir!”
Jackson was about to take his leave when a young lieutenant galloped up to the generals, sending clods of soft, damp sod flying. He snapped off a salute to Cleburne and said, “Sir, Federal troops have been spotted occupying the heights west of the creek!”
Oblivious to the dirt and grass clinging to his coat, Jackson looked at his watch. Quarter past two, he thought. A little earlier than I had anticipated.
Cleburne said, “General, I had an observation post cleared atop Grindstone Knob, alongside the signal station, and my largest telescope placed there. Would you care to see for yourself?”
Jackson agreed and followed Old Pat away from Stewart’s Creek, across the weedy fields to a dirt track that led up Grindstone Knob, the western spur of Burnt Knob. The path was too steep and rugged for the horses, even if it hadn’t been slippery from the recent drizzles, so they had to walk.
To Jackson, Cleburne said, “Take care, sir, I pray you. One of my people has already had a bad fall on this trail. Slipped and snapped his ankle.” The two generals, 41 and 36 respectively, scrambled up the knob, leaving their younger attendant behind. They quickly reached the top, panting and sweaty in the warm, humid air.
Jackson whipped his hat off, exultant. “I tell you, General Cleburne, I have long thought of the simple act of walking the best form of exercise. I have not had the time for a strenuous walk up a hill like this one since the earliest days of the war. I once made a habit of such walks. I do miss it. I have had to make do with the saddle.”
Cleburne nodded, still too short of breath to reply. After a short rest, during which time their followers caught up, the pair went to the telescope tube. Jackson noted with satisfaction that Cleburne had the brass tube wrapped in old rags, a measure to prevent its polished surface from attracting attention. The lieutenant who had been manning the telescope directed Jackson where to look on the opposite ridge, two miles away.
There he could see the work parties of shirtless men with axes, picks, and shovels felling trees. Carefully observing the fields between the enemy-held heights and Stewart’s Creek, he could see the small parties of bluecoats gingerly exploring the countryside and setting up a picket line.
Jackson observed the enemy for several more minutes before giving the telescope over to Cleburne and bidding him farewell.
First he penned an address to the troops, warning them that battle was expected tomorrow and admonishing them to do their duty in the sight of their country and almighty God. That was followed by orders for his generals, directing them to ensure the men filled their canteens and cooked four days’ rations over supper that night; to make sure every infantryman carried at least 60 rounds and that ammunition wagons were kept in a shelter, but convenient location; and that the pickets were to be replaced at 3 A.M., to ensure fresh men were there to provide sufficient warning of the enemy’s advance.
After handing the papers over to Sandie for copying and distribution, Jackson returned to his tent. There he read from his Bible and prayed for a time, before joining his available senior staff – Sandie, Wells Hawks, William Allan, and Dr. Hunter McGuire, all followers from Virginia – around a camp fire for supper. Taking a lantern back to his tent, he added several more pages to a letter for his wife, Anna, knowing it would be the last letter he would be able to write for days, perhaps even weeks to come.
He folded the pages up, wrapped the thick letter in paper, tied the bundle up, and addressed it to his home in Lexington, Virginia, content in the knowledge that Jubal Early, his wicked former subordinate, had driven Hunter’s army out of the Upper Shenandoah and into Virginia’s western mountains. The Virginia Military Institute had been burned, but not his house, so Anna and his daughter had a home to return to.
June 21, 1864
9 P.M.
Headquarters, Army of the Tennessee, USA
Western outskirts of Rutherford County
22 miles southeast of Nashville
Bringing his horse from a canter to a halt, Sherman dismounted without waiting for any of his attendants to catch up to him, ignored the salutes from the men working around headquarters, and walked straight over to a lantern post. Once there, he checked his watch. Hearing his party catching up to him, Sherman spun on his heel and stepped forward to meet one rider in particular.
“Very good!” Sherman called out. “We have arrived right about when you said we would. I commend you, Corporal!”
Sherman’s guide, a corporal assigned to Nashville’s signals staff, tipped his hat. “Thank you kindly, General Billy. I reckon I ought to know this country well enough, seeing as how I spent the last year mending telegraph wire all up and down it.”
Looking to Audenried, Sherman said, “Major, you and the others see if you can’t find yourself some supper. It’s been a long day. I’ll send for you if I need you.”
Sherman, Audenried, and the others had left the army before dawn, returning to Nashville to attend to Sherman’s business as commander in chief for the western theater. After a change of horses, they then rejoined McPherson that afternoon. The pair had studied the ground together and discussed battle plans, whereupon Sherman left McPherson to deploy his army and rode off again, this time to Smyrna to look into the establishment of the temporary supply depot. By the time Sherman’s party found McPherson’s new headquarters, they had put in more than 40 miles in the saddle that day.
Yet Sherman’s sole concession to all those horseback miles was to put his hands in the small of his back for a stretch. He then lit up a cigar and strode forward to the little roadside cabin serving as McPherson’s office. Sherman entered to find McPherson seated across the corner of a map table from the grizzled, gray figure of A.J. Smith, the two men playing a game of checkers. In the back, the bullish John Logan wolfed down a plate of chicken and dumplings.
Motioning for everyone to remain seated, Sherman said, “Good evening, gentlemen. Aren’t we missing someone?”
McPherson said, “Hooker should be along shortly” before double-jumping Smith’s pieces, prompting the latter to muter a curse.
Catching the scent of Logan’s supper, Sherman’s mouth began watering. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until now. “Is there any more of that?”
McPherson called for his cook, who like so many of the servants attached to Union generals those days, was a former house slave from a great estate who now worked for pay. The cook returned with a tin plate of hot, savory supper for Sherman, who pulled up a chair in the back corner of the one-room cabin and ate quietly. He was just sopping up the last of the gravy with a cracker when simultaneously Smith let out a triumphal hoot, double jumping McPherson in turn, and Hooker burst through the door.
As Hooker stood in the doorway and offered his jaunty salutes, Sherman observed the rosy cheeks. A bit of bottled courage, Sherman wondered?
He then dismissed the notion. Sherman knew Hooker to be many things, most of them immoral, and being overly fond of the bottle was part of that. But the man was no drunk. Sherman accepted a cup of hot coffee from the negro cook, thanked him, and then settled in to watch the meeting. The army was McPherson’s, so this was Mac’s show to run, and Sherman was there merely to observe.
After having the checkerboard cleared away, McPherson was about to speak, but was stopped before he could start by Hooker.
“General, if I may? I have something I want to say before you begin?”
McPherson nodded his assent. Sitting in his corner, Sherman plucked at and thumbed one of the buttons on his coat. Typical Hooker, he thought. The man hasn’t changed a whit since San Francisco.
Hooker said, “I know we must assume Fortress Rosecrans is still resisting the Confederates, and therefore must be relieved as soon as practicable. However, I believe attacking Jackson is unnecessary. We can still swing around through the south, around these easily defensible creek lines, and force the Confederates to abandon Murfreesboro. Coming up fro
m there, we could then drive the enemy onto Stones River, and break them up.”
“I appreciate your thoughts on the matter,” McPherson said graciously. “But such a turning movement would detach us from the railroad and lay our supply line open to attack. You know as well as I do we have only half the transportation an army of this size requires for such an operation, and we cannot live off the land in a country already picked clean by two years of war.”
Sherman kept fidgeting with his jacket, consciously choosing a quieter alternative to drumming his fingers or tapping his foot. He thought he recognized Hooker’s game, believing that Hooker had to know his suggestion was impractical. It didn’t matter so much what Hooker said as much as that he said it, because in the event of a setback he was now on record as having proposed an alternative. Doing so cost Hooker nothing, but might help his case in winning the army command away from McPherson.
Yet Sherman was pleased when McPherson continued, confidently laying out his plan as if Hooker had said nothing at all. “XX Corps will open the attack at six o’clock, striking Scales Mountain with the aim of pinning and flanking the Confederate left. XVI Corps will support XX Corps. Now A.J., I want you to attack the headwaters of Stewart’s Creek with one division, while holding your other two divisions in reserve. You understand?”
“Yessir,” said Smith.
“Good. XV Corps will demonstrate against the Confederate right. Jack, in addition to the usual display against their front, I also want you to mount a diversionary attack to force the Murfreesboro Pike Bridge over Stewart’s Creek.”
After taking a moment to consider, Logan said, “I have a lot of ground to cover, but I can manage a diversion. I’ll keep the Rebels preoccupied with my end, at any rate.”
“Good. When Hooker is engaged with the enemy left, I’ll send word for you to begin your diversion against their right flank. That ought to divert at least some of any reserves they have available. Then we will roll up their left, and push the whole lot of them back onto Stones River. The enemy main body destroyed, we will then relieve Fortress Rosecrans. Any questions?”
When there were none, McPherson gave his corps commanders a final word. “Make sure your men have full canteens, at least 60 rounds per man, and to get them up early so they can have a hearty breakfast. The weather might stay cloudy tomorrow, but hot sun or no, I expect a long, hot day’s work tomorrow.”
Chapter 10
June 22, 1864
3:00 A.M.
41st Tennessee Infantry, CSA
Stewart’s Creek
Nathan awoke in the darkness to the whispers of Sergeant Ed Marks. “Up. Up. Picket detail. Get up.”
He sat up, rubbed his face, and looked over to Willie, who looked haggard. He usually slept alright the night before a fight, when we knows the fight is coming, Nathan thought. Having them stripes must be keeping him up.
The company mustered behind the regiment’s stretch of log barricades, and First Sergeant Halpern made a silent head count, not including himself and Captain Bell. Nathan watched as Halpern told Bell what must have been “all present and accounted for,” and then went over to pull two of the greenhorns out of line, the same pair from the day before who he had been doing his best to ignore since.
Halpern brought the pair before Willie, and said quietly, “Corporal Grimes, you’ve got these two.”
Willie whispered back, “Yes, Sarge.”
Halpern then glared at the visibly displeased Nathan, hissing, “Do you have a problem with that, Private?”
Nathan muttered, “No, Sergeant,” but of course he didn’t like being saddled with a pair of raw recruits, not for any reason, but especially not on picket duty. Skirmishing and picketing could be loose, unpredictable business, and Nathan didn’t want to be looking out for anyone other than Willie. He skirmished with his brother, and just his brother. That was their custom.
“Good,” Halpern said quietly. “I would hate to think I had inconvenienced you.”
Once Halpern was out of ear shot, Nathan looked at Willie and muttered, “Your being a corporal is making me prone to all manner of complaints.”
The company filed out through a crude sally port, a place where the barricade could be pulled down and there were no stakes in the creek bottom, permitting an easier passage. Even so, climbing out of that creek was a dirty chore without a ladder or a helping hand. That very point was made by Lloyd, who had to scramble up the steep bank on his own now that the rankers were making a point of shunning him.
Watching Lloyd slide down the bank in the gloom, Nathan reckoned it was only a matter of time before the failed draft dodger deserted. He hoped Lloyd would leave them sooner rather than later and find himself at the end of a rope before long.
Colonel Tillman’s adjutant, a lieutenant, led Bell and the company forward half a mile, through fields and lines of trees. It was easy going despite the dark, as the country was almost flat. Finally the lieutenant stopped them at the edge of a fallow field, behind a line of trees, where another company was spread out over more than 200 yards of ground. On the other side of the trees was a field of young corn. Halpern motioned to Willie to go left, so he took Nathan and the greenhorns down to the far left end of the picket line and relieved the men who were waiting there.
Nathan hunkered down and whispered to a corporal from the other company, “Where are the Yankees?”
“Nathan!” Willie hissed. “That’s my job!” More softly, Willie said, “Frank, where are the Yankees?”
The corporal chuckled quietly. “Nathan. Willam. Good morning to you too. Them Yankees is on the other side of the cornfield. They ain’t been talkative or nothing, just over there minding their own business.”
Nathan muttered, “That sure ain’t going to last.”
“Nope,” the corporal said back. “I reckon not. See you boys back at the creek.”
Willie motioned for the greenhorns to crawl forward. “Listen. We’re here to give the main line a good warning when the Yankees come up, and ain’t supposed to make a real fight here. When they come over, we shoot and skedaddle, you understand? Follow Nathan here and me back to the next line of trees. We work in pairs, just like in the skirmish drill. Alright?”
The boys, both only a year younger than Willie himself, nodded hesitantly.
“Alright then. Jimmy, you’re with Nathan. Pete, you’re with me. Just stick close, do what we do, don’t make any noise before them Yankees come cross the cornfield, and you’ll be fine.”
Nathan snatched Willie by the arm, but before he could say anything, Willie spoke first. “I know, I know. But I got to look after these boys. I ain’t going far. And anyhow, I reckon I got to look after you too, seeing as how I’m a higher rank and all.”
He couldn’t help but smirk at that, but with more seriousness Nathan said, “Don’t you go off seeing about them fellows down our right. This ain’t their first dance in the nettles or nothing, and you ain’t been given that job. Let Halpern worry about them.”
He could see Willie happily smiling back at him in the gloom. “Alright. You want the end there?”
Nathan nodded, patted the boy he now knew was named Jimmy on the shoulder, the same one who had pestered him with questions the other day. They went down the line of trees for several more yards, Nathan counting the paces as he went. He was still annoyed at being separated from Willie, now “Corporal Grimes,” and at having to look out for a greenhorn.
Even so, Nathan thought, I reckon little brother is finding his feet. The notion gave him a warm, proud feeling, but he was still annoyed.
Hours passed and the sky slowly grew brighter, into a soup of smoky gray. Nathan absently chewed on a hardtack cracker. When it grew light enough, he looked down the line, making sure not only of where Willie was, just 30 feet away, but also where Halpern and Bell were, down off the center.
When the Billies came, they came on without preamble. There were no bugles, no shouts, no artillery, just a line of four dozen men in blue, stepping ou
t from behind the trees and brush and into the half-grown stalks of corn.
Nathan leveled his musket, cocked the hammer back, and squeezed the trigger, adding to the musketry crackling to his right. Standing behind his tree, he set about reloading while keeping an eye on the flashes of blue amid the corn stalks. He didn’t spare even a glance for Jimmy, but instead kept his ear cocked as he reloaded. Soon enough he heard the crack of Jimmy’s musket, and Nathan gave a slight nod of satisfaction and he tamped a ball down his musket barrel.
A bullet zipped through the branches just above Nathan’s head, sending sticks and twigs bouncing off the brim of his slouch hat. Bringing his musket up cocked, Nathan waited for the spot of blue he had been tracking to reappear, which it did a couple of seconds later. He pulled the trigger and set about reloading, this time sparing a worried glance down the right. He looked first to Willie, then tried to find Halpern.
“What are we still doing here?” he muttered. The Yankees were coming on, careful but still moving forward, and pickets weren’t supposed to stand their ground like this. Nathan knew perfectly well they should have fallen back right after the first shots, especially as the field behind them was just knee-high grass and weeds, with no cover all the way back to the next line of trees. If they were going to stand and shoot a spell, it should be back there, and not here.
Nathan had been efficiently shooting, loading, picking a target, and shooting again for little more than a minute, but it felt much longer. The Yankees were halfway across the field now, with the flashes of blue and puffs of smoke growing steadily larger. His gut was already clenched solid when two balls struck the front of his tree, one “thwack” right after the other.
He was about to call out to Willie when Halpern came running down the line, hunched over and hissing, “Back! Back!”
As Willie barked, “Go! Go! Go!” Nathan shouted, “Run!” at Jimmy. Once he saw Willie was off, Nathan fired one last shot, right into the belly of a charging, hollering Yankee. Then he spun around and ran, flat out ran, sprinting right past Jimmy as the boy stumbled forward, red splashing out of his middle back. Nathan only stopped when he crashed through the underbrush of the next tree line and then dropped to the ground and slid to a halt. From there, he rolled over, and saw Willie and the other greenhorn had made it.
