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

by R. E. Thomas

  What was his name? Nathan thought. Pete. That’s it.

  Crawling back up to a thick tree, Nathan saw the spurts of flame and smoke coming from their abandoned position. The Billies themselves were only dark shadows in the tree shade and dim light of the early, overcast morning. Jimmy was in the field, some 50 yards away and crying for help.

  Nathan shot Willie a hard look that said “No,” and was relieved when Willie gave him a reluctant nod in agreement. No one could get that boy out of there without getting shot, and they both knew it. Nathan started reloading his musket and tried not to look at the back-shot boy sobbing his and Willie’s names.

  As soon as Halpern made his rounds, the company fell back again, this time in a more timely and orderly fashion. They turned again, fired a couple more shots each at the advancing bluecoats, and then made their dash for the creek. Soon the company was across and with the regiment again.

  Backs up against the barricade, Nathan, Willie, and Pete sat catching their breaths. After a few minutes, they were joined by Sergeant Marks.

  Nathan spat, “Ed, what in the name of sweet Jesus happened back there?”

  Willie wheezed “Blasphemy” in a scolding tone. Nathan ignored him, set on Marks.

  Marks avoided Nathan’s eyes. “Bell wouldn’t leave. He wanted to stay and fight. It didn’t take but a couple minutes to change his mind, but…”

  “Did we lose anyone else?” Willie asked.

  “Just that greenhorn of yours.”

  “Jimmy,” Willie said angrily. “You know his name, Ed. His name was Jimmy Sturgill.”

  Marks shrugged. A cannonball tumbled through the branches above them to strike the ground dozens of yards off, plowing up dirt and chips of stone. Hard on its heels was the distant, muffled thunder of artillery. Another solid flew through the trees, followed by another that struck ground well before the creek, only to bounce over the barricade and on into the field behind. A shell burst overhead with a loud crack, but did no harm.

  Artillery had played only a small part in the battles Nathan had fought up until now, so although the bombardment had done no damage insofar as he could tell, he still found it disconcerting. Peering through a loophole in the barricade, he could see no bluebellies, but he knew they were out there. They were behind the line of trees bordering the open field, about 150 yards away. Leaning against the log wall of the barricade, Nathan settled in to wait for either something he could see and hit, or else orders to begin shooting up those trees.

  7:30 A.M.

  Red Jackson’s Division, CSA

  Scales Mountain

  From his perch near the crest of Scales Mountain, Forrest studied the country below through his field glasses. He could see the entire southern end of the battlefield. For two miles, from the foot of the mountain to Stevenson’s front, the fields boiled with bluecoats. He could even see the party of officers and the flapping guidon in a clearing just under the mountain, where a line of guns had set up and were even now flinging ball and shell into the wooded slopes of the mountain. The flag was emblazoned with a simple emblem, a single star, signifying the XX Corps.

  “That there, Bill, is Fighting Joe Hooker and his eastern bluebellies,” sneered Forrest.

  William Hicks Jackson, known to most as “Red,” replied, “Yep. I reckon his entire corps is bearing down on us now. There is at least a whole division of Yankee foot sloggers to my front, and as plain as day there is another working around the western end of this hill. I’ll be flanked directly. Very directly.”

  Unbothered, Forrest said, “Get ready to withdraw. As soon as your pickets come a-running, pull your entire division back behind this here hill, and take up that new line I showed you on Indian Mountain.”

  “Sir, I can hold on here a while longer just by pulling back and refusing my left flank. I don’t have to leave just yet.”

  That’s right, Forrest thought, he don’t have to leave just yet. But Red would get busted trying to hang on to this here hill, maybe busted up bad, and he would have to leave it all the same, Old Jack’s orders or no. That was five to one odds down there, and that is too much, even by my standards.

  “I know, but if we’re going to make a fight of it, I prefer Indian Mountain. It’ll take the Yankees all morning to come up over and around this here mountain and get to us there, and they can’t bring their artillery with them. Putting down cannon on the other side of a big wooded hill like this would take all damn day. I like them odds better.”

  Red shot back, “But we can’t pull back. If I leave, I expose Clayton’s flank.”

  Forrest was suddenly very glad he was here. Red didn’t want to leave, so he would have argued against an order sent by courier or wig-wag. In the meantime, he would have gotten himself chewed up in a real fight with Hooker. What was more, Forrest knew the enemy would need to drive them off Indian Mountain too if they were going to come down on Clayton’s flank.

  Forrest gave Red a hard look. “We’ve all got our orders, Bill. I’m going on back to Indian Mountain. Pull back your boys like I told you, and let me worry about Clayton.”

  Red hesitated, and resignedly said, “Yessir.”

  9:00 A.M.

  Headquarters, Army of the Tennessee, USA

  Western outskirts of Rutherford County

  McPherson stood bent over a table writing a message in the signals station, the open-sided tent situated next to a prominent semaphore tower built from green logs, and easily the busiest place in the headquarters. But this message wasn’t for transmission by wig-wagging flags. Instead, McPherson handed it to a courier and said “Take that to General Minty.”

  He then proceeded to write a second message, this one for encoding by a signals clerk and bound for the semaphore tower and transmission to Logan. It was a last-minute adjustment, acceding to Logan’s request to call upon Smith’s Brigade of cavalry, then screening the hamlet of Stewartsboro, to exploit any success his diversionary attack should gain. McPherson liked the idea, since it would mean more chaos on the enemy right, and therefore a greater distraction.

  But he liked it most of all because it meant Logan was feeling optimistic. McPherson shook his head. Old Blackjack was as solid a fighter a man could want, but he could also be so pessimistic at times.

  Aggression and gloom was a most strange combination in a man, he thought. But hell, if Logan can capture that bridge, I would give him Minty’s whole division to send around the Confederate right, were it not that Bill is so nervous about guarding the railroad.

  Thinking of Sherman, McPherson looked down to where his superior was energetically pacing back and forth in front of the little log cabin he was using as his quarters and office. Sherman had the military affairs of the entire region between the Appalachians and the Mississippi to attend to, and most of the time that so occupied even Sherman’s capable braincase that McPherson was left alone to manage the day-to-day affairs of the Army of the Tennessee.

  Today was different, and McPherson understood that. There was a battle underway, and Sherman was here in person. Today, his army was the sole focus of Sherman’s thoughts. So Sherman was over there, painfully restive and burning his way through his third cigar of the morning, but doing his best to stay out of the particulars of running the army.

  He’s letting me do my job, McPherson thought with a warm, appreciative smile. He doesn’t care for it, but he is getting on with it. Bless him.

  A clerk handed McPherson a new message from the semaphore station. He read it, folded it up, and walked down to Sherman.

  “Message from Hooker,” he said, handing the message over. “He says the Confederate cavalry screen has withdrawn from Scales Mountain, but assumed a new position immediately to the southeast on Indian Mountain. He wants to take the new position before beginning the main attack.”

  Sherman glanced the message over, then raised his eyes to meet McPherson’s. “Well, it is Hooker. I’m going down there to see what he’s about.”

  “Yes, that’s best. After all, i
t’s a big part of why you wanted to be here.” Sherman had always said part of his reason for traveling with the Army of the Tennessee was to make sure Hooker didn’t start some argument over rank, because while McPherson was the army commander, and served at the pleasure of the President of the United States, Hooker technically outranked him. It was a murky gray area, but Sherman clearly outranked Hooker on all counts, thus solving the problem.

  Sherman mounted up and rode away fast, leaving a string of escorts and aides behind him. McPherson was glad to see him go, because it meant Sherman would have something to occupy him.

  After a quick ride of a little over two miles, Sherman arrived at Hooker’s headquarters, whom he found standing with some of his staff under an open-sided tent, all studying a map.

  Hooker came out from under the canvas and greeted Sherman with a salute. “Good morning, sir. I was expecting General McPherson.”

  Sherman returned the salute. “Well, you’ve got me. I’d like to see this other mountain of yours, if you can spare me the time.”

  “Of course.” Hooker motioned for his horse to be brought over, mounted up, and led Sherman and their combined attendants up the slopes of Scales Mountain by way of an old dirt track.

  Sherman immediately admired the view. The entire southern end of the battlefield could be seen from there. The scene would have even been something like idyllic, were it not for the bursting of Rebel shells onto the wooded slopes below.

  “You should put in an observation post here.”

  Hooker nodded. “Already on it. That and a new signals station. It will save time, what with couriers having to ride over or around this damn hill all the time.” He pointed at the ridge just across a rugged, narrow valley from them. “The new Rebel position is right over there. It’s just dismounted cavalry, but as you can see, the terrain is very difficult, and clearly the positions were planned and prepared. Geary is in the valley now, on the Rebel front. Butterfield is moving around the flank and rear of that mountain, through the woods. It takes more time, but impairs observation. Give me a little more time, and I’ll crush those bastards, rout them off those heights or bag the whole ugly bushel of them, and clear the entire left. Then I’ll swing Butterfield and Geary around, and do the same to the Stewart’s Creek line.”

  Sherman’s mind clicked swiftly through Hooker’s plan, weighing its merits and analyzing its variables. “I agree that you must clear those heights. If we make progress against the enemy’s main line and get beyond Scales Mountain, those guns will pound our right flank as soon as it comes into sight. But you’ve still driven a wedge between the enemy flank and its cavalry screen. Call up reinforcements from XVI Corps if you need to, but I want you to get on with the main assault. Don’t wait to clear these hills. Do both at the same time.”

  Hooker said, “Yessir. I’ll get to it.” Taking out his pocket watch, Hooker added, “My guess is that making the necessary adjustments will require an hour, give or take. Start at 10:30?”

  Sherman nodded in agreement. As Hooker saluted and rode back down the mountain, Sherman sat calmly on his horse, neither fidgeting or feeling the need to light another cigar, and watched the skirmishing and light artillery fire taking place in the plains to his left and in the valley to his right. He plucked the spent cigar butt from his mouth and threw it away. He decided to stay where he was for the time being, leaving it to Hooker to notify McPherson of the change.

  “The main action today will be here, he said to Audenried. “Here, on our right. And this is as good an observation post as any. I’ll commandeer Hooker’s wig-wags, once those are in operation.”

  Audenried replied, “Yessir. Shall I go hurry Hooker’s signals people along?”

  “Capital idea. Yes, go to it.”

  10:00 A.M.

  Headquarters, XVI Corps, USA

  Christopher Farmhouse

  15 miles west of Murfreesboro

  Upon receiving Hooker’s detailed written message brought by courier about the delay, McPherson made two decisions. The first was to order Logan to go ahead with his diversionary attack as soon as he was ready. The second was to ride down to the army’s right himself and smooth out the arrangements in person, starting with XVI Corps, which was headquartered only a mile or so down the country road from his own headquarters.

  He arrived outside the house Smith was using as a headquarters to hear a full-bore shouting match from within, which McPherson soon recognized as between Smith and Hooker. Waving off the aides who tried to slow or stop him, he went inside.

  Smith, with his bald head, white whiskers, and merely average frame, always seemed much older than he actually was. When McPherson entered the room, he saw Hooker looming over him oppressively, trying to bully Smith with his sheer size.

  Hooker picked the wrong man for that, McPherson thought. Andrew Jackson Smith might look feeble, but the man’s as steady as Gibraltar.

  “God dammit, Smith, Sherman’s orders are for you to reinforce me, and this is the quickest damn way to do it. Send Sweeny around the right, and flank their God damned entrenchments!”

  Looking straight up and into Hooker’s eyes without flinching, Smith retorted, “I know Bill Sherman, and I know he didn’t mean a God damned thing about breaking up my corps and feeding it in piecemeal. Either sidle over like I told you, or send up for clarification, because that is the only way Sweeny is moving one inch.”

  So intent were the two men on each other, they hadn’t even noticed McPherson enter in room and were surprised to hear him speak. “Gentlemen, maybe this is how they conduct business in the Army of the Potomac, or down in Louisiana under Banks, but not in the Army of Tennessee,” he said sternly. “Your staffs can hear you outside.”

  After saluting, Smith said, “Yes, sir. Of course.” Growing slightly ashamed, he added, “I should have known better.” Hooker merely saluted and glowered.

  Now to attend to the dispute itself, McPherson thought. I’m certainly not handing Hooker control of another division. He already has my largest corps. If I start giving over Smith’s divisions to him, he’ll have supervision of half the army.

  “Mower’s Division is already in position, yes?”

  “That’s right. He’s in front of the southern end of Stewart’s Creek.”

  “Alright. Hooker, have Williams sidle over so Sweeny can come up. So now you,” McPherson said, motioning to Smith, “have full charge of attacking the Confederate left-front. General Hooker, you are now responsible for attacking their left flank with Williams, and driving into their left-rear with the rest of your corps. Thomas Kilby Smith’s Division is my reserve. Understood?”

  Smith and Hooker concurred. “Good. Now see to it. Dismissed.” Watching them leave the room, McPherson felt satisfied. Sherman had made the call over his head, of course, but Sherman was his superior. More to the point, Sherman had left the details to McPherson, as was their understanding. Hooker had tried to elbow out some more authority for himself, of course, but hadn’t directly challenged McPherson’s authority, at least not yet.

  10 A.M.

  7th Pennsylvania Cavalry, USA

  Smyrna, Tennessee

  East Bank of Stewart’s Creek

  12 miles northwest of Murfreesboro

  Spear listened to the muffled, dim booming of cannon, miles off in the distance. Nearby, Crowder napped with his hat over his face, while Rose doodled, drawing crude figures in the dirt with his pocket knife. Sitting with his back up against a tree, Spear plucked a pebble from the dirt. With a disgusted grimace on his face, he flung it.

  “Sometimes, I think stars make a man stupid. What in God’s name are we doing here?!”

  The company was on picket duty near the banks of Stewart’s Creek, not far from the confluence of that creek, Overall Creek, and Stones River, on the extreme northern end of the Union line. Their task was a simple one: screen the northeastern approaches to Smyrna, where the railroad station and the growing supply depot were located.

  Rose said, “You know
what we are doing. The Saber Brigade guards Smyrna. Smyrna is where our supplies are kept. Any general worth his salt, he always casts an eye over his shoulder, thinking to himself ‘the next wagon load of crackers and cartridges, where comes it from?’ For us, that is a particular problem, yes? What with Forrest stomping around?”

  “I know. But I think we could do the same job just as well by crossing that there creek and raising some hell in the Rebel rear. We might even raise that siege around Fortress Rosecrans and do some real damage. Dammit, Walt, you know what I mean. We’re the Sabers! We fight as good or better than any Johnnie bastard Forrest ever had.”

  Rose shrugged. “Still. I believe Uncle Billy wants to be sure. Nothing is more certain than having us here.”

  “I’ll tell you this much. Buell didn’t know nothing about how to use cavalry. Old Rosey had something of an idea, I reckon, but whether Uncle Billy does, well, we’re just going to have to see about that.”

  “See about it or not,” Rose said, “today we guard the railroad.”

  “I don’t know what you’re fussing about,” murmured Crowder. “What, do you want to get shot at? Now will you keep quiet and let a man sleep?”

  Chapter 11

  Noon

  Headquarters, Stewart’s Corps, CSA

  The Confederate Left

  Near the Bole Jack Road

  Jackson and Stewart stood side by side atop the hillock located just west of where Stewart kept his headquarters, observing the fighting taking place just a mile or so away. Stewart’s entire corps was under heavy attack, with the enemy taking advantage of every row of trees, every wood lot, and every overgrown cluster of boulders for cover. They hadn’t tried to storm the breastworks yet, but were instead laying down a terrific fire of musketry, shot, and shell.