by R. E. Thomas
The rain stopped and the cloud cover finally broke up just before sunset, allowing the fading rays of the sun to filter through the clouds and dark, thickly wooded hills. Nathan, Willie, Greenhorn Pete, and some of the other fellows from the company all knelt, sat, and laid together close to the barricade.
Willie looked to Nathan with relief. “Sun will be down soon. I reckon we can refill the canteens.”
Nathan nodded and passed his half-full water bottle over. Willie took a swig and passed it down. They all had gotten the musketman’s gunpowder tongue, and Nathan was the only one with water left in his canteen. No one dared venture over the wall and down into the creek for more, for fear of being shot.
“Only one man wounded today, and him only just a little,” Nathan murmured, thinking of the fellow that got a few wood splinters when a roundshot struck the barricade. “Didn’t even need to go to the rear.”
“The good Lord was with us,” Willie said.
Pete whispered glumly, “Jimmy.”
Nathan asked, “What?”
“Jimmy too. Jimmy was killed.”
Nathan said nothing. Willie asked, “Were you from the same place?”
Pete shook his head. “No, Corporal. We wasn’t. Didn’t meet him until I got to the army.”
Still keyed up, Nathan was growing irritable. The mention of Jimmy had made him think of Captain Bell and stew in how rotten it all was. Captain Fletcher had been a good man, but the Colonel didn’t like him or his politics. Now they had this rich boy who didn’t know straw from hay for a captain. All the lieutenants in the regiment, even the whole brigade, had been passed over, all to make Bell a captain. Worse, the Colonel was happy to have Bell, that much was clear.
A bit down the line, Lloyd said loudly, “Well, that weren’t nothing. I don’t know what all this fuss is about. That weren’t nothing! “ He then chuckled nervously.
“Bastard!” Nathan cried.
He stalked down to where Lloyd was sitting, also leaning against the barricade, and hissed, “So you a big fighting man now? Is that that? Give me your cartridge box.”
Lloyd sneered back, but shrank from a reply. Sergeant Marks, sitting nearby, did nothing.
“Give it to me!” he yelled.
Lloyd hesitantly handed over the cartridge box. Nathan stood over him, heedless of the musket ball that zipped past his shoulder in response to his yelling.
Examining the contents, Nathan said, “Anyone care to guess how many cartridges strong, brave Private Raglan Lloyd has here? 40! Not one missing. Not a one. How many you got in your pockets, Raglan? 10? 15? More?”
The point was clear. Lloyd had barely fired a shot. He sat, glaring at Nathan with a mixture of fear and rage.
“That’s what I thought.” Nathan contemptuously tossed the box back at Lloyd and then stomped back to his place.
10:00 P.M.
Headquarters, Army of the Tennessee, USA
Western outskirts of Rutherford County
As Sherman and McPherson approached the little headquarters cabin together, they could hear Hooker arguing heatedly with A.J. Smith from within.
McPherson groaned, “Bill, you’ve known Hooker. Does that man ever know when to shut up?”
Sherman shook his head, grumbling, “No, he never quiets himself, not even when he can get his hands onto the girdle laces of some trollop. Just keeps on yammering. That man has more gas in his bag than a newspaper has bile in its press.”
When they entered, Hooker stopped in mid-sentence. Flushed and hot, he turned on McPherson and demanded, “General McPherson, why did we not press the attack? And why did we give back the ground we won today?”
Sherman walked behind where Logan sat, exchanging nods, and resumed his former place in the corner. There he took his chair, crossed his legs, and began tapping his foot against the floor.
McPherson mustered up his patience, and said calmly, “General Hooker, first we did not give back all the ground we won, as you know because your flank rests on the mountains you seized earlier this morning. Second, we all have our orders, myself included. Third, I do not owe you any explanations, as well you know.”
The implication of McPherson’s reply was clear, and Hooker looked at Sherman, who sat in the corner with a flinty look on his face.
“Frankly,” Sherman said coldly, “with that storm and with the late hour, I could see but little point to continued hostilities. The boys can’t shoot their muskets with the barrels full of water. The day was over, whether I or you or Mac or anyone else damn much liked it or not. The only thing left to do, General Hooker, was to get your flank out of the air for the night. I would have thought you might appreciate that point without being told.”
Hooker wore a sour expression, but ultimately said nothing. Good, Sherman thought. All I had to do was give a reminder of what happened last time Joe Hooker left his flank in the air…
McPherson announced, “Now, if you have complaints, I suggest you all confine them strictly to practicalities. You are here to report on the status of your commands, nothing more.”
Sherman listened as the corps commanders reported. The figures were only rough estimates at present, but they coincided with his expectations: XV Corps had suffered little; XVI Corps moderately; and XX Corps heavily, especially in the divisions of Butterfield and Geary, whose losses were thought to be 20 to 25 percent. Their reports made, McPherson dismissed them. Hooker stormed out, while Logan and Smith genially bid McPherson and Sherman a goodnight.
McPherson stared at Sherman, who finally asked, “What is it, Mac?”
“I still think Jackson will be there in the morning. Why should he leave?”
Sherman stood up, shaking his head. When he had ordered the withdrawal, Sherman had shared his thinking with McPherson. Convinced that he knew what Jackson was doing in Murfreesboro, he saw no reason to continue pressing an attack that would accomplish nothing beyond lengthening the casualty lists.
He clasped his hands behind his back. “No, no, no. He won’t be. This whole blasted thing has just been one big giant raid. We saw most or all of the Army of Tennessee on the field today. Those bastards have already captured Fortress Rosecrans and most likely have stripped it bare by now. I have unconfirmed reports of a large Rebel wagon train moving through south-central Tennessee, in southwesterly direction. My guess is that, come morning, he will have left.”
“Well, I hope you’re right. And I hope you know what you’re doing.”
So do I, Sherman thought. He felt that he and McPherson were safe for now, but the blackguard reporters and the charlatan politicians kept grumbling that he had a case of “the slows,” and that McPherson should be swapped for the more experienced Hooker. As Sherman’s brother kept reminding him from his armchair in the Senate, this was an election year. A defeat or two might change everything politically, leaving them all in the lurch. Worse, if they didn’t win victories, Lincoln might lose the election.
“We’ll see in the morning. If Jackson has left, I know where he’s going, and that gives us an opening. If he is still there, frankly Mac, we are no worse off than we are now and that isn’t so bad.
Part III
Get ‘Round
The Left
June to July 1864
Chapter 13
June 23, 1864
5:30 A.M.
7th Pennsylvania Cavalry, USA
Smyrna, Tennessee
As the first rays of the sun crept over the horizon, brightening a clear sky, Sergeant Spear quietly led his section of dismounted horse soldiers towards the tree-lined lower end of Stewart’s Creek, crawling through tall, wet grass and weeds. Upon reaching the creek’s almost vertical banks, he swung his legs around and slid down on the mud and bumpy tree roots. Once he found his footing in the shallow, cool waters, he sprang across to the other side.
Rose, Crowder, and several other men followed. Once they were all gathered behind the shelter of the creek bank, the Pittsburghers slowly climbed back out and crawled int
o what had been enemy territory the day before. Spear’s vanguard edged its way forward, past empty rifle pits and into an area where rows of oversized campfires continued to smolder.
Upon seeing the unattended fires, Spear stood up. “Jim, run back and tell Captain Vale that the Reb cavalry has skeddadled.”
After coming up to see for himself, Vale withdrew his probe back across the creek, to where the rest of their regiment was mustered, almost a thousand troopers gathered on the eastern outskirts of Smyrna. There Spear and his squad remounted and joined the waiting.
Spear was sitting astride his horse within earshot of where Colonel Siebert and his staff stood next to their horses when Colonel Sipes, once their own colonel and now the Saber Brigade’s commander, came riding up with General Minty, the brigade’s former commander and now at division. Thus, he overheard the top-level conversation.
Sipes relayed his orders. “Jim, the brigade is going in. We’ll jump the creek and go straight down the Murfreesboro Pike and the railroad line until we run into something solid. Past the old battlefield and on into town if we can. You’ve got the center.”
Minty, resplendent and buoyant with his plumed hat and rosy cheeks, added, “Klein will jump the creek too, but he is to turn right and move direct south along the other side.”
Siebert asked, “And what shall I do if I happen upon something solid?”
Sipes said, “That depends on how determined the opposition is. If it’s the whole Confederate army pulled back to a better position, let’s say behind Overall Creek, then probe them. If it’s a rear guard, pitch in. Don’t pull back unless pushed. Make yourself useful.”
The Sabers were soon in motion, lines of hundreds of horsemen jumping Stewart’s Creek just as soon as those in front of them had cleared and moved on. Spear grinned with the thrill of spurring his horse up to full gallop, and with a cry he jumped his mount over the crevasse, landing on the other side with a jolt.
After reforming, Spear and his men found themselves in the main column, part of a dense parade of mounted blue horseman cantering down the main road between Nashville and Murfreesboro, flags snapping in the early morning breeze. The parade was a short one, however, as just a few miles down the road Spear heard the ragged crackling of scattered musketry, indicating the column’s vanguard had run into the enemy. Judging from the sound, Spear surmised the Confederates had picketed Overall Creek. The bugles tooted their orders, and Spear followed as his battalion veered off the road to spread out to the north.
Standing in a reserve line on slightly higher ground, Spear had a passably good location to see what came next. Overall Creek was a more formidable obstacle than Stewart’s Creek. Just like at Stewart’s, the banks were high and steep, and the enemy’s side dominated theirs, but Overall Creek was wider, too wide to jump horses across.
Spear watched as the main line of his regiment dismounted and went forward, firing their Spencers as they went, while the brigade’s other regiments, the 4th Michigan and the 4th U.S. Cavalry, rode out to the left and right. Once out on the flanks, they too dismounted and went forward. As soon as the Michiganers and the regulars were across the creek, the butternut skirmishers pulled back out of reach.
A few minutes later, Captain Vale announced, “Alright boys. Those with tools dismount and set to work. We need a ford, so we’re making one.”
Spear wasn’t one of those men who were assigned to carry a shovel, pick, or axe on his saddle, but Crowder was. Smiling Spear told him, “I always knew you were a coffeeboiler at heart, Jim. That’s why they gave you that shovel, ain’t it?”
With an exaggerated sneer, Crowder said, “With all due respect, Sarge, stick it in your eye.”
Crowder then set off to join more than a hundred other men, who were soon busy felling trees and excavating ramps into the banks of Overall Creek, alongside the burnt pilings of the Nashville Turnpike’s wagon bridge. With so much experienced labor at hand, the task of building two gently sloping ramps and corduroying them with tree trunks took under twenty minutes. Less than an hour after reaching Overall Creek, the Saber Brigade was moving forward again, through the old Stones River battlefield, but they were soon halted once more by Rebel cavalry, this time on the banks of Stones River itself.
Still watching from the reserve line, Spear heard the hushed grumbles and felt the frustration of the other men in the squadron, amplifying his own irritation at the delays. After a few minutes, Major Jennings, the battalion commander, rode up and summoned his captains, including Captain Vale, and had a brief word with them.
Vale returned and announced, “Boys, Sipes doesn’t want to wait on Klein, so we’re going in. The regulars and Michigan boys are crossing the river to the north, to sweep those hills north of Murfreesboro. We’re going to ride south, cross the Franklin Road, and go over the river there, swinging far around Fortress Rosecrans, coming up on Murfreesboro from the south, and blocking the Rebel line of retreat.”
The bugles sounded the call to advance, and they trotted in column south for two miles, before coming upon the Salem Pike and turning east, where they found the wagon bridge over the river intact. Once on the other side, the troopers picked up the pace and rode hard for half a mile, coming upon the crest overlooking the Shelbyville Road. Below them there, about 300 yards away, was a column of grayback troopers, retreating south at the canter.
Major Jennings shouted, “Spencers! Spencers! Fire at will! Shoot ’em down! Shoot ’em down!”, orders that were repeated by Captain Vale. As Spear flicked up the sights on his carbine and adjusted the slide for the range, he kept his eye on the Rebels and thought how much the scene reminded him of the patrol around Franklin, just a couple of weeks before. Only now he was with a battalion of a few hundred troopers, not a mere patrol, and there was at least a brigade on the road before them.
He heard the enemy’s buglers as they sounded the order for gallop. Spear cocked his hammer and worked his lever. Shouldering the weapon, he didn’t bother with proper aiming. He simply drew a bead on the column and squeezed the trigger. Over and over, Spear thumbed back the hammer, worked the lever, and pulled the trigger. In less than a minute, he had fired all seven shots into the fleeing butternuts, prompting him to lower his carbine for reloading.
He gave the small handle on the butt of his Spencer a twist and withdrew the tube. Reaching into his cartridge box, he pulled a handful of bullets and dropped them, one after another, into the hole in the butt of his gun. With seven rounds in, he reinserted the tube, cocked the hammer, worked the lever, brought his carbine up to his shoulder, and resumed firing through the rapidly swelling smoke cloud and into the dregs of the Rebel column.
Spear had worked halfway through his new magazine when Vale started shouting, repeating orders from down the line. The lieutenants joined him, and then Spear himself, struggling to be overheard the cacophony of loud cracks from the repeaters. He lowered his carbine and waved his free hand, yelling, “Cease fire! Cease fire!”
The Pennsylvania troopers rode forward slowly, hesitantly poking through the dense cloud of powder smoke thrown up by firing a few thousand cartridges in less than two minutes. Coming out of the haze, they found the road carpeted with several dozen dead and moaning, wounded men, plus as many screaming, thrashing horses.
Spear stopped before a dying horse. Looking at the corpses or the wounded Rebels, he didn’t feel triumphant. He felt nothing for the men in gray, nothing at all. Yet as he looked at this horse, laying there pitifully, its eyes full of terror, he felt a bolt of anguish shoot through him. He drew his revolver, aimed carefully, and shot it between the eye and the ear.
Lieutenant Webster rode up to Spear. “Sergeant, bring the men about. Vale wants our troop to ride down to where the road crosses the Middle Fork, about a mile from here, and picket the crossing.”
Spear replied quietly, absently, “Yessir.”
10:00 A.M.
Rutherford County Courthouse
Murfreesboro, Tennessee
McPherson
and his small band of staff rose up to Murfreesboro’s main square, an attractive place of leafy trees and a rich, green lawn, with a fine, three-story brick courthouse topped by a brilliant white, tower-like cupola in the center. McPherson decided it was one of the largest and finest county courthouses he had seen during his time in the South. Just as he arrived in the square, Sherman bounded out the front door.
Well, he looks to be in high feather, McPherson thought as he dismounted.
Sherman grinned broadly, shaking his hand and smacking him on the shoulder. “Mac, Mac, Mac! Lovely morning, is it not? Lovely morning.”
“I heard Van Cleve was here, along with most of the garrison, but not General Milroy.”
A bitter look replaced Sherman’s grin. “Yes, I was just talking to him. Poor fellow. From the sounds of it, Milroy really stuck his foot in it here. However, I doubt those damnable scoundrels in Congress or the double damned news rags will see it that way. They all love Milroy.”
“Why did they take Milroy and leave Van Cleve?”
Sherman shrugged. “Milroy has been vigorous in his efforts to root out all forms of disloyalty in his area of responsibility, I’ll say that for him. Spies and bandits, secesh agitators and sympathizers, you know the sort. Of course, the Rebels despise him for it. The man has had a price on his head dating from his time in Virginia, and I wouldn’t be surprised if someone tells me later his actions in Tennessee have added to the bounty.”
“So they intend to put him on trial?”
Sherman tilted his head and grimaced. “Perhaps. Or perhaps to effect some manner of trade. The Rebel government made noise of trying some of our officers for supposed crimes before, but nothing much came of it, and they never tried it with someone so high-ranking. Milroy is a major general of volunteers, ferchrissakes! Anyway, I’m sure poor old Van Cleve will become the scapegoat for what happened here.”
“How so? If Milroy was in command and mucked it up…?”
