by R. E. Thomas
“But what about Nashville?” asked Grierson.
“What about it? On top of the old city garrison, there are the two infantry brigades Sturgis brought with him, the colored regiments, the 180-day regiments, and throngs of clerks, teamsters, cooks, mechanics, pioneers, and other support troops. Rousseau has a full army corps to man the greatest fortress west of the Appalachians. That place doesn’t need this army to protect it, and I’m certain Tom Jackson hasn’t realized it yet. We’ll steal a march on him before he realizes we’re not concerned about Nashville.”
Invigorated, McPherson asked, “Alright, Bill, what do you want me to do?”
Sherman jabbed his index finger at points on the wall map. “Ben, you stay about Triune and Nolensville for now, and lend a brigade to Hooker, who is to march down the Salem Pike and pursue the Rebels directly. That ought to keep up appearances, and not show our hand.”
Grierson said, “Right. I’ll keep probing south and west, and put the bulk of my boys between the butternuts and Nashville.”
Sherman went on. “Smith’s XVI Corps will move down to Unionville, with the bulk of Minty’s cavalry at his front. He is to act like he is in direct pursuit, but his real job is to stand by as a reserve for the two main wings of the army, Hooker and Logan. If Smith’s column makes solid contact, he is to break off. Understood?”
McPherson nodded, so Sherman continued. “XV Corps is our whiplash. Logan will march on Shelbyville, with Minty’s remaining cavalry. There he will cross the Duck, and seize this road junction at Lewisburg.”
It’s a good plan, McPherson thought. The three columns would move forward on a 20-mile front, so the entire army could concentrate on any one point inside of a day.
“I have only one question,” said McPherson. “When do you want to get started?”
“The men have been issued fresh ammunition and rations?”
“That’s right.”
Sherman rammed his palms together, making a loud clap. “Before sun-up. Now, Ben, I think you’ve got a late supper, and Mac, you have marching orders to get out. As for myself, I have some correspondence with Washington to finish.”
After his generals left, Sherman sat down at a table, and pulled the glass and bronze oil lamp sitting there closer before putting pen to paper:
Headquarters in the Field, Military Division of the Mississippi
Rutherford County Courthouse, Murfreesboro, Tennessee
June 24, 1864.
Lieutenant General U.S. Grant, Commander in Chief.
GENERAL: I received your letter of June 10, but found myself preoccupied with Jackson’s movements in Tennessee. Beyond the hasty scrawls to apprise you of developments in the campaign, I have not been able to respond to your larger suggestions, but they have never been far from my thoughts.
I know General Thomas is slow of mind and action, but he is judicious and brave, and his Cumberland troops feel great confidence in him. Moreover, his task is to out-maneuver and destroy Bill Hardee, not Jackson or Lee. I think our first plan is still good, amended like so: you go for Lee, I go for Jackson, Thomas goes for Hardee. I’ll be with General McPherson as you are with General Meade.
I have ordered a movement to Lewisburg, TN for tomorrow, and expect to be there in two days. McPherson’s army is now in open country and on the railroads, and we will continue to move south and around Jackson’s right until we either get into his rear or are on the Tennessee. By hard marching and hard fighting, this excellent army will either whip Jackson or force him back to AL, and once I have him there I will endeavor to prevent him from rejoining Hardee.
I agree that a campaign against Mobile, AL should be the chief priority for General Canby. I have directed that once Chalmers and his marauders have been chased out of West Tennessee, Generals Washburn and Slocum are to prepare for raids of their own, targeting eastern Mississippi. As Jackson confronts me out in front of his house, Washburn and Slocum will be at his side door, and Canby at his backdoor. In this way, we can guarantee no troops leave Mississippi or Alabama for other parts of the Confederacy, and I think when Jackson turns around he will find his house burned down behind him.
What is needed out west is a good cavalry hand, especially since I brought Grierson to Middle Tennessee. The only brigade leader in my entire department with the pluck for the job is Colonel Long, and with Colonel Wilder ailing, I hesitate to remove him from Thomas. Can you spare me a fighting horse officer for service in Mississippi?
I am, with respect and your obedient servant,
W.T. Sherman, Major General, U.S. Army
Folding his missive up, Sherman thought about his plans to preoccupy Jackson with concerns for his railroad supply line and his rear, and how they might need a taskmaster to see them along. That sounded like the perfect task for his Inspector General and chief bottlewasher.
So, when the clerk came to collect his letter to Grant, Sherman also told him, “After sending this on its way, wire General Corse in Nashville to pack his things and go to Memphis. His orders will be waiting for him there.”
Chapter 15
June 25, 1864
4 A.M.
Headquarters, Army of Tennessee, CSA
Bethesda, Tennessee
Sandie raised his hand to cover his yawn as he emerged from his tent. The casualty reports had begun arriving on his desk almost as soon as army headquarters pitched camp yesterday evening, and Jackson had commanded him to deliver a summary on that and various other pieces of business before reveille.
He went over to the mess and asked one of the darkie cooks for a cup of coffee. Freshly made coffee. Even in Virginia, he had never had such a steady supply of formerly Yankee coffee. The very idea of it cleared the sleep from him, even before he took his first sip.
As he took that first marvelous taste from the tin cup, Sandie mused on how it seemed everyone in the army had gotten a half-decent rest yesterday except for himself, the doctors tending the wounded, and those poor souls who drew sentry duty for the night. The day before the army had marched a more reasonable 15 miles on drier, easier roads. That came after fighting a battle and a long march through a night and a day.
Even General Jackson turned in around midnight, Sandie thought. I was up until almost three with this wretched paperwork. One hour of sleep after all that. One miserable hour…
Sandie felt a spasm of grief shoot through him, his thoughts having stumbled over how much of a help James Power Smith had been with his staff burdens. His eyes watered, prompting him to turn away from the darkies and blink down the tears.
Jimmy Smith, Sandie thought, inhaling through his nose and looking up. Good thing it’s so dark. No one saw that. Good thing. It wouldn’t do.
His feelings under control, Sandie sipped on his coffee and dwelt on Smith for a time. Smith was a late addition to Jackson’s military family, having come to them during the Maryland Campaign. All the others, like Sandie himself, dated to the Valley Campaign, if not before. They had become close friends, Sandie and Smith, both being of similar ages and coming from clerical families. And now he was gone.
After draining and returning his cup of coffee, Sandie approached Jackson’s tent, and quietly said, “General, sir? Are you up?”
“Enter.”
He raised the flap and ducked inside. Jackson was standing and awkwardly buttoning up his coat. Sandie knew better than to offer to help with such matters. Old Jack was very insistent that he get on with most things as if he hadn’t lost his left hand.
Sandie retrieved a sheaf of papers from his leather satchel and placed them on Jackson’s camp desk. “The casualty figures are all there, sir. I’d call your attention to the figures for Maney’s Division and Clayton’s Division, both of which were considerably damaged at Third Murfreesboro. The worst is Baker’s Brigade from Clayton’s.”
Jackson spoke in a monotone. “I thought as much. How bad?”
“A third dead and wounded. Another third missing, including General Baker himself. That brigade is all
fought-out, sir.”
“There are some new Alabama regiments training up. They were intended for Mobile and other such places, but I can assign one of them to the brigade. New regiments have five or six hundred men, so that will fill out their ranks some.”
“The most depleted regiments will still need to be consolidated, sir.” Sandie hesitated, but then said, “We also need to find a replacement for Baker. The ranking officer in the brigade is now a major, so we can’t choose someone from within. May I suggest you ask the War Department for a suitable brigadier in your next communication?”
“Alright, see to it. What about supplies? And the reports from overnight?”
“Counting what the men have in the haversacks, Hawks believes we have food and fodder for 15 days. Allan says our ammunition is sufficient for a major, all-out battle and then some. Our supply situation is excellent. As for field reports, Grierson is between us and Nashville, and Minty is shadowing us from due west. General Forrest describes the Federal pursuit as sluggish since that fight at Triune, with only light skirmishing. They have made no effort to penetrate our cavalry screen.”
Perhaps that repulse at Triune quelled their appetites for combat, Jackson thought to himself, saying nothing.
“One last thing. A civilian came into our camp last night. From Shelbyville, sir, with intelligence on the enemy’s movements.”
Jackson asked skeptically, “A civilian, you say?”
“Yessir, a dry goods merchant from the town. But his son is in the 26th Tennessee. In Brown’s Brigade. He is very eager to go visit his son, once we are finished with him. He claims that the entire Federal XV Corps arrived at Shelbyville just before dark and bivouacked north of town. As soon as the sun set, he got on his horse and rode west until he came right onto Buford’s pickets. Buford sent him to Cleburne, and Cleburne sent him to me. I only interviewed him myself about three hours ago.”
Jackson’s eyes began to spark. The man might be wrong about the enemy strength, for what did a civilian really know about that? And Sandie was ambivalent about it. But he the man took great risks riding here at night. Nevermind Buford’s pickets, the country was infested with bandits, and he must know that. But most important, there was that lack of energy in the Federal pursuit…
“Does this man, what is his name?”
“Earle E. Wilkinson.”
Jackson changed his mind. Why ask Sandie when he could ask Wilkinson himself? “Bring Mr. Wilkinson here. I have questions.”
After Sandie left to fetch Wilkinson, Jackson sat down on his cot and wondered about Sherman, and about McPherson. While he felt they might not be particularly aggressive, he had seen nothing to indicate either man was timid or inept. They weren’t pursuing him very forcefully, nor were they marching hard to concentrate in front of Nashville. He expected some firm action of some manner from them, either one or the other.
Several minutes later, Sandie returned with Wilkinson. Jackson stood up and offered his hand. “Mr. Wilkinson? I want to thank you for coming to us as you have. You are a civilian, and while you are a good patriot, sir, undertaking such an arduous journey was not your duty.”
Wilkinson was a pallid, middle-aged fellow, but his flesh turned bright red above his generous muttonchops. Doffing his hat, and bowing slightly, he revealed a neat bald spot on the top of his head. “You’re… you’re welcome, General. I had to come, you see. We have still had a Northern garrison in Shelbyville, even after you came to Tennessee. But when all them Yankees came down on the Murfreesboro Road, there was so much confusion… it permitted me to slip out unnoticed.”
Jackson said, “I understand. What makes you think all those Yankees you saw were the entire XV Corps?”
Wilkinson spoke hesitantly. “Well, General, it weren’t me who said that. It’s what they said when I told my story to General Cleburne’s people. What I told them was I knew about how the Yankees have those flags, the one that say a division is there.”
Jackson said, “A guidon?”
“I reckon so. Well, I know how they have a symbol, and how the flag’s field and symbol change colors for each division. I saw those flags down in town, four of them, and each one bearing a diamond with an emblem in the middle that said ’40 rounds.’ General Cleburne’s people said that it meant the whole XV Corps was in Shelbyville. Now I didn’t know a thing about any corps. I just knew there were four of those division, er, guidons you called them.”
Sandie felt Jackson’s body tense up. “Thank you, Mr. Wilkinson. Sandie, summon an orderly to see Mr. Wilkinson here gets a good breakfast, and that he is taken care of until we can send him to see his son. Then come straight back.”
When Sandie returned, Jackson was looking down at his map table. Looking up, he said firmly, “Sandie, send orders to Cleburne at once. He is to send whatever part of Buford’s cavalry he has on hands to Lewisburg, and to march on Lewisburg immediately.”
“That would be Bell’s Brigade. Those are Tennesseeans, but my recollection is that they aren’t from around these parts.”
The one-armed general’s face soured, as if he were clearing a bitter taste from his mouth. “Cleburne is to take whatever route is most convenient to him. That is left to his discretion.”
Jackson disliked saying that, but he overrode his instinct to dictate Cleburne’s route and schedule. He overrode himself because he couldn’t know exactly where Cleburne’s column might be when the orders reached him, and a couple of hours one way or the other might make all the difference in keeping Marshall County’s crossroads and county seat, and with it some leverage on how the next battle might unfold.
I must trust to Providence, he thought to himself, that Cleburne will see the proper path and follow it.
The glow in Jackson’s eyes brightened. “That done, Sandie, get back here quick as you can, so we can draw up the marching orders for Stewart, Polk, and Forrest. I want the entire army concentrated around Lewisburg by nightfall.”
7:30 A.M.
Headquarters in the Field, Cleburne’s Corps, CSA
Farmington, Tennessee
After receiving his new orders from Jackson, Cleburne divided his column into three, their route determined by where they were at time. His wagons and the bulk of his artillery were at the head, and these were instructed to turn south on the best road available to him, the Franklin Turnpike. In the middle, Lucius Polk’s Division set off on an old dirt road to Lewisburg, obscure enough that it bore no name on Cleburne’s map. Finally, he rode back to the tail of his corps to turn the Tennesseans of Brigadier General Tyree Bell’s cavalry and Cheatham’s infantry around personally, sending them on a forced march down the Nashville Road to Farmington, a village half a dozen miles northeast of Lewisburg.
Cleburne arrived in Farmington about half an hour after Tyree Bell’s troopers, already in a bad mood. The idea of fighting somewhere west of Lewisburg troubled him, since he knew the area was just a grassy plain nestled between the Duck River and the hilly country to the south. It was the sort of land favored by horse breeders, and in Cleburne’s mind that made the ground far too open for a proper defense by its very definition. Aggravating him further was his inability to keep up with the cavalry. His bulky old mare just wasn’t capable of matching the pace set by the hard-riding butternut horsemen, and even if she had been, his horsemanship was not up to the task either.
Finding Tyree Bell at the village crossroads, Cleburne clambered down off his horse and went over to the beefy, full-bearded horse brigadier, who was talking to some locals.
Saluting, Tyree Bell said, “General Cleburne! I was just inquiring about the lay of the land, hereabouts. May I introduce Mr. Russell, Farmington’s blacksmith, Mr. Wyatt, who keeps the local store, and Dr. Locke.”
Cleburne shook hands with the Farmington men, all too old for army service, one after the other. He felt his displeasure bubble as he did so. He was impatient with all the interminable pleasantries, but felt constrained by his sense of propriety from cutting them off, so he po
litely waited.
After what seemed like far too long a time to Cleburne, he was finally free to ask gruffly, “General Bell, your report?”
“Yessir. I have thrown out a screen about a mile and half east of here, on a slight rise in the ground and anchored on the right to East Rock Creek. But when I say that rise is ‘slight,’ I mean slight. Dammit if this country isn’t almost flat. I’ve sent a patrol down the Shelbyville Road to make contact with the Yankees.”
“I want to know as soon as you have word from that patrol. Cheatham’s Division is one hour up the road. I’ll be studying the ground.”
Dismissing Tyree Bell with a nod, the Irishman turned around sharply, got back on his horse, and rode out to examine Farmington’s surroundings. He dismissed advancing eastward, since there was nothing there but flat fields full of grass and weeds, bordered by fences and tree fringe. The only ground that offered him any advantage was west of Farmington, where a low ridge ran between Big Rock Creek and East Rock Creek. It wasn’t much, but it was something, and as it happened Lucius Polk’s Division would arrive on the road that ran right behind Big Rock Creek. He decided that was where Cheatham would dig in.
8:30 A.M.
41st Tennessee Infantry, CSA
Shelbyville Road
6 ½ miles northeast of Lewisburg
Nathan felt grateful as the brigade column turned off the Shelbyville Road and onto a shady country lane, as the turn meant both getting out of the already hot morning sun and that their forced march would soon be at an end. Sweat had soaked through his shirt and shell jacket, leaving dark splotches on his chest, in his arm pits, and down his back. Even his hat band felt sodden. Worse, after ten miles of marching at such a fast clip, he could feel the blisters that had formed on his toes, despite his thick calluses.
Looking over to Halpern, he decided it could be worse. At least he didn’t have to corral stragglers, and a forced march produced plenty of those. Unsurprisingly, Lloyd had proved especially prone to breaking ranks and falling behind, prompting the First Sergeant to prod him along at the point of a bayonet.
