by R. E. Thomas
Returning to Farmington by way of the Belfast Road, Logan was confused and angered to see Mower’s Division marching north on the Nashville Road. He drove his horse hard and fast into the village, cursing all the way. Even upon finding McPherson and Smith mounted in the crossroads, he was unable to restrain himself.
“Mac! A.J.!” howled Logan. “What in Lucifer’s blighted name is going on here!? A.J.’s boys are supposed to be supporting my attack on the Rebel right, so where in hell are they going?!”
Unperturbed, McPherson said, “Good afternoon to you too, Jack. Minty says Confederate infantry is pressing on the Duck River crossings beyond our right flank. We don’t know where two of Jackson’s corps are, and that ford is six miles away, so if I’m going to do something about it, I’ve got to do it now. Mower is going to hold those fords.”
“Sweeny is not even an hour from here,” said Smith, “with Kilby Smith right behind him. You’ll get your support soon enough.”
Calming himself, Logan said, “It won’t wait an hour. More Johnnies have arrived, and they are extending out beyond my flank. If we don’t move right now, we’ll lose our chance to get ‘round their
flank and smash them before they all get here. It might damn well be our only chance. Hell, I might be attacked myself in an hour!”
McPherson said, “More?”
“Yes, dammit, more of them. At least a whole division.” Logan raised his voice again, pointing south for emphasis. “One of those two corps you spoke of is down on our left, and not across the river on our right.”
McPherson paused, struck with a moment’s indecision. Logan might be right, but if even one Confederate division got across the Duck to attack his right… he decided that was the more serious threat.
“I’m sorry, Jack, but that is how it is going to be. When the rest of Smith’s boys get here, they’ll come in alongside your left, and we’ll all go down there and see about renewing the attack.”
Logan scowled, and muttered, “Yessir.” McPherson was being cautious, too cautious, worrying about what harm the enemy might do to him instead of what harm he might do to the enemy. Logan looked away, down the road to Shelbyville, and found himself wishing Sherman was there.
4:00 P.M.
Headquarters, Army of Tennessee, CSA
Farm and Mercantile Bank
Lewisburg, Tennessee
His wrist freshly set in wooden splints, Jackson stepped down from the ambulance and examined the building chosen by Sandie to serve as his headquarters. Located just off the courthouse square, no courier could possibly miss it. Although the white paint on the bank’s window frames and its false columns was peeling, the brick construction was solid enough, and the cornerstone read “1838.” Nodding his approval, Jackson strode in through the doors.
Sandie was there waiting for him. “Sir, I have an urgent message from General Forrest.” The chief of staff then ushered his commander to a clerk’s desk by an airy window and made to help him sit down.
“Sandie!” Jackson snarled. “Enough!”
Blushing, Sandie replied quietly, “Yessir. My apologies.” He then set the message flat on the desk before Jackson, where it could be easily read.
“Good, good. Now fetch Cleburne, Polk, and their division commanders.” Then Jackson looked down to read the message:
2 o’clock, June 25
Headquarters in the Field
In Company with W.H. Jackson’s Division, CSA
Versailles, Tennessee
General T.J. Jackson,
While providing security for A.P. Stewart’s Corps, troopers of W.H. Jackson’s Division discovered Hooker’s Corps on the Old Stage Road, well north of the Duck River marching south in the direction of Shelbyville. With your permission, I should want to operate against and harass Hooker’s column, while continuing to screen General Stewart’s attack on Fishing Ford. I have W.H. Jackson’s brigades, in addition to a brigade from Buford’s Division, which I believe sufficient to accomplish the two missions.
I have informed General Stewart of Hooker’s location, and he concurs with my intentions.
Your obedient servant,
N.B. Forrest
Major General, CSA
Jackson felt flushed. If XX Corps was where Forrest said it was, the largest of the enemy’s three segments could only participate in the battle if it turned and attacked Stewart. XVI Corps was likely en route, but for the time being that left XV Corps all alone. Whether Stewart came over the river or not, Cleburne and Polk could beat this isolated portion of the Union army, but with Stewart, he could cut it off and destroy it. It would be a Second Kettle Run, only larger.
“Providence,” he murmured. “Can this be anything other than Providence?”
First to arrive were Cleburne, Cheatham, and Lucius Polk. After reporting in, Old Pat and Old Frank went to stand outside the door, biding their time with their pipes and amiable chat, while Lucius remained in the bank and called for a cup of coffee. Then Bishop Polk arrived, sweeping into the room followed by an entourage of Maney, French, and a bevy of aides in gold braid.
“General Jackson!” cried Polk. “I was mortified to learn of your injury. Mortified, and the country cannot afford it, I say! Praise be to God you were not captured or wounded in that unfortunate incident.”
Jackson got to his feet, slightly embarrassed. “Praise be indeed, but I am not so badly injured. Now, gentlemen, gather around. We attack. We must strike the enemy, strike him while the iron is hot. General Polk, where exactly is your command?”
Polk said, “Maney’s gallant boys are up and in line on my nephew’s right.” Then he looked to French, prompting him to speak.
“Ahm, yes.” French cleared his throat. “My division is moving into Lewisburg even as we speak, preparatory to moving onto Maney’s right.”
Jackson’s eyes brightened as he listened and burned like torches when he spoke. “Good. Good. To make the most of the time, we attack en echelon. Immediately. General Cleburne!”
Cleburne, already standing ramrod straight, stiffened further. “Yes, General?”
“I want Cheatham to begin this attack. He will advance onto the stone wall and seize it.”
Noting Cleburne’s expression, which transformed from its customary severity to animation, Jackson nodded for him to speak. “Sir, I already have the bulk of my corps artillery massed behind Cheatham’s line, out of sight on the reverse slope and ready to push forward. If you will permit it, I would like to break up that stone wall with a preparatory bombardment of solid shot.”
Trained as a gunner, Jackson instantly understood what Cleburne was after. That stone wall was only 500 yards from Cheatham’s line, beyond the range of aimed muskets, but an easy, short-range target for artillery firing downhill.
“You wish to blast that wall into pieces, do you? Capital thinking, General Cleburne.”
Cleburne smiled modestly. “The idea was that of my chief of artillery, Lieutenant Colonel Beckham.”
“Beckham? Robert Beckham? A capable man. I commended him after Chancellorsville.”
Standing behind Jackson, Sandie smiled. Beckham had transferred in at Hood’s request back in February. He was a Virginia man, and one of the very few gunners Jackson had ever seen fit to praise specifically and by name.
“Very well, I give you 20 minutes for a preparatory bombardment. Then send Cheatham in, then Polk, then Maney. General French, I want your troops in position to the right and rear of Maney’s Division, kept out of sight. When Maney starts forward, so do you, advancing onto the enemy left and rear. Do you all understand?”
Cleburne asked, “What of General Stewart?”
Jackson replied flatly “Stewart’s Corps is my concern. Is there anything else? No? Then return to your troops. General Cleburne, I expect to hear your cannon directly.”
4:20 P.M.
Headquarters in the Field, XV Corps, USA
3/4s of a mile south of the Shelbyville Road
Sherman galloped down the
Shelbyville Road in a state of high feather. After putting everything in order from Nashville through Murfreesboro and down to Shelbyville to support the Army of the Tennessee, he was finally free to join that army on its fighting front. Moreover, McPherson’s execution of his plan had been a good one, and he felt confident the entire army would be concentrated around Farmington by nightfall.
He arrived at a small cluster of wagons in a field just off the road, a cluster under the banner of the XV Corps. Sherman grinned widely. The XV used to be his corps, and although they didn’t have the banner then, he liked its design all the same: a cartridge box emblazoned with the words “40 Rounds.” Slowing his horse, he came into the wagon park of a headquarters at a walk and dismounted smartly before McPherson.
Returning salutes, he said, “Jack. Mac. Good to see you both. The last message I got back in Shelbyville is a couple of hours old, so what is the news?”
McPherson motioned Sherman to follow him to a table of improvised from empty ammunition crates, atop which was a map freshly prepared by his topographers. He succinctly explained where Logan’s divisions were, that the cavalry were screening his flanks and covering Fishing Ford, and that he had dispatched Mower’s Division to shore up Fishing Ford against a strong Confederate force on the north bank of the Duck.
As he listened, Sherman pulled his hat off and ran his fingers through his sweaty red hair, a sense of disappointment bubbling in his gut. His orders had been for Mower and the rest of XVI Corps to support Logan’s attack, and while McPherson had the discretion to override those orders as the commander on the spot, Sherman deeply regretted that he had done so. Logan’s line was at hand, right here in Farmington, while Fishing Ford was six miles away.
Better to strip the flanks of cavalry and let Minty handle the river crossings, Sherman thought to himself, than to have postponed the attack. He felt in his bones that the delay meant the attack wouldn’t happen at all.
Just as McPherson finished his briefing, a courier appeared. “Message from General Hooker, sir!”
McPherson took the note and read it. As he did so, Sherman said to Logan with a suggestive nod, “You had best go see to your lines, Jack.”
Handing the message over, McPherson clucked his tongue. “I almost can’t believe it. Hooker says two Confederate corps are massed to strike him on the flank. He wants to deploy to the west and stand his ground.”
Sherman shook his head. “Cleburne and the Bishop are known to be right here, more Rebel infantry is pressing the Duck crossings off to the north, and Hooker thinks two-thirds of the Rebel army is bearing down on him. Where does he think those troops have come from? General Lee? Tell Fighting Joe to keep moving and get his histrionic ass to Farmington. Send him precise orders to that effect, and I’ll countersign it.”
Chuckling, McPherson went to find a clerk to draw up those orders. When he returned, Sherman said, “Look here, Mac, you have missed a good opportunity. Perhaps even a great opportunity. You should have supported Logan.”
McPherson pursed his lips, but before he could respond, the half-muffled thunder of distant, massed artillery rose from the west. Looking beyond Farmington, Sherman said, “Mac, get on your horse, find A.J. Smith, and get his boys down here as fast as their feet will carry them.”
Chapter 17
4:15 P.M.
7th Pennsylvania Cavalry, USA
South bank of the Duck River
1 ½ miles west of Fishing Ford
After the ambush, Spear’s company fell back on its battalion and dismounted to fight a delaying action north of Fishing Ford, an action fierce enough to force the Confederates to deploy their infantry. Having bought that much time, the Keystoners got back onto their saddles to retire behind the Duck and the entrenchments thrown up by their fellow Sabers. Thereupon, they replenished their cartridge boxes and pockets and were dispatched downriver.
Spear knew where they were going. The oldest hands of the 7th Pennsylvania liked to joke that they had foraged every henhouse and shat in every outhouse in Tennessee, and the boast was almost true, as the regiment had patrolled far and wide in 1862. Just down from Fishing Ford was a summertime livestock crossing, a place where the water was placid and about waist deep, the bottom firm and flat. It wasn’t quite a ford, but infantry could cross it easily.
The river bank was lined with trees, and Spear breathed easier when his company wasn’t among one of the two that marched out to secure the crossing. Instead, they dismounted behind a large, rectangular wood lot set about a hundred yards back from the river and took up reserve positions there. Rose put his back up against a tree and pulled his hat over his eyes for a nap, while Crowder took his turn as the fourth man who kept the horses.
After studying the ground, Spear went over to Lieutenant Webster. “Sir, I can’t say I like this place much. Don’t care for it at all, in fact. Look over there. The north bank dominates the south, and behind that are knolls to the right and left. If the Rebels come here…”
Webster finished the sentence. “… if the Rebels come here in any force, they’ll shoot down on us like hail. Yes, I know. So does Captain Vale. But you know what they’ll say higher up. If the place is an onion, we chew on it all the same.”
Having said his peace, Spear settled in to wait and see what came. Men gathered deadwood, built fires in the horse bivvy behind the woods, and brewed up coffee for everyone. The combination of rest and barefoot coffee dispelled some of Spear’s weariness, and his thoughts turned to poor, dead Dodson.
Why didn’t I get down and comfort the man, Spear thought with some anguish. He couldn’t quite rationalize that it was because he might have had to flee from Rebel outriders at a moment’s notice, although that was completely true.
Instead, it was the air of death. Not his own death, which he knew with the certainty of repeated proof that he feared only as much as any man did, and perhaps even less so than most. No, what gave him the worst apprehension was seeing the Reaper come for someone familiar, someone he knew. The physical presence of death made intimate. It turned every fiber of his being to unease, so he shrank from it, wouldn’t go near it. Just staying with Dodson had required all his courage and control, and even then he felt he only managed because the mercy of God passed through him.
Then the first sounds of a new squabble began: calls of warning interspersed with scattered musketry, the latter growing in frequency as the former died out. Spear could see the sparks and puffs of smoke from the higher, north-side bluffs of the river, and that the Rebel skirmish line there was thickening.
4:20 P.M.
41st Tennessee Infantry, CSA
Near Bethbirei Church
Nathan nestled the side of his head more firmly into his slouch hat and the loose dirt of the earthwork as he pushed harder down on his ear. It was no use though. He had already muffled the roar of the cannon as much as was humanly possible, and it pummeled the insides of his head despite his efforts.
Looking through a misty powder smoke to the busy gunners behind and above them, Nathan admired how smartly it had all been done. With some help from the infantry, the guns had been smoothly pushed forward by hand over carefully chosen routes rather than hauled by horses every which way, unlimbered, and brought around, shaving minutes off getting them into action.
Old Pat and Old Frank were there with some staffers, sitting atop their horses behind the battery posted behind the center of the brigade. Nathan thought the two generals looked as calm as could be, heedless of the occasional bursting shell as they studied the bombardment through their field glasses.
Cheatham smiled and nodded, pleased and relieved with the way things were going. He had been dubious about the prospect of attacking that stone wall, and was just as dubious that the artillery could do what Beckham had promised, but it was working. Most of the shot were striking their targets, and either gouging sizable divots out of the front of the wall or tearing straight through it, spraying the blue infantry with chips of stone shrapnel.
He leaned over to Beckham and shouted to be heard. “Well done, Colonel, well done indeed! You handled those guns as deftly as a steamboat gambler with his derringer!” Cheatham then gave the artilleryman a firm pat on the shoulder for emphasis.
Beckham grinned and tipped his hat back to the Tennessean, but didn’t try to make himself heard over the roar of his cannon.
Cleburne had harbored doubts about Beckham’s scheme too, but the arguments of the artillery chief he had inherited from his deceased predecessor, John Bell Hood, had been persuasive. Beckham insisted that the short range, gentle elevation, and having the sun at his back would all give him crucial advantages. The gunner also explained that as a dry stone wall was held together only by its weight and friction, cannonballs fired from close range would smash it to rubble. What was more, Beckham had planned the successful artillery charge at Lawrenceburg, and Cleburne found all the reason and method in Beckham’s plan that he liked to see in an operation. So, he told Beckham to ready his guns just in case Jackson ordered an assault.
Cleburne withdrew his pocket watch, checked the time, and returned it to its place. Shouting at the top of his lungs, he ordered, “Colonel Beckham! Cease fire! Frank! Prepare your advance!”
Cheatham saluted and nudged his horse around before dispatching aides to his brigade leaders: Walker, Vaughn, and Wright. The battle plan was a simple one. His division would advance down the low open slope, picking the pace up to the double quick once they came under fire. Upon reaching 50 yards distance, each brigade would stop, put a massed volley into the wall’s defenders, and charge. On their right, Polk’s Division would engage the entrenched Federals to their front, coming on only after Cheatham had taken the remnants of the wall.
