by R. E. Thomas
She still looked wary, but relaxed her grip on the broomstick. “We’re the Fletchers, that’s right. And you are?”
“Private Nathan Grimes, Jr., 41st Tennessee Infantry. The Captain was my commanding officer these past three years, Miss Fletcher, and I knew he lived hereabouts. What with the army in Lewisburg, I thought I’d come and see him.”
“Well, you wait here.”
When the girl returned, she came back with a matron, an older lady of about 40, and a white and whispy-haired, pot-bellied man past 60. Hobbling up behind them on crutches was Robert Littleberry Fletcher. Nathan hadn’t seen Fletcher since Lawrenceburg, and the man had lost weight and looked paler, but that wasn’t surprising for one not two months past losing half a leg.
Fletcher beamed, “Nathan! I should have known if anyone was going to find his way up from the army to see me, it would be you. This is my father, my oldest sister Sarah, and my younger sister Elizabeth. Pa, Sarah, Lizzy, this is Nathan Grimes, the best fighting man in the regiment.”
The old man extended his hand, giving Nathan a firm shake. “That is praise indeed. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”
“Thank you kindly, Mr. Fletcher, but no ‘sir.’ I’m just a common soldier.”
Fletcher said, “Sarah, Lizzy, bring out those biscuits from breakfast, and some of that ham we kept back from the commissaries. Nathan here must be hungry.” Once the women were indoors, he added “And if I know Private Grimes, I’m sure he has something for us.”
Nathan shook his head. “I’m mighty sorry, Captain, but I ain’t been scrounging yet. If I was going to come here, I had to come after seeing to things at the hospital, and take care of the rest on the way back to camp. You know how it is.”
“I do. How was it? I heard the racket. I know the elephant came for a visit.”
Nathan recited the butcher’s bill from yesterday’s battle and explained where Walker’s Brigade had been posted, and the ebb and flow of the fight for the stone wall beyond Bethbirei Church.
Sarah stepped out just as Nathan finished. “Would you care to come in, Mr. Grimes?”
Nathan went inside and was ushered to a seat at the dining table, a simple but heavy and well-finished affair. Looking to the matching hutch and its crockery, he recognized the appointments of a well-off family farm. The Fletchers weren’t big plantation owners, but they weren’t poor, small-holding dirt farmers or tenants like his father had been either.
“How are things with the company?” asked Fletcher.
Nathan took a bite of a biscuit, wanting to think about how to answer that question before saying anything. The ham was good, aged and salty, and the biscuit had a coat of butter in the middle. It was scrumptious, and after savoring and swallowing the treat, Nathan decided to go with the unvarnished truth.
“Well, they sent us a boy from Bishop Polk’s staff, Captain. Bell is his name. He came in with a fancy uniform and a darkie, all set on glory and making a name for himself. Still is. I ain’t seen his like since before Donelson. Bell is the son of some big landowner in West Tennessee. I hear old Isham Harris himself lobbied to get him a promotion and a company. He’s got guts, but he’s stupid. A real rich boy hothead.”
The elder Fletcher spat. “Harris.”
Fletcher smiled, patting his father’s arm. “Now, now. Let’s not get into politics.” His father was an old guard Whig, and even though the Whig Party was as dead as Julius Caesar, he still had no patience for fire-eating Democrats. But one had to be careful, because expressing such opinions could get a man hanged by Home Guard bandits as a Unionist.
“Well, Nathan, I’m sorry to hear that. And that Ed Marks got hit, although I was glad to hear he made sergeant. The promotion was well overdue. I’m surprised you didn’t make corporal, and that they gave it to your brother.”
“I don’t want no stripes, sir.” Wanting to change the subject, Nathan asked, “What are you planning on doing hereabouts, Captain?”
Fletcher leaned back in his chair. “Well, my father here has done an admirable job with the farm, what considering that the two armies long since took all our livestock and our few darkies ran away. We still had one good mule, you know, until the commissary agents from our own Army of Tennessee turned up here yesterday and found him out working with it. I told them the law, protested I was a maimed veteran, cried that there were hungry mouths to feed, and all to no avail. Our own army took our last mule!”
“But I’ve been thinking that whatever comes, the county is going to be a God-awful mess when it’s all over. Back taxes, mortgages unpaid, lost property, and the like. So, I’ve started preparing cases. No one has any money, so it’s all on commission. I am a lawyer, after all.”
Nathan nodded knowingly as Fletcher chuckled. What he expected after the war was the rich to use the chaos and poverty to snatch up more land. Whether it was the big Tennessee landowners or the fat Yankee bankers made not so much difference to him, but he thought it suited Fletcher to be in court, helping the folks in the middle keep what they had and make some money off it while he was at it.
Nathan chewed and swallowed the last bite of his dinner. “Much as I’d like to sit a spell longer, Captain, I must go. Traps to lay, bartering to do.”
Fletcher got up and steadied himself against the table. “I understand. I appreciate you coming to see me, Nathan, and if you should need anything, anything at all, you only need to ask. Send my regards to your brother, and congratulate him for me on his corporalcy.”
Fletcher extended his hand. Nathan hadn’t been expecting that, but reached across the table and shook it gladly. He then strapped on his gear and went outside, Fletcher and his family following along after him. A short way down the path, still within sight of the Fletcher house, Nathan turned, fixed his bayonet, and presented arms.
Watery-eyed, Fletcher firmed up his crutches, and saluted. Nathan spun around on his heel and marched down the path as if on parade.
Nathan spent the rest of the morning visiting three separate farms lying between the Fletcher place and the Franklin Pike. Matronly farmwives were running those farms, what with their menfolk either dead, in the army, or on the run from conscription agents, and they didn’t have much. Yet Nathan had Yankee greenbacks and other valuables tucked away in his knapsack, all of it looted from dead bluecoats, and was able to barter or buy a jar of moonshine, two big bottles of strong apple cider, a hefty bundle of kale, and several pounds each of ripe cherries and onions.
These he carried with him back to Big Rock Creek, where he spent the early part of the afternoon laying traps along the creek and on the adjoining fields. He was stopped briefly by a patrolling provost, a “turkey driver,” but Nathan presented his pass, explained what he was doing, and was left alone.
With his snares laid, Nathan began the return hike up the dirt road alongside Big Rock Creek, the one leading into Lewisburg. Along the way he spied a horse shed in a nearby field, and thinking he might find something worthwhile in it, went over to investigate.
Coming into the open gateway of the shed, Nathan saw a butternut-clad body lying still on the gray, old straw that was thinly scattered on the ground. A bayonet stuck out of his back, surrounded by a dark, old blood stain. Knowing it most unlikely that this Johnnie was killed by the Yankees, given where the body was, he moved closer to investigate. He saw part of the face and recognized the dead man as Sergeant Ed Marks.
The sight shocked Nathan, and he felt a current of grief shoot through him, but it was soon swamped with anger, a cold, dark, and hateful anger. He knew what had happened. Rather than take Marks to an ambulance or the field hospital, Raglan Lloyd had led him away so as to further his escape. He then murdered Marks rather than leave him as a witness and ran off.
Nathan brimmed with rage, so much so it numbed his senses. He left Marks where he found him, and walked back to camp.
He wanted to kill Lloyd, but he also nursed rancor against the army. He decided that Colonel Tillman should have hung Lloyd for
the attempted bushwhack on Willie, and that Tillman surely would have, had the need for more men to fight the war not been so great. So now a good man, one of the best men, was dead, and a worthless man was spared to commit murder and go free.
I’ll kill Raglan Lloyd, alright, thought Nathan. And I’ll do it before the army has a chance to foul it all up again. I’ll hunt him down after the war, if that’s what it takes.
Nathan arrived in camp, and the hullabaloo going on there pulled him away from his animosity. Several hundred men were milling about the camp, a heavy guard was posted outside Bethbirei Church, and under the Colonel’s canvas shelter was not just Colonel Tillman, but also Old Frank, General Walker, and a few other gold braids he didn’t recognize.
Willie intercepted Nathan as he entered camp. Seeing his expression, he said “What..?”
Nathan said coldly, “Ed is dead. Stabbed in the back. I found him in a shed just a couple miles from here.”
Wille gasped, “Lloyd?”
“Yeap.”
Struggling to contain himself, Willie wiped away a tear. “Ed. God rest his soul.”
Nathan took a step forward, and Willie snatched him up by the arm. “Nathan, where are you going?”
“Where do you think!?” Nathan barked back. “To report it to headquarters. Fat lot of fucking good it will do. That yellow rat bastard is long gone, you can count on that.”
Willie pulled him in close. “Hush! Don’t you see what’s going on here?”
Nathan muttered angrily, “What do you mean? And get off me!”
“Old Jack is here, you fool! He came in with Old Straight for a service in Bethbirei, that there Presbyterian Church.” Seeing no understanding on Nathan’s face, he whispered harshly, “Do you think Colonel Tillman will thank you if you storm right in there and tell him Lloyd deserted and murdered a sergeant for good measure? Right in front of Cheatham, Walker, and all that army brass sitting there to hear it?”
Deflated, Nathan said sullenly, “No. You’re right. No, he won’t.”
“I swear, it’s a good thing you didn’t take these here stripes, Nathan. I reckon your bull-headedness would have lost them right quick. Now, take them vittles you brought in to the commissary, and then let’s go find Sergeant Major, and you tell him about poor Ed.”
As Willie led Nathan off to find the regiment’s commissary sergeant, the church doors opened and local parishioners began emerging. These filed down the church steps to congregate just beyond the line of armed soldiers standing guard. Among the last to come out was Jackson, in company with the minister and A.P. Stewart, and the trio were immediately greeted with applause and cheers from civilian and soldier alike.
Jackson waved with his splinted wrist, smiling awkwardly. He leaned over to say quietly to Stewart, “Pete, I believe you could have wakened me with less savagery during the service.”
Stewart smirked. If there was one thing he didn’t like at all about his friend and commander, it was the way Jackson would doze off in the midst of divine service, so he took great delight in giving him a sharp elbow or stepping firmly on his foot so as to prevent it.
“If you do not wish the reminder, Tom, then do not require it of me.”
“I could order you.”
“That you could. And then I’d be guilty of insubordination to the army, but still obedient to the needs of our liturgy.”
Jackson laughed out loud at this, breaking into gleeful cackling that took all present by surprise. Quickly recovering some of his composure, he thanked everyone, said his goodbyes, and then went down the church steps and over to where Cheatham and the others were. Stewart followed, and Sandie emerged from the crowd to step in behind him.
Jackson made a half-bow. “General Cheatham. General Walker. Generals Wright and Vaughn. You will understand if I do not salute.”
Cheatham smiled pleasantly. “Completely, sir. May I introduce Colonel Tillman? His regiment is camped here.”
“Colonel. Your camp is neat and orderly, and your men did their duty yesterday in taking the stone wall. I understand the first man over that wall was from your regiment?”
Tillman beamed. “That is correct sir, although there is some confusion if it was one of our soldiers, or our Captain Samson Bell.”
“Well, when you know that, please send it up through channels.”
“Yessir, I will do so.”
“General Jackson,” Cheatham said. “Although I’m sure the men appreciate the day off, I would feel more secure if I could shore up the division’s earthworks. Church services in the army must be finished, or nearly so. May I send the boys to work?”
“No,” Jackson said firmly. “Providence graced us with a victory yesterday. The Lord must be thanked and praised. This is his day for rest, and the men surely need that rest after their recent exertions. You may begin improving your works in the morning, as ordered.”
Having made his case personally, Cheatham let it alone. “Yes, General.”
Jackson looked west, towards the crest of the ridgeline. Stewart’s Corps had marched through the night from Fishing Ford, arriving just before first light to extend his line southward. The ground here wasn’t much to speak of, and he half-hoped that if he did nothing to improve his position, the enemy might be lured into attacking him again. Yet now it was mid-afternoon, and there was little hope of that. Having given the troops most of the Sabbath, he was determined to let them have the rest of it.
7 A.M.
Headquarters, Military Division of Mississippi, USA
Shelbyville Road
Two miles east of Farmington, Tennessee
While Nathan Grimes was hiking out to the field hospital, Sherman was smoking and walking circles around his little headquarters, trying to work the stiffness from his joints. Farmington was too close to the front for setting up his headquarters, and preferring to live simply while in the field anyway, he had bivouacked in the open field the night before. His headquarters reflected this, as the horses present outnumbered the tents. The most settled part was the large telegraph tent, connected by wire to the different corps headquarters along the front and Shelbyville in the rear.
He looked over to his officers, enjoying their breakfasts. The air was thick with the scents of fragrant coffee and savory bacon, but they gave him no appetite. Unlike other men, his vigor never waned for lack of sleep or food. Quite the contrary, the only thing he ever felt he truly needed with any regularity was tobacco, and that was to steady his energetic nature.
McPherson rode up just as Sherman was coming back around to the road. He stopped as he saw McPherson dismount and walk over to him.
“Good morning, Mac. I got your word last night that Hooker is in place on the right. The whole army is up and in line. That’s good.”
“Morning to you to, Bill. Reports say that Stewart’s Corps is over there now. The Rebels army now occupies a five-mile line, east and northeast of Lewisburg. Except that they are entrenched, the position is not especially strong, but it is fairly secure, what with Forrest’s cavalry thrown out on the flanks. Those screens extend out to the Duck River on the north, and down to the hills to the south.”
“Yes, much the same as with the Army of the Tennessee.”
Nodding, McPherson said, “That’s right. Bill, there is something I’d like to say before we tour the lines this morning.”
Sherman nodded, so McPherson continued. “I thought about what you said yesterday, and I want you to know my concern was only to stop Jackson from bringing another Chancellorsville down on us, and that it was better to contain Stewart’s Corps before it got across the Duck. My orders gave me the discretion to do that. But, I can see now that I had other means available to achieve that end, that I didn’t need to divert Mower’s Division to Fishing Ford, and I should have attacked. If I had done so…”
Motioning for McPherson to stop, Sherman said “War is full of ifs. What attacking with Logan and Mower might have achieved is neither here nor there, and a business best left to arm
chair generals. We real generals have a job to do.”
Putting his hand down on McPherson’s shoulder, he continued. “You’re the best man in this army. Hell, you saved this army at Lawrenceburg. Yes, yesterday was a defeat and there is no painting it any other way, but we’re still here and the Rebels are still over there, and today we get on with the business of whipping them. That is all there is to it. Now, let’s mount up and attend to the morning’s affairs.”
McPherson walked his horse into the little camp, Sherman following behind, finishing his thoughts. He wanted to see the lay of things with his own eyes, of course, but he had already made up his mind as to the army’s course as soon as he saw Hooker’s XX Corps march down the Shelbyville Road the night before.
The damage done to the railroad around Murfreesboro was due to be repaired the next day, and the 10,000 men of the newly arrived XVII Corps could be concentrated in Shelbyville the day after that. With the reinforcements they would punch through the cavalry screen, and seize the hills around Belfast, a few miles south of the Rebel army. If that didn’t work, he would make another wide turning movement farther south and try again to get into the Rebel rear. The one thing he would not do is throw everything into a general assault on Jackson’s front.
11 A.M.
Bivouac of the 7th Pennsylvania Cavalry, USA
One mile south of Fishing Ford
After being replaced around Fishing Ford by Mower’s Division, the Saber Brigade withdrew and encamped in the open fields. Minty gave them the minor task of patrolling the south bank of the Duck River, but mostly the brigade was spending their Sunday resting.
Spear was cleaning his carbine when an orderly told him that the Major wanted to see him back at battalion. After reassembling his Spencer and stowing it with his saddle and tack, Spear cleaned up his uniform with a horse brush, and then set out for Major Jennings’ tent at a brisk walk, about a half-mile across the field, through rather than around the staked and tethered horses of his company.
