by Jeff Shaara
CHAPTER THREE
SEELEY
NEAR THE DUCK RIVER, CENTRAL TENNESSEE MARCH 19, 1862
For long miles the roadways were nearly impassable, the travel miserably slow, rivers of mud deepening by the hour from the steady rain. There was no real alternative to the roads, the horses unable to maneuver at all through the dense thickets that lined most of the countryside. There were breaks in the thickets, open grassy fields, but there was risk there, the rain so intense that a short jaunt across a mile or more of roadless countryside might get them lost. Worse were the farmlands, not yet planted, so that the muddy fields were deep and soft, and could swallow the legs of their horses, a nasty potential for crippling injury to their mounts no cavalryman wanted to confront. Regardless of the weather, the farms themselves could be a threat of a different kind, and it had surprised Seeley to hear the colonel’s briefing to beware the citizens, farmers, and shopkeepers. None of the horse soldiers expected to learn that even in Tennessee the civilians were not always friendly, did not necessarily support the army and their cause. Forrest had cautioned them that spies could be the most innocent to the eye, offering the friendly conversation, or the generosity of a pail of milk, a basket of eggs. The loyalty to their army was not guaranteed even from people whose homes the army claimed to protect, and more than once the cavalry had found a local man with maps in his pocket, showing troop movements, identifying regiments and their commanders. There was no good reason for any civilian to be carrying that kind of information, and the men who had been caught had almost always been traveling north, where the enemy waited for any information they could receive. It had infuriated him, all of them, to find that these good people whose homes lay firmly in Southern territory might not believe in the cause that the soldiers were willing to die for. And so, riding through the misery of the awful weather there could be no visits with civilians, no matter how tempted they were by the dry barn, the promise of temporary shelter. The mission was too critical and these men too few to be given up by a turncoat farmer who had some link to a Yankee spy with a fast horse.
The rain had been relentless, a long day made longer, and Seeley had guessed it to be after four o’clock when the captain had finally ordered them to stop. Captain McDonald had moved out from the column, taking Seeley with him. They were the only two officers in the troop, and McDonald had dismounted, leaned in close to what made for a dry place beneath a towering oak tree. There the captain had unrolled a map, had shown confidence that their objective, the Duck River, was close in front, but that meant that the road they were using was far too dangerous. The order to dismount had gone to the others, the horses led by their reins into the dense woods, what quickly became a swamp. In a small muddy clearing, one-fourth of the men had been designated to remain behind, to take hold of the horses, keep them in tight groups. It was always the precaution, that on a mission like this the men were too few to fight any kind of skirmish. The order had come the day before from Forrest: There would be no engagement at all, no matter what enemy they might find. The information McDonald’s men were seeking was far more valuable than any results that could come from a firefight. With the men on foot, the shotguns had stayed behind as well; no need to carry the extra encumbrance. The men had grumbled about that, but in the swamp, slow going through deep muddy bog holes, the weapon was a liability and likely would be made useless by the mud that quickly engulfed them all. If there was comfort to be had from a weapon, they all carried the heavy knives at their belts.
The mud was deep and cold, the going too slow and too difficult for anyone to waste energy by complaining. They had already been soaked through their rain gear and whatever uniforms they might have, the exercise of crawling over and through the thickets at least helping to warm them up. As if to add to their misery, the wind grew stronger, the rain harder still, the sharp breeze driving the rain into eyes and ears.
They were spread out within close sight of one another, still moving forward, led by the compass of the captain. Seeley watched him, was suddenly grabbed, wrapped by a thorny vine, hung up by the ropelike strength. He tried to pull free, no strength in his legs, too much in the vine, and he reached for the knife at his belt, felt a hand on his arm, soft voice.
“No. Untangle it. Just step out of it. Knife won’t cut this stuff.”
He saw the face, muddy wetness beneath the eyes, Sergeant Gladstone, older man, something of the swamps that seemed to be a part of this man even in the best weather. His legs worked themselves free, Gladstone not waiting to be thanked. Seeley found the captain again, moved that way, mud still sucking at his boots, one man nearby stumbling, hands down in a soft pool, mud up to the man’s chest. Hands helped him up, a curse echoing softly through the rain, but still they moved forward.
It seemed to be getting darker, but Seeley knew not to gaze upward, that eyes full of rain told you nothing. The downpour continued, the wind driving the rain through the trees like a flowing curtain. Fat streams and drops from the limbs above seemed always to find Seeley’s collar, even the rubberized raincoat not keeping him dry. But no matter the weariness, Seeley kept that one sharp place in his mind, what kept the eyes focused, staring ahead. There was after all a purpose to this, that somewhere out there, an enemy might be waiting, and even if the Yankees were huddled blindly in this same misery, the men knew what Captain McDonald was trying to find, where this swamp must surely lead. Seeley did as they all did, felt and probed his way through the thickest places, the small openings usually holes of deep mud, and so the going was painfully slow. But the men who had groused loudest about leaving the shotguns behind were as calm and miserable as the rest, and even as they searched for some sign of an enemy, Seeley was utterly convinced that no other human had ever crushed their way through this swampy hell, wet or dry.
His boots were completely full of water, the mud growing thicker on his pants legs, like wax on a candle wick, heavier, denser with each step. He kept his eye on the captain, saw a change now, McDonald holding up a hand, dropping to his knees, peering through a thicket of low cedar trees. Seeley froze, fully alert, and the captain made another motion with his hand, pulling the others down low. Seeley crept forward, close beside McDonald, followed as the captain pushed slowly into the cedars. His heart was already pounding, exhaustion, but there was excitement now, and he had to see, ignored the hard chill of the water now pushing up above his waist. McDonald glanced back, another wave of his hand, holding the others in place, all of them on their knees, settling into the mud. If there were curses about that, Seeley heard nothing but the rain. He took a long breath of soggy air, watched the muddy faces, most of the men disguised completely by the filth that covered them. His eyes were filled by a gust of blowing rain, and he wiped by instinct, too quickly, his fingers too dirty to help. McDonald waved them forward, his hand giving the signal, slowly. Seeley watched them, no gripes now, respect for the captain, all of them knowing something dangerous might be very close. He looked again at McDonald, who turned away, satisfied his order was understood. When the captain began to crawl, the others did the same, pressing through the dense cedars, thick curtains of water on the tangle of branches. As they moved past the brush, they all saw what the captain saw. A few yards beyond the cedars was another low thicket of brush, and beyond that, the Duck River. Now they could all see why they had come, what this miserable mission was about. On the far side of the river was a single mass of blue.
McDonald turned his head slowly, scanned them all, nodded, another motion with his hand, the signal to stop, to lie flat. No one spoke, used only their eyes, the men gathering closer, in line behind the low cover of the brush. Seeley did his job, made sure they were spread out, glancing across the river with every breath. The rain was driving even harder now, a deep rumble of thunder somewhere above, and McDonald grabbed his shoulder, a hard hiss in his ear.
“We got lucky, Lieutenant. Right where they’re supposed to be!”
Seeley guessed the river to be two hundred yards acro
ss, saw it was thick and muddy, noisy splatters by the rain, the current flowing by in a storm-fueled rush. Some fifty yards to one side were the remains of a railroad bridge, charred stubs of thick logs and stone, the bridge eliminated days before by the good work of other raiders. The Confederate cavalry had patrolled these roadways and river crossings for weeks now, doing as much damage as they could, most of them not having to fight weather as bad as this. The orders had come to all the cavalry units, that as the bulk of the army marched away from Murfreesboro, the bridges behind them were a priority, and so every effort had been made to cut any transportation lines that would allow the enemy to pursue.
McDonald looked toward his men, another signal, sit tight, and he peered up carefully through the brush. He turned toward Seeley, motioned him closer, and Seeley crawled that way, fought the wet goo thick in his pants, the stinging in his knees. McDonald pointed.
“Those two. Watch ’em.”
Across the river, on a bluff a few feet above the water, two men rode close, high on horses, their uniforms disguised by black rain gear, but there was no mistaking their authority. Words were passed, arms waving, pointing, hot tempers, someone not afraid to show his anger. Behind them the uniforms were not disguised at all, dense rows of men in blue, spreading away into a clearing. Seeley saw it clearly now: An entire column of Federal troops had reached the place where the trail led to the remains of the railroad bridge, their officers no doubt discussing just what they were supposed to do next. Quickly, more men on horseback were gathering, a dozen now, some of them aides, limp flags hanging from crooked flagstaffs. Arms were pointing, and even through the rain Seeley caught a flicker of voice, a shout, obvious anger. Suddenly two foot soldiers waded out into the river, straight toward the crouching cavalrymen. Seeley felt a burst of heartbeats, put a hand on his knife, but the men waded out only a few yards from shore, were already waist-deep, struggling against the current, and just as quickly, they pulled themselves back to the others who watched from the bank.
McDonald reached out, patted Seeley on the shoulder, silent joy, and Seeley knew the meaning. Too deep to cross, too much current. The bluecoats would have to find another way. The Confederate cavalrymen that had come before them had done good work, and Seeley had been told already what the enemy commanders were learning themselves, that for miles in both directions, the Duck River was just as he saw it here. If the Yankees intended to cross anywhere near this part of the river, they would have to build their own bridges.
McDonald raised field glasses, studied, said, “Look for the flags. Try to see some detail. We need to know who these people are.”
Seeley pulled his field glasses out of his coat, mud coating the lenses, and he smeared a finger frantically, cursed to himself, hoped McDonald didn’t see. McDonald said, “Nothing they can do right now. They’ll have engineers come up, probably supposed to be there already. Bet that’s why that officer is so hot. He’s probably in command, bet he’s a damn general. And hot as a hornet. I’d love a chance to pick him off. Good musket would knock him right off ’n his horse. Never know what hit him. Maybe I’ll get you some other time, General Whoever You Are. Just wish I could see your damn flag, division, regiment, anything.”
The captain paused, studied again with his field glasses, shook his head.
“Can’t make out a single damn flag. Those bluebellies marched up here all full of piss, ready to grab General Johnston by the tail, and I bet that general over there was told the river might be shallow enough to ford. Not even generals can stop the rain. Looks like they’re gonna have to just sit here, probably build a bridge. Otherwise, they’re gonna have to wait for the water to drop. That could take a couple weeks.”
The horsemen moved away from the river’s edge, the limp flags following, the only one visible the long flowing Stars and Stripes. McDonald pounded a fist into his leg. “What’s your hurry? Dammit! Who are you, anyway?” He glanced at Seeley now. “Keep looking … try to see …” He saw the mess that was Seeley’s field glasses now, scowled at him. “Reconnaissance mission, Lieutenant. Keep those things clean and dry! What’s the matter with you …?” McDonald stopped himself, and Seeley looked toward the others watching them, some laughing, the ridicule kept silent by the rain.
“Try to clean ’em up. Show these boys how you got that damn gold bar on your collar.”
Seeley worked the lenses furiously, unbuttoned his shirt, his undershirt just as wet, but doing a better job at clearing the mud. He knew the others were watching him, knew the jokes would come later. He raised the glasses, could see smears of shapes, lowered them, saw more clearly with his eyes. Straight across the river was a wide trail that led out of the woods and open fields straight toward the wrecked bridge. In the middle of the trail he could see the raised hump of a railroad bed. But there were no tracks, more good work from someone else’s patrol, John Hunt Morgan most likely. The blue troops were still coming forward, more columns spreading out both ways into the woods, some close to the river, some filling patches of open ground downstream, guided by more horsemen, the junior officers. He tried to count, gave up quickly, knew there were hundreds of them, probably many more behind them. His heart was pounding, jumping in his chest, and he ducked lower behind the brush. McDonald seemed to read him, said, “I don’t want ’em to see us. But even if they do, not much they can do about it. They’ll probably expect someone to be keeping an eye on ’em. Might even send a patrol over here, float across on a log, maybe somewhere over there somebody thought to bring a damn boat.”
Seeley buttoned his shirt again, thought of the captain’s wistful fantasy, one good rifled musket. Pick off those boys one at a time and they wouldn’t have the first idea where it was coming from, not in this downpour. Of course, trying to shoot a musket in the driving rain was enough of a challenge as it was. Pretty hard to keep your powder dry. And a musket full of wet powder was a boil-on-a-backside to clean. He thought of McDonald’s words, had no confusion about their mission. Be awful nice to know who you are, General. The whole bunch of you.
He blinked rainwater out of his eyes, felt a sneeze coming, did all he could to stifle it, bent low, held his nose, the sneeze exploding into his ears. McDonald said in a low voice, “They can’t hear you from over there. Can you hear them? This rain makes a nice damn blanket over all of us. I’ll get these boys back to the horses, make a camp. No fires. We need to eat something. You got any rations?”
“Yes, sir. Some hardtack, hunk of raw bacon.”
“It’ll have to do.” McDonald looked around, pointed to the old sergeant, and another man, motioned them forward. “Sergeant, you and Hinkle stay with the lieutenant here, keep each other company. I want to make damn sure those bluebellies are staying the night. Look and listen, any signs of a camp, unbridled horses, wagons unloaded, all of that. Don’t want them marching the hell out of here without us knowing about it. It gets too dark to see, you make your way back to us. Yankees are pretty scared of the dark, so once the sun goes down, they’ll probably stay put.” He pointed back away from the river. “The horses are three hundred yards straight that way. You get spotted, anybody hollers at you or shoots at you, crawl like blazes out of here, and make sure we hear you coming. I’m taking no casualties, and no one gets lost, not in my command. You get close to us, use a password … Beauregard. Call it out. Somebody’ll answer you. For now, as long as there’s daylight, try to see some of those damn flags. They’re supposed to be proud of the damn things. I want to know who they are. That’s the only damn reason we’re here. I didn’t join the cavalry to sit in slop.”
The captain moved away, leading the others back from the river. Seeley watched him, waited for the last man to disappear into the darkening woods, thought, he sure cusses a lot. Probably not a church man. Don’t hear too many officers in this army tempt fate with that kind of talk. Colonel Forrest, maybe a little. But if I had that much to be thinking about, I’d probably let down a little, too. Just don’t let Katie hear that. Or Mama. Oh Lord
, no, not Mama.
Beside him, the sergeant, Gladstone, growled, “Lookee there. See all that white? They’re putting up their tents. That’ll make the captain happy. Looks like they’re planning on staying awhile.”
Seeley saw wagons now, gathering on a hillside farther back from the river, supplies unloaded, men in motion everywhere.
“Tonight anyway. Good.”
Gladstone pointed at Seeley’s field glasses.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you ought not be so mean to them things. Can be a man’s best friend out here.”
“I know. It was stupid. They slipped out the front of my coat.”
The other man spoke, Hinkle, very young, one of the men from Kentucky.
“Can’t see much of nothin’ anyhoo. Gettin’ dark fast. You see flags? This is dumb, if ’n you ask me.”
Gladstone punched the boy in the shoulder.
“The lieutenant didn’t ask you; the captain neither. Dig the mud outta your ears and listen for bugles. Maybe they’ll tell us something.”
“Right. Hadn’t thoughta that.”
Gladstone moved to one side, toward a small crooked tree, stuffed himself against the trunk, a sliver of shelter. He dug into his own shirt, and Seeley was surprised to see a single-lens spyglass. Gladstone pulled it lengthwise, telegraphed it out nearly two feet long, held his hand out over the larger end, sheltering it from the rain, scanned the far side of the river for a long minute. He slid it closed again, looked at Seeley, a broad smile, missing many teeth.
