Bright Starry Banner

by Alden R. Carter

  McCook’s corps leaves the Nolensville Turnpike to advance east along Bole Jack Road toward Murfreesboro. Ahead a few miles, the narrow, muddy road will widen into the Wilkinson Pike, but for the moment, it is slow going for the men and particularly for the artillery and wagons. Colonel Lewis Zahm’s three regiments of Ohio cavalry screen the advance. The skirmishing begins almost at once, Zahm’s brigade breaking through the Rebel vedettes and then fending off probes by Brigadier General John Wharton’s gray troopers.

  The skirmishing continues into the afternoon along a two-mile front. It is discouraging, this leaking away of lives. The sun seems to hang in the sky, the afternoon interminable. Finally, when the shadows begin to lengthen, the firing eases, and Zahm sends back word that the Rebs have withdrawn to the east side of Overall Creek. McCook turns to Brigadier General Jefferson C. Davis. “We’ll bivouac on this side of the creek.”

  Davis, the slayer of Bull Nelson, argues. “We should push across so they can’t—”

  “No, Jeff. We have done well enough for today. Let the men have an hour of daylight to start their fires and cook their suppers.”

  At 4:30 P.M., Davis’s division makes camp to the right of the turnpike on the west bank of Overall Creek. An hour later, McCook receives a message signed by Garesché: He is to advance until his left flank comes in contact with Negley’s right so that the army will present a continuous front from the Franklin Pike to Stones River. McCook studies the map. It is too far; he has not the courage. He will send Zahm to feel for Negley and call that good.

  Crittenden’s corps approaches Stones River from the northwest along the line of the Nashville Pike, Palmer’s and Wood’s divisions abreast and Van Cleve’s division close behind. It is past midafternoon, the winter sun already low, when the skirmishers spot a heavy line of butternut infantry at the foot of Wayne’s Hill just beyond the river’s sharp bend to the northeast. To storm across the river at this point will require considerable force and entail heavy losses. But to advance along the pike to the river crossing a mile ahead will leave the Rebels on Wood’s left flank. Palmer and Wood halt the advance and consult, deciding that neither wants the responsibility for opening a battle so late in the day.

  Just as the weary soldiers are dropping out of ranks to make camp, Crittenden and his staff come galloping up to Wood with Rosecrans’s order to push a division into Murfreesboro. Wood is shocked. “General,” he attempts, “the Rebels are in heavy force on the other side of the river, and it is far too late in the day to develop their positions and launch an assault. If—”

  Crittenden, braced by the day’s success and a steady accumulation of alcohol in his bloodstream, for once interrupts Wood. “General Rosecrans has intelligence that Bragg is withdrawing from Murfreesboro. We are to occupy the town and press on in pursuit at first light. Here is General Palmer. He sent the message that the Rebels are retreating.”

  When the situation is explained to him, Palmer scowls. “I sent no such message. I sent several messages to you telling of our progress but nothing to General Rosecrans and certainly nothing about the Rebels evacuating Murfreesboro.”

  It takes a few minutes of puzzling and the rapid examination of the flimsy copies from couriers’ dispatch books before the green lieutenant confesses that he may have delivered a message somewhat in error and to the wrong general. Wood looks heavenward, wonders what principle the theorists of St-Cyr, Sandhurst, and West Point would devise to explain something so farcical. He is pulled abruptly from his musing by Crittenden. “Nevertheless, we must advance as the commanding general directs. General Wood, prepare your division to take that hill on our flank. General Palmer, you will advance straight ahead into Murfreesboro. Quickly now before we lose the light. I must go to General Van Cleve.”

  “Please remain here, General,” Wood says. “It will be dark soon, and we will need to know where to find you.”

  Palmer glances sharply at Wood, wondering why Wood should give a damn where Crittenden is once the fighting starts.

  Crittenden hesitates. “Very well. I will send for General Van Cleve to come to me.”

  “Thank you, General,” Wood says, and swings his horse away. Palmer salutes and follows. Out of earshot of Crittenden, Wood turns to Palmer. “General Crittenden is badly mistaken in this plan. But I think if we move slowly, he may reconsider in time.”

  Palmer nods. “Meaning he will lose his nerve.”

  “Yes, General, meaning he will lose his nerve. Let’s put our commands in motion and then return to petition him to wait until morning.”

  Bragg’s army has been in position since early in the day. The Confederate line is bent almost ninety degrees with Polk’s corps deployed in a northsouth line west of the river, and Hardee’s corps at right angles on the east side of the river. The awkward angle is the result of Bragg’s paranoia about his right flank. Wheeler’s cavalry has identified Rosecrans’s three corps, but Thomas’s corps seems to be missing two of its four divisions. In reality, those divisions have been left behind to defend Nashville and the railroad line to Louisville, but Bragg continues to worry that Rosecrans has dispatched them on a wide loop that will bring them down on Murfreesboro from the northeast along the Lebanon Turnpike.

  The Confederate outpost on Wayne’s Hill stands outside the line, half a mile from any support. In his anxiety to cover the five roads into Murfreesboro, Bragg has ignored the hill, but its potential as a site for artillery troubles Major General John C. Breckinridge. Late in the morning, he orders Brigadier General Roger Hanson to take Kentucky Brigade forward to occupy it.

  From the west side of the river, Bishop Leonidas Polk watches through his field glasses as Hanson’s men advance. Someone has finally spotted the crying weakness in Bragg’s dispositions. Too bad. Had the Yankees taken the hill, the Confederate line would have become immediately untenable. The inevitable retreat would have finished Bragg and given the army to Polk. The Bishop shrugs. Well, the same result will take a little more blood now, that’s all. He lowers his field glasses and removes his watch to see if it is time to dine.

  With a battery in place atop the hill, Hanson watches the approach of Crittenden’s corps. The Yankee power appalls him. He cannot possibly hold against such numbers. His only hope lies in a bluff. He sends several regiments marching in and out of the woods at the foot of the hill while officers shout commands to imaginary formations and the soldiers make as much businesslike uproar as possible. The Yankees seem to hesitate, trying to decide whether to attack the hill on their left or push straight ahead toward town. After a few minutes, the Union ranks fall out and begin going into camp. But just as Hanson begins to relax, he spots a meeting of senior officers and their staffs. In ten minutes, the Yankees are falling back into ranks, the sight setting Hanson to vigorous cursing.

  Assigned to lead Wood’s assault on Wayne’s Hill, Colonel Charles Garrison Harker considers himself the luckiest man alive. The early dark is crisp with the smells of frost, river, and woods. He remembers how as a boy he loved this time when all the other children—those with parents—had to stay inside, doing schoolwork or reading some improving book while he ran through the empty streets and alleys, playing tag with the shadows and his dreams. Orphaned at nine, he grew up the town pet of Swedesboro, New Jersey, a lithe, bright boy apparently untouched by the loss of his drunken, brutal parents. He slept in the back of the schoolhouse, fed the coal stove in place of tuition, ran errands for the housewives who fed and clothed him. At seventeen, the district congressman sent him to West Point. He studied just hard enough to get by, charmed his way through recitations and inspections. Everybody liked Charlie, always gave him the benefit of the doubt. He graduated and put in three good years of service on the frontier. The war brought colonel’s eagles and command of a regiment and, after Shiloh, a brigade. Oh, it is a wonderful life, and Charlie Harker is lucky.

  Thank God, Tom Wood thinks when he sees Rosecrans and his staff coming down the turnpike. Silhouetted against the last of the light,
Rosecrans is impossible to mistake. He rides firmly upright, reins held in left hand, the right poised as if about to make some sweeping gesture of command. His big head is thrown slightly forward, his Roman nose suggesting the aggressiveness of his intent. And Tom Wood, who does not like Rosecrans, has the sudden feeling that he is staring at a man posing for an equestrian statue.

  Rosecrans draws rein before Crittenden, looms over the smaller man. Crittenden, whose nerve is failing with the light, fumbles through a hasty explanation of the situation. Finally, he takes a deep breath. “At the request of General Palmer and General Wood, I have just ordered a one-hour delay so that I could consult with you.”

  “Absolutely correct, General,” Rosecrans booms. “Night attacks are rarely worth the cost or the risk, and almost no plan succeeds when based on faulty information. We will postpone any further advance until morning.”

  Wood speaks up. “General, do I take it that, under your command, subordinates have the right to disregard orders if, in their judgment, army headquarters has based them on faulty information?”

  Rosecrans hesitates momentarily. Of all the officers in this army, Wood is closest to being his intellectual equal, and Rosecrans does not trust very intelligent men. “You may ta-take it so, General Wood.” Rosecrans feels himself blush and is glad of the darkness. The stutter has been missing for months except for the occasional lapse when he is very tired. He speaks with care. “We are not fighting in the time of Frederick of Prussia. Modern armies are too large and modern battlefields too vast for a commanding general to survey either at a glance. Absolute obedience is a luxury he cannot demand or afford. He must depend on his subordinates to exercise their best judgment in interpreting his orders. But beware, General. The errors of subordinates must under this system result in even heavier consequences than suffered of old.”

  “Thank you, General. Please excuse me; I should order Colonel Harker’s brigade to withdraw now.”

  But it is too late, for at that moment Charlie Harker’s skirmishers rush the ford. From the other side of the river, there are shouts and a crackle of fire. But Harker’s skirmishers—six companies spread out in front of the main line—splash through the icy water in moments. They hurl themselves up the far bank, firing at the winking muzzle flashes. The force of the charge breaks the Rebel picket line, sending the butternut soldiers fleeing across a pasture toward Wayne’s Hill.

  The Yankee skirmishers pursue through the dark. Men run headlong into waist-high fences that jackknife them head over heels; step in holes and trip over rocks, wrenching knees and ankles; smash into each other and land in heaps of two, three and four, already swinging fists and shouting: “What is your regiment, goddamn it? You Reb or Yank?” Although the pasture is mostly cleared, one private has the misfortune of colliding with a sapling which gives nearly to the ground and then whips him backward with the force of a catapult, dislocating his shoulder. The man lets out a howl of pain and terror that is somehow misinterpreted by his fellows, who take it up like hunting wolves until the riverside echoes with howls and yips as the Yankee skirmishers go plunging and leaping into a field of unpicked corn.

  Behind his main line, Charlie Harker can hardly contain himself. Oh, this is wonderful. Silence and stealth might have been wiser, but this is better, grander. It is all he can do to keep himself from galloping forward to join his skirmishers, to ride beside them, better yet to leap from his horse to run with them through the frosty dark… . “Steady, boys,” he says to the shadow of the battle line moving in front of him. “You’ll have your chance soon.”

  Lying on the far edge of the cornfield with Wayne’s Hill a dark convexity against the starry sky behind them, the soldiers of the Confederate 4th Kentucky listen to the pursuit. The officers pass down the rear of the line, murmuring: “Wait for the colonel’s command, wait for the colonel’s command.”

  The Rebel skirmishers start coming through the line, panting: “Don’t shoot! For God’s sake, don’t shoot! We’re Secesh.”

  The Yankees are coming now, howling, shouting, the dry cornstalks snapping under their rush, the leaves rattling. A leather-lunged Yank shouts: “Slow down, Johnny. Slow down. Give ’er up like good lads. We won’t hurt you none if you come easy.”

  Colonel R. P. Trabue, commanding 4th Kentucky, waits, fingernails digging into his palms. Now. “Rise up, Fourth! Present! Fire!” The volley rips through the dry corn. A few of the Yankee soldiers are almost within bayonet thrust, their shocked faces illuminated by the sudden flash. They are punched, spun, dropped by the blast except for one tall private who stands petrified, impossibly unwounded within two yards of the line. “Lie down and stay down, you damned fool!” an irritated Reb snaps. “We ain’t got no time fer formal surrenders.”

  All along the line, cartridge ends tear in teeth, ramrods rasp in barrels, hammers cock. Out in the corn, there are cries, whimpers, and moans. The leather-lunged Yank calls out: “Goddamn, Johnny. Why’d you have to go and do that?” A few of the butternut infantry laugh, but the voice goes on, pained, genuinely puzzled. “You could’ve come back with us. We coulda had a good time. Made a little hash. Maybe played a little chuck-a-luck—”

  “Hey, Yank!” the irritated Reb calls. “We don’t want to go back with you. If you boys’d stayed home, none of this trouble would’ve happened.”

  “Spike it, Cochrane,” an officer hisses. “You’ll tell ’em where we are.”

  The soldier snorts. “Already know where the hell we are. We just shot a bunch of ’em.” He sticks a bare foot out and nudges the tall Yankee, prostrate now in the corn. “How you doin’, coz?”

  “Uh, fine. Except I shit my pants.”

  Again there is a ripple of laughter. “That ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of, coz. We all have.”

  The officer is insistent this time. “Shut up, Cochrane! Or I’ll stretch you out myself.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Cochrane says, but is quiet. He massages the back of the prostrate Yank with his bare foot. Comforting.

  Harker has seen the volley, knows that those of his skirmishers still alive have given over their howling and lie doggo now, still as death, in the corn. The long tramp of his line, in rhythm despite the darkness, reaches out to his left and right. He can see only the vague outline of the hill and a few treetops against the sky. Must do this all by sound now. He hears the crackle of the first stalks under the tread of his men, shouts: “At the double-quick!” The men let out a roar. Ahead, the cornfield blazes with a volley while above on the hillside a battery opens fire, half a dozen six-pounders lined hub to hub, shooting over the heads of the Rebel infantry and into Harker’s men as they charge into the cornfield.

  After that, Charlie Harker can do very little as commanding officer. His battle line will take the hill or it will not. Vision comes in sudden illuminations of red, orange, and yellow. Men are hit, scream, bleed, writhe on the ground, die underfoot as the line surges forward. Charlie Harker trusts in luck, swings down from the saddle, slaps his horse toward the rear, and charges forward with his men, pistol in hand, saber drawn.

  On the hill, Brigadier General Roger Hanson stands by Kentucky Battery, arms folded, willing each shot home as the shells explode among the charging Yanks in red bursts and the near side of the cornfield ripples with musketry. His infantry line is beginning to give way, but that is the plan. If his infantry can make it back to the guns, he can start firing canister, sweep the Yankees right off the hillside. All right, here they come. He turns to the captain in charge of the battery. “They’re coming back, Cobb.” Cobb lifts a hand, passes the signal to shift to canister after another round of shell. Hanson swings up on his horse and jogs down the path around the summit to see if he is about to get any reinforcement from Colonel Robert Hunt’s 9th Kentucky and Kentucky Brigade’s adopted sons, the 41st Alabama.

  Leading Harker’s brigade, Colonel Abel Streight of the 51st Indiana sees the Rebels break for the cover of their guns and realizes in an instant that chance has given him the bett
er angle. His regiment rolls up the hill, sweeping the fleeing Rebels away on either side. The silhouette of the battery looms up in front, silent as it waits for the Reb infantry to get clear before opening on the Yankees with canister. The Hoosiers fire from a dozen paces, shattering the gun crews, then go in with bayonets and clubbed muskets to finish the job.

  For a few moments, the Yankee boys have angle, numbers, and momentum, but then 9th Kentucky and 41st Alabama come screaming out of the dark. Suddenly the Yankees have none of the advantages. Cobb and enough of his gunners are still alive to wrestle three of the six-pounders into position, and blasts of canister do the rest. Streight and his men throw themselves down the hill, sliding, bumping, rolling into the cornfield.

  The fusillade pouring off the hill stops Harker’s other two regiments cold. They hold their ground to let Streight’s men through and then pull back across the cornfield to the pasture. At 10:00 P.M., Wood’s order to withdraw reaches them where they lie waiting for reinforcements. They trudge to the ford and cross the river in a mutinous silence. Some grand chance has been lost. The enlisted men know it, even if the generals do not.

  Brigadier General James Scott Negley, Mexican War veteran and peacetime militia general, commands Second Division, Thomas’s Corps. A goodnatured bear of a man, Negley enjoys a reputation as one of the nation’s leading horticulturists, an attainment that has led to many pleasant hours discussing botany with George Thomas.

  By temperament, Negley is not inclined to worry, but he finds himself increasingly agitated as the evening wears on. His left is snugged nicely against one of Palmer’s brigades, but beyond the Wilkinson Turnpike on his right there is only a dark void where McCook should be. Finally, he halts his pacing, calls for an aide, and dictates messages to Thomas and Rosecrans: McCook has not arrived. Should he reorient his line against a possible flank attack?