Bright Starry Banner

by Alden R. Carter

  “Help some if you had that leg up in the air. Here, let me find you something to put under it.”

  Berry finds a short section of dry-rotted cedar, lifts the Yank’s leg carefully, and slides the log under the ankle. The Yank’s face contorts with the pain, but he does not cry out. He draws a ragged breath. “Thanks, John. I’m obliged.”

  Berry nods. “Sure, Yank. Good luck to you.”

  For a moment, neither of them speaks, embarrassed in their brief familiarity. “Lord, I’m almost dead for water,” Berry says to break the silence.

  “Here,” the Yank says. “I filled my canteen half an hour before you boys came.” He holds out his canteen.

  “No, you’re gonna need that water, son. You got a long wait ahead of you.”

  “Go on. I’ll feel bad if you don’t.”

  Berry unscrews the cap from the canteen, takes a swallow. The water is brackish, bitter, no doubt crawling with tiny creatures, yet it is sweeter to him than anything he has ever tasted. He laughs, grins at the Yank, who grins back. Berry takes another swallow, eyes closed, wanting to remember always.

  East of Gresham Lane, the brigades of Lucius Polk and S.A.M. Wood push into thick cedars. They are still unsure about the location of McCown’s line, worry about firing into the backs of their countrymen. The cedars are quiet, the branches dripping with cold mist, the ground spongy beneath, cushioning the footfalls of the men. The silence shatters when the 101st Ohio rises up from the bracken to deliver a fearsome volley directly into the face of the 33rd Alabama and the 46th Mississippi of Wood’s brigade. The Confederates try to hold their ground, but a second volley sends the entire brigade tumbling back into the open beyond the cedars. His flank gone, Polk halts his brigade and shakes out skirmishers.

  The Yankee ambushers belong to Second Brigade, Jefferson C. Davis’s division, commanded by Colonel William Passmore Carlin, who is at this moment standing in a sylvan glade, calmly smoking his pipe. He has scraped a patch of earth clear with the toe of his boot and drawn a quick sketch of the battlefield with a stick. He listens, marking the shifting concentrations of fire. All is quiet to his immediate front again, the Rebs apparently re-forming; but to his right, Post is under mounting pressure. If he goes, what then?

  His concentration is upset when Davis comes charging into the glade, slewing his horse to a stop. “Have you seen McCook?” he shouts. “Post is getting shot to hell out there!”

  “Haven’t seen him, General.”

  Davis tugs furiously at his beard. “Someone’s fighting beyond Post’s flank. Johnson’s reserve, I suppose. That would be Baldwin. Know him?”

  “Not well, but I understand he’s a good man.”

  “Where the hell is that goddamned fool McCook? Christ, Sheridan’s got a reserve brigade. McCook should send it over here.”

  The timbre of the firing to the right has changed. I’ve got to pull in my flank, Carlin thinks. Post’s cannons aren’t firing and that means he’s about finished. He taps out his pipe on the heel of a boot. “I should pull back my right flank into a crochet, General. From the sound of things we’re about to become the army’s flank.”

  At the suggestion of even this small withdrawal, Davis glares at Carlin, the chewed ends of his mustache wet with spittle. Carlin stares back calmly. The only way to deal with this madman is to stay calm, he tells himself. Davis seems to realize the logic of the move. “Yes, do it. Goddamn it, I hate to pull back!” He dismounts, stalks off to stand glaring at the smoke rising from beyond the cedars where Post and Baldwin are giving way.

  Carlin gives rapid orders, sending staff officers to pull back the 21st Illinois and 101st Ohio. Done, he refills his pipe, concentrating on the process. Discretion, he thinks. Davis has none, which makes his valor dangerous. Bull Nelson was just like him, which I suppose is part of the reason Davis shot him.

  Brigadier General S.A.M. Wood has his brigade re-formed. The men are angry, straining to go back into the cedars to get at the Yankees. The soldiers of Cleburne’s division are not in the habit of giving way, and the last quarter hour has been a humiliation. They look about for their Irish general, are for once glad not to see him. Let them regain their honor first. Wood is nearly satisfied with his dispositions, sends word to Lucius Polk that he is advancing.

  Carlin is on horseback when he hears the Rebs coming in hard on his front and flank. He guesses immediately where the greatest danger lies and dashes for the flank. But he is too late: a company of the 13th Arkansas penetrates thick scrub between the 101st Ohio and the 21st Illinois just as Carlin and his staff arrive. Carlin feels a sudden blow to his chest above the heart and stares disbelievingly as he rises off his saddle, his horse galloping from under him. He hits the ground flat on his back, head snapping back against a stone. Around him his staff is gunned down by the Arkansans.

  With the 13th and 1st Arkansas pouring in between them, the 21st Illinois and the 101st Ohio fight desperately to keep from being surrounded. The 21st loses its colonel and gives way. The colonel, lieutenant colonel, and major of the 101st fall in rapid succession, and a captain leads the regiment back through the thickets. On the left, the 38th Illinois falls back under heavy pressure from Wood’s brigade.

  The 15th Wisconsin, whose ranks are filled with a stalwart, unimpressionable bunch of Norwegians and Swedes, holds the center of the brigade line. Colonel Hans Heg can see that he must fall back, but he’ll be damned if he’ll let his men turn their backs to the Rebels. It is a sentiment shared by his men, who give way stubbornly, loading their Springfields as they go, then pausing to fire again into the cedars.

  Heg resists the impulse to pick up a rifle and join the ranks. Tall, heavily bearded, fierce, he strides behind his men—shouting commands and encouragement in accented but grammatical English. He could speak his native tongue and be understood, but he will not. No, he is an American now, speaks America’s language and fights her enemies. Fights these damned Rebels who would destroy the republic Heg and most of his men crossed the ocean to find. They have sacrificed more than these damned hillbillies can ever imagine. And they will die before they surrender the flag, the honor, or the Constitution of their adopted land. Heg reaches out a great hand, steadies a boy who has stumbled back. “Stand tall, boy! Fifteen Wisconsin does not give way before no damned Rebels!”

  The boy looks up into his face, grins. “Ya, Colonel. I stand with you against the damned Rebel bastards.”

  Private William Matthews, who has volunteered to carry the colors of the 1st Arkansas, is enjoying his first battle. “Boys, this is fun!” he shouts. “Better ’n chasin’ coons.”

  A veteran growls, “Don’t be so quick, son. You may get your ninety-day furlough yet. Or worse.”

  Matthews laughs, goes on bawling, “Boys, this is fun!” He is about to yell again when a minié ball nearly tears off his left arm at the elbow. He yowls, lets fall the flag. The veteran snatches at the staff, misses, and lets another man gather up the colors. I’m already too close to the damned flag, he thinks. Let that fool get himself shot. He glances back at Matthews, sees the boy sitting on the ground, staring at the meaty inside of his arm.

  * * *

  Colonel William Carlin lies staring at the tops of the dripping cedars, sees a hawk circling high against the gray clouds. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears his brother shouting: “Bill! Get up, Bill! The Shimeks’ house is on fire!” No, it’s not the Shimeks’ house, he thinks. Something else, something much bigger. He shakes his head, finds that his neck still works, tries to remember where he is and why he must get up. I wonder how badly I am wounded, he thinks. He feels across his chest, expecting to find blood oozing from a hole that will be only the beginning of the damage: the pit mouth of an expanding tunnel through his chest. He finds only a painful bruise left by the impact of a spent bullet. He pushes himself to a sitting position. Christ, he hurts, but his memory is coming back fast now. He grabs at the hanging bough of a cedar, gets it on the second try, and drags himself up. He stumble
s toward the sound of fighting, stepping over the body of an aide he shared a plate of beans with two hours before. The boy’s stomach is ripped open, the partially digested breakfast strewn across his uniform. Carlin vomits, almost faints from the pain it causes his head, and stumbles on.

  Crittenden’s left wing begins crossing Stones River at 7:00 A.M. Brigadier General Sam Beatty’s brigade of Van Cleve’s Division hits McFadden’s Ford at a rush, four regiments splashing across, expecting any second to take a volley from the brush along the opposite shore. But nothing happens, and they deploy quickly to hold the crossing, soaked but immensely relieved. Beatty stares at Wayne’s Hill, where he knows there are least two Rebel batteries, and wonders why even they are silent. Beatty has the uneasy feeling he might have in the wind-quiet, bird-quiet hour before a storm. It’s almost like the Rebs don’t give a damn what we’re doing, he thinks.

  Rosecrans and Garesché watch Beatty’s crossing from a low hill overlooking the ford. Rosecrans slaps the pommel of his saddle. “Well done, by God. Old Bragg thinks we’re coming at him from the other direction. Didn’t even guard the ford. No imagination. That’s why we’re going to skin him, Julius.”

  “Yes, General,” Garesché says absently, his attention fixed on the sound of firing to the southwest.

  Rosecrans glances at him. “Don’t worry, it’s picket firing, not much more. McCook fought his way into position yesterday and things are still a bit unsettled over on that wing. I would be more concerned to hear no firing at all. Now that would be inexplicable.”

  Colonel Samuel Price’s brigade wades into the stream. The men go in barefoot, holding Springfields, cartridge boxes, and brogans aloft. They curse the slippery stones, make jokes about crawfish, eels, watersnakes, and quicksand. The sound of the fighting to the southwest swells, the shape of musket volleys and cannon fire emerging distinct from the underlying rumble.

  Rosecrans turns his head, a slight frown creasing his scarred features. “McCook must have decided to pitch into them a little earlier and a little harder than I expected. Probably hoping he can catch Hardee napping. Well, I hope he doesn’t get carried away. I don’t give a damn if he likes Hardee or not; this war isn’t about personal feelings.”

  “Should I send a message for him to be careful?”

  “No, I’m glad to see McCook’s being aggressive. He didn’t seem quite himself when we were coming down. More hesitant.”

  “I think a little hesitancy might be in order for General McCook. It might demonstrate a greater maturity of judgment.”

  “True, but I don’t want the man to lose his fighting spirit, either. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you what you’ve heard recently of the family. I know Old Dan is now a colonel. A paymaster, I believe.”

  Garesché restrains the desire to raise his eyebrows. Why, General? Do your thoughts run to the political future? “Yes, I’d heard that.”

  They talk as Price’s brigade completes the crossing and Colonel James Fyffe’s brigade struggles down the muddy bank. Fyffe’s brigade is halfway through its crossing, Hascall’s brigade of Wood’s division waiting on the near side of the river, when the firing to the southwest swells again. Rosecrans scowls. “No, McCook isn’t attacking; he’s being attacked.”

  “Perhaps I should go back to headquarters,” Garesché says. “I wouldn’t want Major Goddard to be overwhelmed.”

  “No, it’s all right. If Hardee’s attacking, he’s playing into our hands… . You were quite close to him before the war, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, I’m very fond of Bill Hardee.”

  “I never really knew him, although I saw him around Washington a few times. He seemed a bit of a fop to me.”

  Garesché smiles. “Well, let us say Bill Hardee has his own sense of style.”

  “Yes, let us say,” Rosecrans says absently, his attention fixed on the sound of firing.

  Crittenden trots his brown mare up the hill. Garesché notes that his color has improved considerably in the hour since they rode with him to the ford. Garesché frowns, wondering how much whiskey the man needed to feel better.

  Rosecrans does not acknowledge Crittenden but continues to listen to the firing. “I don’t like how the fighting seems to be moving around to the north, though I suppose it’s just a cavalry tangle out beyond McCook’s flank. Well, no matter. Just about everything’s working as we planned.” He turns to Crittenden, smiles expansively. “We’re off to a good start, Tom. By noon, we’ll sweep through Murfreesboro and cut Bragg off. If he’s stubborn enough, we might even bag the whole lot, eh?”

  Before Crittenden can reply, the firing swells. To Garesché it is a roar like the coming of a great wind. He shudders, recalling a dream forgotten in the night. He’d wandered through a garden overgrown with ferns until he’d come face to face with a pale, indistinct figure, though surely it must have been Bierce since the orderly’s head dangled from his hand. “Colonel, do you know The Wisdom of Solomon? Know the warning of the wisest of kings? For the hope of the ungodly is like dust that is blown away with the wind.”

  And though Garesché’s soul would answer humbly, his simulacrum laughed, mouth opening gigantically, unimaginably wide—the Fenris Wolf, one jaw touching earth and the other heaven, gobbling down the stars, swallowing down God, and from the maw that had become Julius Garesché the voice of the mad Scot, the regicide, the child-killer: Then blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we’ll die with harness on our back.

  At the roar of the firing, generals, officers, and soldiers have momentarily frozen, staring in wonder to the southwest. Rosecrans is the first to break from the trance. “Goddamn it! Bragg’s hitting McCook with a full corps!” He turns to Crittenden. “General, you’d better tell Van Cleve not to advance beyond the ford for the time being. Tell General Wood to remain on this side of the river. Julius, we’d better get back to headquarters.” He pauses, stares at Crittenden. “Now, Tom, we’re going to make this right. Be prepared to resume your advance as soon as I send word.”

  Alex McCook drifts on the waves. The fighting seems too deep to fathom, too towering to breast. He would sink if he could, find a regiment, take a musket, and simply wait for the storm to swallow him. But instead he drifts from fight to fight, trying to comprehend. His usually silent chief of staff has become a nag, badgering him constantly for orders. He has none save those easy to give: “We must hold, refuse our right.”

  “What should I tell the commanding general?”

  “Tell him that we are heavily pressed and request assistance.”

  “General, I think we are more than heavily pressed—”

  “General Rosecrans will understand my meaning.”

  The chief of staff scowls, scribbles in a dispatch book, hands the message to a staff officer. He begins again to entreat McCook for orders, but McCook rides off, swaying in the saddle as his horse plods at its own pace to the east toward Davis’s rapidly disintegrating line.

  Rosecrans and Garesché are halfway back to army headquarters when a cavalry officer comes dashing down McFadden’s Lane, splattering mud on the infantrymen waiting in column to cross at the ford. The soldiers curse, shake their fists.

  Garesché recognizes the lieutenant as one of Captain Otis’s headquarters guard from the 4th Cavalry. Baker, that was it. A good boy.

  The lieutenant pulls his horse up hard. “General Rosecrans, sir. The right is broken. Johnson’s division is destroyed, Davis’s division under extreme pressure.”

  Rosecrans speaks sharply. “How do you know this, Lieutenant? Who sent you?”

  “I saw it, sir. Major Goddard sent Captain Otis, me, and a dozen of the boys to have a look, and we saw what was happening. It’s terrible, sir. There’s a regular stampede to—”

  Rosecrans holds up a palm as another rider comes galloping up, this time a captain. “General Rosecrans. Captain Wegner, McCook’s staff. I have a message from the general.” He holds out a sheet.

  Rosecrans takes the message, reads, his brow lightening. �
�Well, that’s not quite so bad. ‘We are heavily pressed and request assistance.’” He looks up at the captain. “Tell General McCook to dispose his troops to best advantage and to hold his ground obstinately. I will send him reinforcements when I can.”

  “Yes, sir!” The captain slaps his dispatch book shut, spins his horse, and jabs spurs into its flanks.

  Rosecrans turns in his saddle to face his staff officers. “Our plan is working. The Rebels have struck hard, but McCook will hold.”

  The staff rides on, following Rosecrans and Garesché. Lieutenant Baker is left by the road. He says plaintively to no one in particular: “But I saw—”

  Major General George Thomas listens to the fighting on the army’s right flank, the cold butt of one of Rosecrans’s sweet cigars clamped in his teeth. The goose has settled itself on the toe of one of Thomas’s boots and fallen into a doze, but the dogs are nervous, listening to the swell and fall of firing. It’s happening again, Thomas thinks. That boy McCook. My God, what has he left undone this time? I’d better tell Rousseau to be ready to move.

  He turns abruptly, stalks off toward his horse. Rudely disturbed, the goose gazes after him with anserine annoyance.

  Rosecrans and Garesché have just climbed the railroad embankment overlooking the Nashville Pike when another staff officer, this time a major, arrives from McCook on a lathered mount. “General, our flank is broken! Johnson’s and Davis’s divisions are wrecked and driven!”

  Rosecrans’s face turns pale. “My God. So soon?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Wednesday, 7:00 A.M.–10:30 A.M.

  December 31, 1862

  Overall Creek beyond the Federal Right

  Broken by Hardee’s assault, two Federal divisions flee east toward the Nashville Pike.

  THE CAVALRY COMES first, a shattered regiment of blue troopers fleeing across the brown fields east of Overall Creek. Chief Surgeon Solon Marks watches from the veranda of the big house on the Smith plantation, which has become in the last twenty-four hours the hospital for Richard Johnson’s division. My God, what has happened? Marks wonders. The blue troopers do not pause to enlighten him, but gallop by, bent low in their saddles, quirts and spurs flailing and gouging until the horses bleed. A half dozen wounded, riderless horses try to keep up. A tall but otherwise nondescript brown nag trails thirty feet of intestines, another three feet pulling out each time the beast treads on its own guts. “Jesus,” one of the surgeons mutters. “Somebody get a gun and shoot that poor fellow.”