“No, but General Bragg does.”
For a long moment, Liddell cannot speak. Hardee sips from his cup, returns Liddell’s gaze levelly. “Bill, you must go to him,” Liddell says. “Tell him that we are within a stone’s throw of winning.”
“I’m too tired to make the ride, John. Too tired and too disgusted. If you believe in your plan, take it to the commanding general yourself. Tell him that I consider it worthy of examination.”
“You approve it?”
“No, I approve of nothing at the present.” He hands the empty cup to Liddell, walks to his horse and mounts. “Go ahead, John. I’ve heard that General Bragg welcomes ideas from many sources, though he rarely welcomes them from me.”
Left standing, Liddell considers going to see Bragg. But bigger plans must be afoot for the commanding general to pursue another course. Better to get his men ready and then try to sleep for a few hours.
The ride in the ambulance is a torment, the men moaning and crying out with each bump. Hannaford tries to brace himself, every moment expecting his wound to hemorrhage. But it does not, and at last the driver draws rein next to a jumble of tents. An orderly helps Hannaford out of the ambulance. “Where should I go?” Hannaford asks.
“Every regiment is supposed to have a tent, every tent a surgeon. Do your best to find yours, or you’ll have to wait with them that’s so bad off they can’t tell us where they’re supposed to go.”
Hannaford wanders among the tents but cannot find the 6th Ohio’s. He leans against a tree, horrified to hear himself weeping. A black-bearded teamster with a patch over one eye pauses by him. In contrast to his ferocious appearance, the man’s voice is gentle. “Now, now, lad. Where do you need to get to?”
“I need a surgeon. I need a surgeon or I’m going to die,” Hannaford wails.
The man makes a sympathetic noise. “I know how you feel, son. I lost an eye and half a hand at Shiloh and I cried. Let me help you to the ninetieth Ohio’s hospital. Got a couple of fine surgeons there. They’ll do their best for you.”
Inside a clean and surprisingly well-lit tent, the teamster helps Hannaford to sit, lays a palm on his head as if in blessing, and departs without another word. Hannaford has the odd thought that Peter the Fisherman might have been such a man. A surgeon finishes bandaging a gruesome wound in a corporal’s arm, helps the man to lie down in a corner. He kneels by Hannaford, begins examining his wound. “A very narrow escape, young man. The ball went right through the base of the neck and behind the left clavicle, which it evidently struck and fractured, and then glanced upward to shatter the acromius before exiting. How the trachea escaped without serious injury, I can’t understand.”
Hannaford summons his dignity. He has wept once tonight, wailing like a baby afraid of the dark. “I know it’s a bad wound, doctor. But if I do well, very well, is it possible for me to get through?”
The doctor compresses his lips. “If you were at home, I wouldn’t hesitate to say yes. But here in an army hospital… . Well, the case is different with so many wounded and so few nurses. But we’ll do the best we can for you.”
Hannaford takes this like a man, though he feels like crying again. “Thank you, doctor.”
The surgeon cleans and dresses the wound, whistling softly through his teeth all the while. “There. I’ll come by and check on you in a while. Try to rest.”
Despite the pain and the frightful parade of wounded, Hannaford finds himself slipping into an odd contentment. An orderly brings him a cup of coffee and a biscuit. He eats and then dozes, right arm cradled in his lap.
George Thomas rouses when the conference of division and corps commanders begins. As is traditional, the generals speak in reverse order of seniority, the most junior beginning. Every man present has the look of fatigue, even discouragement, but Thomas reads no panic in their faces. He lowers chin to chest again, closes his eyes.
The generals report their positions and their losses. Many regiments have suffered twenty, thirty, even forty percent casualties, but the Rebels have suffered at least as heavily. Thomas takes in all with the small, wakeful part of his mind that is always posted against the unexpected.
When it is the corps commanders’ turn to speak, Crittenden confirms what his division commanders have said of casualties and positions, and then gives way to McCook. For once in his life, Alex McCook has rehearsed. “I wish I could report that the right wing held against the Rebel attack. But we were driven and driven hard by overwhelming numbers. Still, we killed and wounded thousands, never broke, and always fell back in the best order possible under the circumstances.” He glances warily at Sheridan. “General Sheridan’s division and much of General Davis’s held until forced to withdraw for lack of ammunition.” He waits for anyone to dispute his claims. The others avoid looking at him. Thomas closes his eyes again. Damned fool boy. Well, Rosecrans will have to relieve him when this fight is over.
Rosecrans stares into the fire, listening absently; he already knows the disposition of every unit in the army better than anyone else present. For the moment, his mind is absorbed with other things. I believe, he thinks, with all my soul in the Resurrection and the Life, in the eventual rising of all souls, even those lost in the deepest deeps; but if it were up to me, I should choose to lie a long while beneath a quilt of coals before rising for the eternity of praising Him… . He gathers himself, lets the eternal fade, interrupts McCook. “So what would you do about tomorrow, General?”
The question is out of the customary order, since Thomas has yet to present his summary of the day’s fighting on his portion of the line. But McCook stumbles only briefly before beginning the response he’s prepared to this inevitable question. “I think, General, that we are the only army protecting Nashville, Louisville, and Cincinnati. We have temporarily lost the initiative, but we’re not grievously hurt. We can retire safely and with honor on Nashville, fortify strongly, and defy the enemy’s efforts to dislodge us until we have the reinforcements to retake the offensive.”
“General Crittenden?”
Crittenden looks unhappy. He rises, although this is unnecessary and only a politician’s unthinking reaction to the opportunity to speak to an audience. “My men fought exceedingly hard to hold against the Rebels today. I think they will be loath to abandon ground paid for with so much blood. But my own military experience is so small that I am unable to advise what course makes the best strategic sense. Therefore, I have to pass on the question.”
Rosecrans turns to Thomas. Thomas’s eyes are lidded, his look furious. “General Thomas?”
“This army does not retreat.” Thomas growls. He rises, surveys the room. “Gentlemen, I know of no better place to die than right here!” He picks up his hat, swings his coat over his shoulders, and lumbers toward the door, jaw set hard against the pain in his lower back and the inconstancy of other men.
Rosecrans watches him go. “Major Goddard, please ask General Thomas to remain a moment so that I can have a word with him.” He turns to the generals.
Phil Sheridan is on his feet. “General! I request the honor of leading tomorrow’s attack.”
“Your request is noted, General Sheridan. Gentlemen, General Thomas is right. We have come to fight and win this battle, and we shall do it. Our supplies may run short, but will keep right in and eat corn for a week. We will win this battle!”
There is a chorus of assent. Rosecrans stands. “There is, however, the question of whether or not it would be advantageous to fall back beyond Overall Creek where we could straighten our line. I am going to examine that possibility presently. I beg you to remain here until I return. General McCook, join me.”
Outside, Rosecrans leaves McCook by the horses, goes to speak to Thomas. “George, I’m going to examine our right flank to see if it’s feasible to pull back beyond Overall Creek.”
“The line we have is strong, General. I would not want to pull back from it.”
“Yes, but it’s subject to flanking, and the concentration o
f our forces makes their artillery all the more effective.”
Thomas is silent a moment. “It would be very difficult to pull back in the dark. We couldn’t possibly have the army over the creek by dawn and a single thrust might rout us entirely if we are disordered. Bill Hardee would see the chance, even if Bragg and Polk didn’t.”
“Nevertheless, I need to gauge the feasibility of the maneuver even if the chances are small that we can undertake it.”
Thomas nods. “Very good, General. I will see to our center in the meantime.”
Following Rosecrans toward Overall Creek, McCook is not quite sure what to make of the general’s invitation. Is he not so disgraced as he’d imagined? Sheridan’s division is, after all, part of his corps, and he deserves at least some credit for its stand in the cedars. He begins humming to himself while out in the fields the cries, the shrieks, the begging, and—beneath all—the low, incessant moaning of the wounded eddy in a miasma of human suffering that McCook manages not to hear.
Ahead, Rosecrans pulls up, watching specks of fire moving along the course of Overall Creek. McCook draws rein at his side. “What do you make of that, General?” Rosecrans asks.
“I’m … I’m not entirely sure. Cavalry carrying torches, perhaps.”
“And why would they be doing that?”
“I have no idea, General.”
Rosecrans is suddenly angry. “Use your head, man! If you have become incapable of reasoned opinion in small matters, then I will have to consider you incompetent to judge larger matters. And then there will be nothing for me to do but relieve you of your command!”
McCook stumbles, desperately trying to form an opinion. But, really, he has no idea what the cavalry are doing by torchlight. “I suppose they might be looking for wounded.”
“You have no other thought?”
“No, sir,” McCook says miserably.
Rosecrans sighs with the same impatience McCook heard in the voices of so many West Point instructors, including Professor William J. Hardee, who has this day delivered a lesson of lessons to his erstwhile student. McCook’s good mood collapses in a despond so deep that he hears Rosecrans’ voice as if from afar. “Does it not occur to you that it might be Rebel cavalry? That they might be lighting a battle line of infantry into position to close off our line of escape?”
“No, General.”
Rosecrans snorts, lapses into silence, watching the torches bobbing along the line of the creek.
McCook has a thought. “But, General, wouldn’t you consider it improbable for Bragg to deploy infantry at such a distance from his main line?”
“Then what explanation do you have?”
“None beyond our cavalry looking for wounded or perhaps helping our boys start a few fires.”
“Fires are forbidden.”
McCook looks curiously at Rosecrans. On their ride, they have passed scores of small fires flickering in rocks, ravines, and hollows. Whatever the orders, the men must have some warmth, at least enough fire for a cup of coffee in the cold drizzle that changes every few minutes to sleet or snow. McCook is suddenly aware of the night about him. He takes a deep breath of the damp air, tries to fix the lucidity of the moment in his memory. “General, many are ignoring your orders.”
“Perhaps. But those riders are not Good Samaritans of the torch. That’s Reb cavalry. Probably young Wheeler. And they’ll have infantry with them to block any movement on our part. Tomorrow we will have to fight where we are now.”
Rosecrans swings his horse in a tight circle, starts back to army headquarters. I suppose he must be right, McCook thinks. But from what I overheard of his conversation with Thomas, Pap thinks it’s a poor idea to fall back anyway.
Inside the cramped cabin again, Rosecrans drops cape and gloves on a chair, braces his hands on its back, staring at his generals, many of whom were a moment before slumped in a dozen attitudes of exhausted slumber. “Gentlemen, they have gotten around our right flank and are forming a line of battle by torchlight. We will fight and, if needs be, die where we are. But in the end, this army will prevail!”
Major General George Thomas watches the bobbing torches from his headquarters in rear of the artillery supporting the Union center. His two dogs snuff about in the grass, keeping a wary eye on the goose, which has settled itself possessively on the general’s boots. Thomas lifts a toe, forcing the goose to readjust its position. Thomas repeats the movement and the goose lashes out at the offending boot. “So, what do you think of those lights, goose?” The goose doesn’t respond except to settle itself more comfortably. Thomas watches the torches for a few moments more. Probably our cavalry poking about, he thinks, maybe getting a few fires going for the boys.
He listens to the night. Like McCook, but for entirely different reasons, he is able to ignore the sounds made by the wounded. What can be done is being done, and other things must concern a general. Now and then a nervous picket discharges his musket, but the cannons have been silent since nightfall. Thomas does not expect this to continue. By early morning the cannoneers will be getting fidgety, will start taking potshots at any fire allowed to grow too large. A complete prohibition on fires is impossible, and everyone on both sides accepts this, but an informal truce holds only so long as neither party pushes the limits too far. Thomas turns to an aide waiting respectfully a dozen feet away. “Captain, send a squad from the headquarters escort to have a look at those horsemen carrying torches. I doubt if they represent any threat, but I want to be sure.”
The aide hurries off. Thomas lights a cigar, careful not to drop the match on the goose.
Rosecrans issues orders in minute detail, mindful that young Major Goddard, for all his competence, is no Julius Garesché. He reconfirms the order to abandon the Round Forest salient; issues directions that will straighten and strengthen the line; and dictates a message relieving Van Cleve of command of his division and appointing Brigadier General Sam Beatty, the unflappable farmer and sheriff, in his place. “Is General Wood still here?”
“Yes, sir. Outside having his legs treated.”
“Good. Send him in as soon as convenient.”
Goddard bustles away. Rosecrans stares into the fire. In a few minutes he will ride out to have another look at the lines but now he needs to be close to the fire. The back of his throat feels grainy, the old scar tissue irritated by too many cigars, too much shouting. He closes his eyes, lets his mind fix on the memory of the beautiful plume of fire reaching out for him from the shattered crucible.
“General, you sent for me?”
Rosecrans opens his eyes to see Tom Wood balanced on crutches. “Sit, Tom. How are the legs?”
“I’ll be all right, General.”
“Good. I’m temporarily relieving you of command of your division and sending you back to Nashville with every wagon we can spare. You’ll have an escort of a thousand infantry and cavalry and a section of guns. Once you’re in the city, instruct General Fry in my name that he is to load the wagons with victuals and ammunition and have them back on the road by nightfall under strong escort. I’m also sending General Van Cleve. Nominally, he’ll command the train while you command the escort. However, he’s much troubled by his foot, so I wouldn’t count on him for much.”
“General, I’d much prefer to remain with my division. There must be any number of colonels who could command the escort.”
Rosecrans leans back in his chair, reminded that he has never liked Tom Wood with his imperial, his airs, his sardonic superiority. “This is an assignment of surpassing importance, General Wood. For the moment, we have adequate ammunition, but young Wheeler has burned most of our food. We can fight for a day, perhaps two, but after that we will need rations.”
“But General Crittenden depends on me—”
“General Crittenden will be all right. I will look after him.”
“General, I must protest! I have earned—”
Rosecrans explodes. “No, General, you have not! No one in this army has earned spe
cial indemnity from immediate obedience to orders! Now be about executing yours or I shall relieve you of duty entirely.”
The room is still, the orderlies and staff officers turning from their tasks to stare. Wood flushes a deep crimson. “Very good, General.” He salutes crisply despite the awkwardness of his crutches, stumps toward the door.
Irish Pat Cleburne sits with Bill Hardee before a fire in the lee of a low mound of boulders and stumps cleared from a nearby field. In the firelight, Hardee seems to have aged ten years. He sips from a cup of coffee laced with whiskey. “We were that close, Patrick. If the moronic bastard had given us a single fresh brigade, we could have broken through to the Nashville Pike. And they would have collapsed. No army can fight surrounded. We had them. Just one more brigade… .”
They sit in silence for a time. Hardee listens to the crying of the wounded. “Poor devils. I hope we’re doing the best we can for them.”
“We are, General. I’ve seen to it.”
Hardee sips from his cup, stares moodily in the direction of the Federal line. “Bragg had a report that George Thomas was killed this afternoon. But I have a report that he was seen alive at dusk behind that concentration of Yankee cannon. It could have been someone else, I suppose, but the man who gave me the report was one of his students at West Point. I’ll have to confess that I was relieved, even though I suppose George’s death would be a great gain for this army. But, personally, I would miss him.”
“I’ve heard him called a traitor.”
“No, George Thomas is no traitor. It would have surprised me if he’d thrown in with us. He’s not a man who changes his mind.”
“You liked him?”
“Liked him? … Yes, I suppose I did. We always got along well enough in Mexico and when we were majors in the Second Cavalry. He was closer to Bob Lee. They both enjoyed eating and would plan their dinners together weeks in advance. Odd how Lee has lately gotten the reputation of being an ascetic. He’s not. He and Thomas are Virginia gentlemen who enjoy their china, silver, wine, and food.”
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