At army headquarters, Magee, the ubiquitous orderly, brings Rosecrans a fresh uniform jacket. Rosecrans removes the old one reluctantly, touching the wide stain on the right sleeve and breast where Julius Garesché’s blood has dried a dirty brown. He cuts the buttons off, drops them in an envelope, writes on the outside: The buttons I wore the day poor Garesché was killed.
The snakes are torporous with the cold. Their handlers rub them, blow on them, stick them inside their shirts to warm, but the snakes refuse to rattle or hiss with any enthusiasm. But the two snake-handlers are zealous for Jesus. They dance, contort, speak in tongues. The older one, a skeletal hill man with a scraggly gray beard, offers his tongue to a big timber rattler before taking the snake’s wedge-shaped head entirely into his mouth. This is more than some of the watching soldiers can take, but Bierce is transfixed by the sight. The man withdraws the snake’s head, dances around the fire, rattling the coins in a tin pan. “For the work of Jesus, brothers! Come, give a penny, a hay-dime, a dime. All for the work of Jesus! To let these two poor disciples wander the land, showing the power, showing the glory, showing the blessed grace of Jesus! Come brothers, a penny, a hay-dime, a dime.”
Colonel John Parkhurst, former disciple of the philosopher Descartes and ongoing provost marshal of Thomas’s corps, pushes through the crowd, followed by two grim privates with bayoneted Springfields. “Who the hell authorized this? Get these men out of here. This is an army, for Christ’s sake, not a goddamned circus!”
The older of the handlers croons, “Would you deny the power of Jesus, Colonel? He protects from the serpent’s sting, the arrow of the enemy, the jibe of the unbeliever.”
“He is not, sir, going to protect you from my boot landing on your backside!”
The younger snake-handler, a low-browed boy with a widow’s peak, reaches a snake over the older man’s shoulder. Bierce can see that the boy’s eyes are rolled up into his skull, wonders if this is trance or show. “Take the snake, Colonel,” the older man says. “If you believe in Jesus, it will not harm you. Not a snake has bitten me in forty years ’cept when my faith was weak. But even then Jesus forgave my sin, allowed not the venom to reach my heart.”
Parkhurst does not flinch from the snake. He draws his pistol. “You are threatening an officer of the United States volunteers, Army of the Cum berland. I will defend myself with deadly force unless you withdraw forthwith.”
For the first time the old man seems unsure. “Colonel, we ain’t threatenin’. We’re offering you a test of—”
Parkhurst levels the pistol, cocks it. Either side of him, his privates bring down their Springfields into the position of charge bayonet. Behind the handlers, the crowd parts quickly. Bierce cannot help but smile. “I am going to count to ten,” Parkhurst growls. “At the end of that time, I expect to see you and your pets on the way out of this camp.”
The snake-handlers do not dally, but toss their snakes into gunnysacks and scuttle from the circle to the catcalls of the men. Parkhurst turns on Bierce. “What’s your name, Lieutenant?”
“Bierce, sir.”
“Why didn’t you stop this travesty?”
“They’re not my men, Colonel. I’m a staff officer, Colonel Hazen’s—”
“You’re an officer, damn it! If you’re going to wear the rank, then behave like one!”
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t see that much harm in it.”
Parkhurst glares at him, mouth tight. “Hazen’s staff, you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll speak to him. A certain lieutenant needs instruction in his duties as an officer. Good order and discipline, Lieutenant. That, more than anything else, is our responsibility!”
There is a sudden commotion among the men and the younger of the snake handlers stumbles shrieking into the circle of firelight. “Behold the fate of unbelievers and all that dwell with Evil!” He hurls the snake in his left hand, not at Parkhurst but at the fire. The snake lands in the flames, writhes, flows down a blazing log, coils circinate, burns. For the briefest of moments, it seems to Bierce that its body glows entirely translucent, fragile as blown glass.
Night falls. Men lie hungry, shivering, fearful. Some pray, some die of wounds; a few remember a cause, still believe.
Colonel John Beatty takes out his pocket Bible, reads from the Ninetyfirst Psalm:
I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust.
Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence.
He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.
Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day;
Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday.
A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.
CHAPTER 11
Friday, January 2, 1863
McFadden’s Ford, Tennessee
By the morning of the third day of the battle, breastworks cover the Union right and center west of Stones River. East of the river, however, Brigadier General Sam Beatty’s division is largely unprotected on the ridge southeast of McFadden’s Ford. On the Confederate left, Hardee has withdrawn his line a half mile to the cover of a broad band of woods. Polk has remained in place in the center, except for some minor straightening of his line. East of the river, Kentucky Brigade continues to hold Wayne’s Hill, with Brigadier General Gideon Pillow’s brigade (formerly under Colonel Joseph Palmer) in support.
IT IS A day of early risings, the ground too cold, the air too damp for the body to sleep longer than exhaustion demands. Those who have coffee or a lump of sowbelly build small fires, the smoke mixing with the mist off the cold waters of Stones River to lie in the cedars and the hollows with the bodies of the dead.
The smoky fog burns the throat, makes eyes already red with fatigue sting all the worse so that men welcome the first gusting of a morning breeze. At least the dead do not stink too horribly yet, putrefaction arrested by the chill, though it is not cold enough to freeze the smell of blood and emptied bowels. It is here that the analogy of slaughterhouse and battlefield goes awry, for herbivores, bawling in their death agonies, discharge only an excreta of vegetable matter, while human death stinks of the digested flesh of other mammals. So it is that the burial parties go about with bandannas over their mouths even in the cold: hollow-eyed, nauseous with the horror of their duty.
At first light, Captain W. P. Bramblett and Lieutenant Lot C. Young of Company H, 4th Kentucky Confederate Infantry, Hanson’s brigade, edge forward from the picket line for a view of the Yankee dispositions on the east side of McFadden’s Ford. Most of the land between Wayne’s Hill and the ford has been cleared of trees but then left to grow up in sassafras, briars, and brush. Thickets and the rolling ground provide some cover until the land opens into a cornfield 150 yards short of the Yankee line.
Bramblett and Young take cover in a gully carved by an ancient stream. Peering over the edge, they can make out the rough line of the Yankee bivouac on the low ridge southeast of the ford. They count cooking fires, search for regimental flags. “I’m guessing four regiments,” Bramblett murmurs.
“I thought four with maybe one or two more over to the right. Looks to be a couple more back on the ridge,” Young says.
Young is skilled at this sort of thing, his eyes sharper. “I only see the one battery. Do you see any more?” Bramblett asks.
Young hesitates. “No. And that’s odd, ain’t it? If I had that ground, I’d load it with guns.”
Bramblett nods. They are very junior officers but veterans, can sense the odd disposition, the missed chance. They slide along the gully to the river, mindful of the possibility of Yankee scouts taking advantage of the same cover. Nearby, Harker’s brigade waded the river three days and a night ago to attack Kentucky B
rigade on Wayne’s Hill. That crazy, almost blind fight seems an incalculable time ago, part of a past ridiculous in its innocence.
Bramblett studies the cold, fast water. “I’d as soon keep my feet dry, but we ought to get a look at what’s going on down by the ford.”
“Let me climb a tree. Maybe I can see.”
“Some Yank will pick you right out of it.”
“Nah, they haven’t had their coffee yet. Won’t notice.”
Bramblett shrugs. “Your ass, coz.”
Young scrambles up a slender oak barely thick enough to support his weight, manages to fix his field glasses on the Yankee line on the west side of the downstream bend. After a minute, he says, “Well, if that ain’t strange.”
“What?”
“Guns on the high ground west of the ford. Three batteries at least. Mostly smoothbores, all trained on the ford.”
“What are they doing on the west side of the river? Why not have them up with the infantry?”
“Maybe it’s a trap. Maybe the infantry on this side is just bait.”
Young scrambles down, and they hurry to report to General Hanson on Wayne’s Hill.
Captain John Mendenhall, chief of artillery, Crittenden’s corps, rides slowly along his gun line overlooking McFadden’s Ford. He has probably overdone the defense of a position not likely to be attacked anyway. But the Mendenhalls believe in being prepared. Family tradition has it that his greatgrandfather so nearly starved on Benedict Arnold’s invasion of Canada in 1775 that, once back home in Maine, he never again left the house—even to go to church—without three days’ rations. It is a principle adhered to by the Mendenhalls ever since. At West Point, young John was always the best prepared for inspection or recitation. Since his commissioning in 1856, he has received excellent if unenthusiastic evaluations from his superiors. Now, as Crittenden’s chief artillerist, he commands the most thoroughly supplied artillery command in the Army of the Cumberland. He also has enough to smoke, a warm coat, and dry socks: three items almost entirely unknown in the rest of the army.
Satisfied with his inspection, Mendenhall rides a few dozen paces back from the guns, reaches beneath his rain cape for a cigar. By necessity, artillery officers spend a great deal of time around vast amounts of gunpowder. Perhaps that is why a good cigar is a particular satisfaction for Mendenhall; reward for a preparedness so complete that he can absent himself for a few minutes from the close company of his guns and the danger of accident.
Braxton Bragg has been awake since before dawn, expecting news that Rosecrans is retreating at last. But the reports gathered by Colonel Brent and the headquarters staff seem to indicate the opposite. Still disbelieving, Bragg orders Polk and Hardee to probe the Yankee line again. For once, the Bishop and the Professor are prompt in executing orders. Within a half hour, skirmish fire crackles along the line. It dies away quickly; the skirmishers having paid with another dozen lives to prove that the Yankees are still very much in place.
Bragg paces furiously. If he cannot budge Rosecrans in the next twentyfour hours, it is he who will have to consider retreating. He pulls a map from the pile at the corner of his desk, studies it, his artilleryman’s eye attracted to the low ridge southeast of McFadden’s Ford. The tally of rations, ammunition, fodder, and casualties slip from his consciousness, replaced by the calculation of ranges, elevations, and angles. He runs fingers through his beard. Good high ground, he muses. Give me good high ground and I will win this battle.
“Colonel Brent,” he calls.
Brent, ever alert, is there in a moment. “General?”
“What is the latest from Pegram on the Yankee dispositions east of McFadden’s Ford?”
“He hasn’t sent anything this morning. As of sunset, he reported two, perhaps three, brigades across the river but no sign that they intended any forward movement.”
“How many batteries?”
“Uh, I believe only one, sir.”
“I need better than your belief, Colonel. Send a message. Tell Pegram… . No, wait, go yourself. Find out what the Yankees have over the ford. We may be able to do something yet to push neighbor Rosecrans into retreat.”
Brent cannot help lifting an eyebrow at the characterization of Rosecrans—a flourish entirely out of character for Bragg. “Yes, General. I’ll leave at once.”
“Take Robertson with you. I want an artilleryman’s opinion, too.”
Brent dislikes Captain Felix Robertson, a young man of such fawning sycophancy that he has become something of a joke around army headquarters. Some two weeks past, Brent—who labors mightily to be a hail fellow—was stung to overhear one of the captains refer to Robertson as “Brent’s ass-kisser.”
“And an ample target it is,” one of the other officers added, to the collective merriment.
Brent was mortified by the reference to his unfortunately large and womanly posterior. Immediately, he drew up papers transferring Robertson to command of a battery in Withers’s division. Bragg signed them without comment.
Robertson objected strenuously: “See here, Brent. I’m no field officer. My temperament’s for staff work. And I do it damned well. Since when has this army had better records of its ordnance?”
Brent fixed him with a cool stare. “You have discharged the duties assigned you. Now the general feels that you would benefit from some practical experience in command of a battery. I agree.”
“But you haven’t had field command. Yet you’re chief—”
“I hope the commanding general will entrust me with a field command in the near future. It is my fondest wish. Good day, Captain.”
But Robertson is not a young man easily diverted from his chosen course. Within days he managed to get his battery transferred to the army reserve for refitting, a position that again gives him access to army headquarters.
Leaving Bragg’s office, Brent spots Robertson lounging among the staff officers in the hall. “Come along, Robertson,” he snaps. “We have an errand to perform for the general.” Painfully aware of the breadth of his posterior, he strides toward the front door.
Many generals are abroad in the early light. Breckinridge encounters Hardee and Polk riding together along the river. The three pause to discuss the tactical situation. Breckinridge, the comparative neophyte, asks if he should begin erecting breastworks east of the river.
Hardee and Polk exchange glances. Breckinridge’s political prestige and influence have always complicated his status as a subordinate. Moreover, his division, though officially part of Hardee’s corps, has functioned independently since being assigned to protect the army’s right. On Wednesday, Polk had exercised tactical control; but has his authority lapsed in the day since the assault on the Round Forest? If so, has it passed back to Hardee? Or does Breckinridge answer only to Bragg?
Hardee flexes his arthritic right hand. “I would suppose, John, that you should seek the commanding general’s direction on that point. Given the Yankees’ move across the ford yesterday, I think General Bragg may be preparing to shift the rest of your division in that direction.”
“I’ve requested such a redisposition half a dozen times since yesterday. So far he has only let me move Palmer’s brigade.”
The Bishop chuckles. “You mean General Pillow’s brigade.”
Breckinridge winces. “Yes, General Pillow’s. I had forgotten that unfortunate change of command.”
“I think, John,” Hardee says, “that you should reconnoiter the position the Yankees have taken east of the ford. If this battle is resumed, it will be on that front.”
Polk, whose attention has wandered to the possibility of an early lunch if the day is quiet, frowns. “I wonder why we haven’t heard more from them. A few batteries on that ridge southeast of the ford could discomfort my line.”
“Hanson still has two batteries on Wayne’s Hill,” Breckinridge says. “I believe they could suppress a bombardment of your flank. Still, I’d better have a look at the Yankees’ dispositions.”
“
Perhaps I’ll come with you,” Hardee says. “Bishop, would you care to join us?”
Before Polk can answer, his chief of staff interrupts. “General, there’s a courier here with a message from the commanding general.”
Polk accepts the dispatch, frowns at it, and then dips into his ample vest for his watch. “The commanding general directs that I open a bombardment to test the Yankee center, firing to commence twenty minutes from now at eight o’clock precisely. So I must wish you good morning, gentlemen.” He wheels his much-belabored mare, switches at her rump until she breaks into a trot.
Hardee sighs. “And I suppose I should look to my line, much as I’d prefer to go with you, John. I’ll send Major Pickett as my representative. You’ll find him good company.”
Breckinridge hesitates. “Bill, you don’t think the commanding general will order another attack, do you? My men need a period of recuperation. We suffered very heavily in General Polk’s assault.”
“I know. Even Cleburne is telling me that his men can do little more for the moment, and I’ve never met a man with a greater taste for a fight. Still, I no longer pretend to predict General Bragg. He is betimes aggressive and timid. I don’t know what his mood is today.”
Breckinridge dispatches his chief of staff, Lieutenant Colonel John Buckner, to test the left end of the Yankee line with artillery and, if necessary, a regiment of infantry. While the Yankees are thus distracted, he and Pickett will try to get a better idea of their dispositions closer to the river.
Shortly after Breckinridge and Pickett set out, Colonel Brent and Captain Robertson arrive from Bragg’s headquarters. They don’t bother consulting with Breckinridge’s headquarters but go directly to the picket line. They quiz some of the pickets, and are about to go forward themselves when Buckner opens fire on the Yankee line with eight guns. The fire is returned by the six guns of the 3rd Wisconsin Battery. Brent and Robertson retreat to the lower slopes of Wayne’s Hill to watch the duel.
Bright Starry Banner Page 51
