On the Federal side of the line, the skirmish comes at an awkward time for Brigadier General Sam Beatty. He has four brigades on the east side of the river: Price on the ridge southeast of the ford, Grider in reserve behind it, Fyffe on Price’s left, and Grose behind McFadden’s Lane. He has, however, only the single battery and seems unlikely to get more, since Crittenden and Mendenhall (or perhaps it is only Mendenhall if Crittenden is drunk again) have ignored his requests in favor of building up the gun line on the west side of the ford. He breaks off the artillery duel and, over Colonel Price’s objections, orders the battery withdrawn behind the safety of Grose’s line.
Beatty is dissatisfied with the state of his other defenses as well. Weeks ago the division was stripped of most of its tools to equip the despised Pioneer Brigade. If he just had the axes, spades, cant hooks, blocks, pulleys, and ropes in his own barn back in Ohio, he could treble what he has at hand. But without adequate tools, he has been able to build only a few breastworks at the weakest points of his line.
By midmorning, Breckinridge has a good sense of the Yankee presence. It is strong, alert, and unaggressive—a blocking force probably designed to protect the Yankee left flank during a withdrawal. Leave it alone and it poses no danger. Satisfied, he returns to his headquarters for a late breakfast and a change of clothes.
Colonel Brent, however, has reached an entirely different conclusion. Robertson has focused on the danger of Yankee artillery on the ridge southeast of the ford enfilading Polk’s line in the Round Forest. Brent, much as he dislikes Robertson, is impressed by the argument. Again bypassing Breckinridge’s headquarters, they return to Bragg.
While Breckinridge, Pickett, Buckner, Brent, and Robertson investigate the ground already—and more effectively—scouted by Bramblett and Young, Bishop Polk opens his bombardment of the Yankee center. Despite the short notice, his chief of artillery has managed to concentrate twenty-two guns. The unexpected fire falls on the brigade of Colonel Charlie Harker and the 8th Indiana Battery commanded by Lieutenant George Estep. Harker’s men throw themselves to the ground and suffer only a handful of casualties, but shell and case rip through Estep’s battery, splintering carriages and caissons and killing or wounding a third of the battery’s men and nearly all the horses. Returning fire is impossible, and Estep withdraws, leaving two disabled guns behind.
Captain Cullen Bradley, commanding the 6th Ohio Battery, opens fire to cover Estep’s retreat. But his gunners have no sooner gotten the range when a blast of canister sweeps the rear of his battery, killing or maiming fifteen horses and wounding half a dozen teamsters. Bradley spies the telltale puffs of smoke on the slope to his rear. He jams spurs into his horse’s flanks, pounds through the wreckage of caissons and the screaming of wounded horses, rockets up the slope waving his hat frantically. A second salvo roars, his horse grunts, pitches forward, head down, as if seeking to examine the wound made in its chest by the canister. Bradley somersaults over his steed’s head, lands hard on his left shoulder, feels something crack. But he has no time to investigate, leaps to his feet, sprints up the slope, screaming: “Cease fire, you idiots! Cease fire!”
Captain James Stokes, the oldest West Point captain in the United States Army, sees Bradley coming, shouts for his gunners to cease fire even before he can make out Bradley’s words. The young officer stumbles the last few paces, chest heaving. “Goddamn it, Stokes, you just shot up my battery!”
Stokes suddenly feels immensely old, is for a minute incapable of action or apology. “My God. I’m—” He can’t go on, simply stares at Bradley.
“Well, elevate your guns, damn it! Get firing. The Rebs aren’t stopping. Then get me a goddamn horse. You killed mine!”
This war has two nearly invariable rules: Southern cavalry always makes fools of Northern cavalry; and Northern artillery always beats the absolute bejesus out of Southern artillery. The latter rule holds now. Within minutes, over forty Federal guns are blasting Polk’s twenty-two. By 8:30 A.M., a short half hour after opening fire, Polk’s gunners give way, pulling back to avoid annihilation.
George Thomas watches the end of the duel from behind Morton’s Pioneer Brigade and Stokes’s Chicago Board of Trade Battery. Thomas expects Stokes to be triumphant, but he is pale, almost staggering when he approaches. Morton follows a few paces behind, looking worried. Thomas removes the cigar from his mouth. “Are you wounded, Jim?”
Stokes shakes his head, puts a hand on Thomas’s horse for support. “We fired into Bradley’s battery. Killed some of his horses and wounded six of his men. A couple of them will probably die.”
George Thomas stares toward the cedars hiding the Confederate line. Thomas is an extraordinary soldier, one of the best of his generation. Moreover, he is a decent and kind man. Yet in the giving of sympathy he has little skill, cannot shrive this man who is among his oldest friends. “Battle is at best chaotic, Jim. We do our best to make it otherwise, but mathematical inevitability dictates that sometimes we will wound or kill our friends. We do their memory no credit by allowing that ill-chance to keep us from the further performance of our duty.” He looks down at Stokes, wishes he could think of something more comforting to say.
“And you, George? Have you made such an error?”
Thomas frowns. “I don’t recall. I suppose I must have. We will talk of it another time. But look to your guns, now, Captain.”
Bragg listens to Brent and Robertson, the habitual scowl drawing his heavy eyebrows together. An hour ago he would have dismissed the danger Brent and Robertson describe, confident that Polk’s artillery in the center and Hanson’s batteries on Wayne’s Hill could out-duel any Yankee guns positioned on the ridge southeast of the ford. But since then, the Yankee gunners have pounded Polk’s artillery, turning what Bragg had intended as a reconnaissance by fire into an ugly and embarrassing withdrawal.
He dismisses the two young men and again studies the map that has been close to his hand all morning. He will take his own counsel this time. He has been too generous with the Bishop and the Professor, given them more opportunity to speak their minds than either has earned. He summons Brent, tells him to send for Major General John C. Breckinridge, who needs to learn the importance of exact and prompt obedience to orders.
Near noon the cold drizzle turns to sleet. Between Sam Beatty’s and Breckinridge’s lines, skirmishers dispute ownership of half a dozen farm buildings. The Buckeyes of the 51st Ohio retreat, receive reinforcements, and push back into the farmstead. The soldiers of the 18th Tennessee give way grudgingly. The Buckeyes fire the buildings, fall back through the sleet. Three of them pause long enough to investigate a root cellar, leap back at the sight of an old man standing just inside the door, a rusty hatchet upraised. “Hold on there, grandpa,” one of the Buckeyes says. “There ain’t no cause to go chopping people.”
The old man drops the hatchet, walks past them into the yard, stands staring at his burning home. Two of the boys duck into the root cellar while the third keeps a rifle-musket trained uncertainly on the old man. His companions come out, their arms loaded with hams and slabs of bacon. “Come on, Buster,” one of them calls.
“Ain’t right leavin’ him like this.”
“There’s plenty left in the cellar, and he’ll be dry. Now come on before the Johnnies catch us.”
They run. Looking back, the soldier called Buster sees the upstairs windows explode, enveloping the old man in a cloud of splinters that might, if judged by appearances alone, be mistaken for a gust of sleet.
Breckinridge is with Hanson on the crest of Wayne’s Hill, watching the farm buildings burn, when the courier arrives to summon him to Bragg’s headquarters. Hanson is immediately suspicious. “I hope that damned fool isn’t thinking of attacking at this end of the line. The Yanks have had plenty of time to make that ford tighter than a nun’s twat.”
The courier obviously enjoys this metaphor from Hanson’s famous collection. Breckinridge smiles slightly. “Tut, General, as we discussed not long ago, we
should be mindful of our choice of words around the men.”
Hanson grumbles. “Yes, General. I apologize.”
“Tell the commanding general that I will be with him shortly,” Breckinridge tells the courier. He slides his field glasses into their case, draws up his collar. “Thank Captain Bramblett and Lieutenant Young for me. Their report and what I observed should be enough to convince the general that an attack in this quarter would be exceedingly wasteful.”
Hanson, the last man to speak to Private Asa Lewis before the firing squad murdered him on that rainy noon a week ago, has ample reason both to hate Braxton Bragg and to doubt Breckinridge’s ability to dissuade the general from any action, no matter how heinous. “I hope to God you’re right, General. Rosecrans is not such a fool as to leave his flank open a second time.”
“No. Not such a fool. Did I ever tell you I met him once? He was running a Sunday school for little colored children in Washington. Had hundreds of pickaninnies reciting their prayers and singing their hymns like God’s own African choir. Quite a pleasure to see it.”
Hanson grunts. “I had not heard he was a brimstone abolitionist.”
“Oh, I don’t think he is. He’s a fellow Democrat, I believe. Or was when we had a party. But he’s an intensely religious man. Has a priest on his staff, I’m told. And it’s only religious duty to look to the spiritual welfare of our Negroes.”
Hanson, who assumes that Breckinridge is simply clearing his rhetorical pipes in preparation for his meeting with Bragg, doesn’t bother to comment. Of Rosecrans’s ministry to the pickaninnies he has no opinion. Hanson is a Kentuckian and a white man, sees his responsibilities entirely within those definitions. The rest of the states and the rest of the species can rise, fall, or maintain according to their collective or individual efforts. He has Kentucky Brigade to look after, and that is quite enough.
Despite the ugliness of the day, Bragg needs fresh air. He walks briskly around the headquarters camp and then settles to work again at a field desk beneath an awning and a towering sycamore. He concentrates on the minutiae of running the army, a small part of his mind ticking off the time since he sent for Breckinridge, ready to add tardiness to the complaints he has already recorded against the man.
Breckinridge arrives almost exactly at noon, swings down from his splendid black stallion. Bragg looks up from his work, decides to stand, taking advantage of his height over the smaller man. “Good day, General,” he says in response to Breckinridge’s greeting. “I have a task for you.” He describes the danger represented by the Yankee control of the ridge southeast of the ford. “I desire that you lead your division forward at four o’clock to take that high ground. General Polk’s guns will support your advance. In addition, I will send Captain Robertson with two more batteries to augment your artillery. Once you have occupied the hill, emplace his guns on it and commence firing on the Federal line. I believe that demonstration of enfilade fire will cause our enemies to think better of holding their position longer. However, if they are foolish enough to remain, recommence firing at first light and be prepared to cooperate with a renewed assault by Bishop Polk’s corps on the Yankee center.”
Breckinridge stands aghast. There are so many flaws in this plan—and he has no high opinion of his own military sagacity—that he hardly knows where to begin. He attempts to summon every skill of persuasion gained during all his years in politics, but he remains tongue-tied. Bragg watches him coolly and then continues. “You will have Wharton and Pegram to extend your right. Consider them directly under your command until otherwise notified.”
“General, I believe this plan is unwise,” Breckinridge blurts. “The Yankee position is altogether too formidable.” My God, this is blunderous, seems to accuse Bragg of a lack of wisdom while at the same time sounding craven.
Surprisingly, Bragg responds mildly. “How so, General?”
Breckinridge tries to calm himself, describes his reconnaissance and the reports of Colonel Buckner and the two young officers of Hanson’s brigade. He illustrates by tracing the Federal positions in the soft earth with a stick. Bragg watches, his face hardening. At last he interrupts. “Your principal fear seems to be the threat of the Yankee guns on the other side of the ford. But I do not desire you to carry the ford. You are required only to take the ridge, emplace your guns, and commence fire.”
“But, General, the hill is heavily defended by Yankee infantry. Even if we are initially successful, they will quickly mount a counterattack.”
“Then you do think you can take the ridge?”
Breckinridge hesitates, mousetrapped. “Only at great cost.”
“And I think your casualties will be within acceptable limits. He draws a boot heel savagely across Breckinridge’s sketch, obliterating Beatty’s right. “My information is that your approach can be made well under cover until you are within easy assault distance. On the other end of your line …” He makes a second gouge. “… Pegram and Wharton’s troopers will overlap the Yankee left, enabling you to turn his flank.”
“But a counterattack—”
“It will be too dark for a counterattack by the time the Yankees can rally.”
“But the Yankee artillery on the other side of the ford will cut our flank to ribbons while we advance, and then make the ridge itself untenable for artillery or men.”
“Nonsense! If your guns are properly handled, they will put the Union guns to rout long before your infantry comes under canister fire. Polk’s gunners had considerable success against the Yankee batteries this morning. If they’d held position a little longer, they would have triumphed.”
Standing nearby, staff officers exchange glances of disbelief. Major Pickett of Hardee’s staff, thinks: My God, this is insanity! That, or he’s trying to get Breckinridge killed. I must get word to Hardee.
Breckinridge draws himself up a little taller. “General, it is my opinion that this attack is doomed.”
Bragg loses his temper. “Sir, I did not call you here to seek your opinion! I called you here to give you the instructions which it is now your duty to execute. Your division has suffered little in this battle, and it is time for you and your men to do their share!”
“My God, sir! I lost fifteen hundred men on Wednesday! A full quarter of my division. You cannot say that we have not bled our share!”
“I do say it, sir! I do say it because I do not believe you suffered nearly such losses. Subtract those who ran and those who used slight wounds to excuse themselves, and you have suffered but slightly in comparison to the other divisions.” Breckinridge is shaking with rage, his face crimson. Bragg only bores in harder. “And your Kentuckians, sir, have fought not at all! While the rest of the army has engaged in mortal combat, they have basked in safety on your little mountain.”
“Your orders kept them on Wayne’s Hill, General!”
“Nevertheless, it is time for them to take their part. You will ensure that they do. And may I also remind you, General, that the losses you suffered on Wednesday were caused in large measure by your tardiness. Had you proceeded in a timely fashion in the forenoon, I could have sent you to reinforce Hardee on the flank where the battle was all but won. But you did not move in that timely fashion, and I was forced to order you to General Polk’s assistance in a task far more difficult. Even then you might have led a successful attack, but your brigades went forward piecemeal instead of using mass to carry their objectives.”
“General Polk determined the order of attack!”
Bragg stares at Breckinridge with contempt. “You may seek to avoid responsibility, sir, but I do not release you from it.”
For a long moment, the two men stand almost chest to chest, eyes locked. About them, the staff officers are frozen in place, for this is one of those moments swollen with all the ritual and danger of Southern custom. My God, we are violent men, Pickett thinks. No wonder our generals risk such headlong attacks and our men carry them out with such utter disregard for life. The Yankees must think us ma
dmen, as crazed as dervishes.
Staring into Bragg’s eyes, Breckinridge sees the man truly for the first time. He knows the reputation Bragg gained at Monterey and Buena Vista, saw him in action at Shiloh, knows only too intimately his merciless treatment of malefactors within this army. Nevertheless, he has always thought Bragg a martinet: a deeply insecure man hiding behind a uniform and a reputation gained long ago. But now he sees his error, recognizes Bragg for the stone killer he truly is. And though Breckinridge cares little for his own safety or reputation in this moment, others will die if he allows passion to govern the next minute of his life. He steps back, bows formally. “I beg your pardon, General. I spoke with more vehemence than I intended.”
It is now Bragg who must respond with grace or violate the code. The staff officers watch, critical. Bragg bows stiffly. “Very good, General. Please execute your orders.”
Breckinridge takes a shallow breath, chooses his words with great care. “General Bragg, I must plead with you a final time to consider the difficulty of the terrain and the strong disposition of the enemy’s infantry and particularly his artillery. I cannot in good conscience carry out this attack without again stating that I consider these factors exceedingly disadvantageous to its success.”
Bragg glares at him, for Breckinridge has taken a dangerous step beyond propriety. “Sir, my information is different! The orders are peremptory. Carry them out immediately or turn over command to your senior brigadier and place yourself under arrest.”
Breckinridge bows. “I will carry out your orders to the best of my ability. Good day, General.” He turns, strides off.
“General Breckinridge,” Bragg calls after him. “The signal to advance will be four closely spaced cannon shots from General Polk’s line. I will give the order myself.”
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