Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy)

by Thomas, R. E.

  Saluting, Audenried said “Sir, Confederate cavalry are attacking a column of wagons at the crossroads. That train has an escort and is putting up a fight, trying to get the hell out of here, quick as they can.”

  Sherman ran his fingers through his red hair, stood up, and reached for his pistol belt. “What is the enemy strength? And what are the troops I had posted to guard that crossroads doing?”

  “I believe the enemy strength is one regiment of cavalry, sir. It’s quite a scrap out there, and I cannot make a precise count, but I have seen only the one stand of Confederate colors. I’m certain of that. As for the infantry you placed on guard, they seem to have gone, sir.”

  Sherman looked the major straight in the eye. “Gone? What on Earth do you mean, gone?”

  The major nodded. “Just that, sir. They must have left during the night. I don’t know why. I must say, General, we’re in a top rail fix here.”

  “Let’s go have a look, then,” Sherman said, brushing past the man.

  He spared a moment to thank the cabin’s owner, Mrs. Elder, a middle-aged war widow who at that moment was seeking shelter in the nook formed by the cabin’s thick log walls and stone chimney. Sherman then stepped outside.

  Yes, the major’s report seemed accurate enough, Sherman thought. Reb cavalry playing merry hell with a column of wagons on the road, about 200 yards away. The men detailed to guard the crossroads nowhere to be seen. The Rebs hadn’t noticed the wagons by the cabin yet, but when they did, all that was on hand were a scant handful of aides, cooks, orderlies and teamsters.

  His eyes still fixed on the fight taking place on the road, Sherman ordered “Major Audenried, take my horse. It’s the fastest we have here by a wide margin. Take it and ride east until you find some support. That absent infantry regiment can’t have gone far, and are probably on their way back right now, what with all the shooting. Go find them and get them back here, quick as you can.”

  Audenried snapped off a “Yessir” and a salute, and sprinted for Sherman’s horse. Sherman called out to every man wearing a blue uniform around the cabin, ordered them to arm themselves and join him in the stout log corn crib that lay on a low rise a few dozen yards behind the cabin.

  He continued to study the fight on the road for a minute, then walked to the corn crib at a measured pace. The troops assigned to guard those wagons were a damn sight better led than the regiment I put on the crossroads, he thought. They were fighting back hard, keeping the wagons moving, not making it easy for the raiders. Those infernal bandits had captured only just a few wagons thus far.

  “Bully!” Sherman exclaimed. Then he turned his attention to the men in the corn crib. A couple of junior staff officers were the closest he had to real fighting men. A cook. A groom. A couple of teamsters. One of the latter had already pissed himself. Every man was armed, but this amounted only to revolvers and a pair of musketoons.

  They needed bucking up, Sherman thought. “Don’t worry, boys,” he told them. “The wagon guards are putting up a capital fight. Those Reb dogs have their hands so full, I’ll give odds on a month’s wages they never come up here for a look.” Sherman smacked the log walls. “And if they do, this corn crib is as stout as a blockhouse.”

  “Don’t you worry, General Billy, sir,” said the cook, priming his musketoon with some difficulty. “If them fellas come up here, all they’ll get is a face full a lead for their troubles.”

  Sherman noted the cook was missing a couple of fingers off his right hand. That figures, he thought. A lot of fellows like him are maimed veterans, men who can’t march or load a musket properly, but can perform other duties well enough.

  “Where are you from?” Sherman asked.

  The cook replied “Iowa, sir.”

  “An Iowa man is worth any three of these Mississippi bastards, up to and including old Jeff Davis,” Sherman said back.

  The Iowan grinned “I reckon I might be worth only two nowadays, General Billy.”

  Grinning, Sherman went back to watching the road. He thoroughly enjoyed in the informality of his western troops. They could never pass inspection in the paper collar, prim and proper east, something Sherman knew all too well from his experiences there early in the war. Even the eastern Rebs were often better turned out for a parade than his westerners, but his men could out-march and out-fight any outfit on Earth. As far as Sherman was concerned, you could take that fact to the bank and trade it on for gold.

  Several minutes passed. A troop of Rebels rode off the road and into the fields separating the Willoughby farm from the crossroads and studied the wagons parked around it for a time. Then the firing from down the road picked up very rapidly. Within minutes, the grey cavalry absconded, along with a handful of wagons, trotting through the crossroads and off to the north. Skirmishers in blue were soon fanning out across the fields.

  Sherman stepped out of the corn crib first. Turning to his aides, he said “Alright, gentlemen. Back to business. Get things organized. We push on to Meridian today.”

  February 13

  Late afternoon

  Headquarters, Army of Mississippi, CSA

  Demopolis, Alabama

  Leonidas Polk stepped up onto the rail platform, straightened out his pristine uniform coat, clasped his hands behind his back, and waited for the train rumbling its way up the line to come to a stop. An honor guard, splendidly turned out with bayonets glistening in the winter sun, and bearing the battle flags of the Army of Mississippi, fell into line behind him. Just off the platform, a band began playing “God Save the South.”

  Polk looked serene as he waited, assuming a pose that was the product of almost 40 years as a man of the cloth. He was 57, portly, and sported a beard meant to cover a double chin and make himself look more like a soldier and less like a priest. The ploy was only half-successful.

  Polk had been to West Point a very long time ago, but had left the army shortly after graduation to pursue what he thought would be an easier route to power and influence, and that route led through the Episcopal clergy. He had been right, because whereas by the early 1840s Polk had risen to the Bishopric of Louisiana and considerable wealth as a planter, many of his fellow cadets were still lowly lieutenants. Appointed a general by his old comrade, Jefferson Davis, Polk had served extensively in the West, and was now the commander of the Department of Alabama and Mississippi, a semi-independent post under Stonewall Jackson.

  The train slowed, practically crawling up to the station, and then screeched and rattled to a halt, showing every sign of three years of wartime neglect. After a short wait, Major General Benjamin F. Cheatham stepped off the train.

  “Frank!” Polk cried, stepping forward to shake hands with the burly Tennessean.

  Grinning, Cheatham took Polk’s hand, gave it a firm shake, slapped him on the shoulder, and rejoined “Bishop. Good to see you again.”

  Like Polk, Frank Cheatham came from one of Tennessee’s foremost families. He was a planter and horse breeder, had dabbled in politics, and he had the puffy features, pot belly and worn eyes of a hard drinker in middle age. A volunteer officer in the Mexican War, Cheatham ended it as a full colonel. The two men had served together since the earliest days of the current war.

  Drawing back, Polk said “Frank, words simply cannot describe how happy I am to see you. And relieved, sir, relieved. With your mighty division of Tennesseans here, we shall smite Sherman and his heathens so terribly, they shall scurry all the way back to Vicksburg and never dare venture out again!”

  The platform was starting to crowd with detraining soldiers. Polk dismissed the honor guard, and the two men went into the railway office for some privacy, sat down on plain wooden chairs, and talked.

  Cheatham started. “Bishop, Stonewall hurried my boys onto the trains and sent us here before I’d heard even the first rumor that Sherman had left Vicksburg, and that’s all I’ve heard ever since. Rumors. Everything from a little cavalry raid to Sherman leading 60,000 veterans right across Mississippi and Alabama, o
ut to take Atlanta from the rear!”

  You did indeed get here quickly, Polk thought. He had not even had a chance to submit a request for reinforcements to Jackson before he received word that reinforcements were already on the way. Part of the reason why was that Polk took his time in composing not one, but two requests, one for Jackson and one for Jefferson Davis, the latter to be sent out of channels. Polk had guessed wrongly that Jackson would be just like Bragg or Joe Johnston, and refuse to send him anything.

  Of course, just one division wasn’t enough, not for Polk, who thought he needed at least three. But he was pleasantly surprised by Cheatham’s prompt dispatch nonetheless.

  Polk said soothingly “Sherman has a strong host, but not that strong. He is advancing in two columns, each with one army corps, under McPherson and Hurlbut. The reports lead me to the conclusion he has about 25 to 30,000 infantry. That is still more than I have.”

  “What do you have?” Cheatham asked.

  “The divisions of Loring and French. Plus cavalry,” Polk replied.

  Doing the math in his head, Cheatham nodded. He had brought more than 6,000 battle-hardened Tennesseans with him. Polk probably had over 10,000 infantry of his own, give or take. Almost as much horse, all told, but that was spread all around the region.

  Cheatham fished out his pipe from inside his coat. Pushing tobacco into the bowl, he asked “What do you intend?”

  “Sherman will turn south soon, and press for Mobile. My spies in Vicksburg tell me as much, their navy is prowling around Mobile’s waters, like the wolves that they are, and the Yankee newspapers report Mobile as his objective too. His corps were at Decatur and Newton this morning. When he turns south, and he must turn south soon, we will follow him, and smite at his rear.” Polk smacked a clenched fist into the palm of his hand for emphasis.

  “Yep, I see,” Cheatham agreed. They might get a chance to hit one of the two Yankee corps, attack only part of their army, and whip them, just like they did at Perryville.

  Polk pulled on his beard thoughtfully. “If I may be so bold, Frank, but pray tell, do you have an opinion of your new commanding general?”

  “Old Jack?” Cheatham chortled, then continued matter-of-factly, “I do believe, Bishop, he is your commanding general too.”

  Polk smiled blandly, but said nothing.

  The question caused Cheatham to recall his first real encounter with Jackson. Old Jack had ordered the army to hold big winter training marches, something that caused quite a lot of grumbling. On his first such march, Cheatham’s guide had failed him, the division got lost, and then they stumbled into a wagon train. He was sorting the mess out when Jackson appeared, and then proceeded to upbraid him in public.

  Cheatham managed to hold his temper in check, but he had suffered enough abuse under Braxton Bragg already, so he icily told Jackson that his resignation would be on his desk the next morning. He had finished the march and retired to his quarters to pen his resignation letter, when he was interrupted by two of his fellow generals, Patrick Cleburne and A.P. Stewart, together with Jackson’s chief of staff, Sandie Pendleton.

  They prevailed upon him to reconsider, go to Jackson, and patch things up now that tempers had cooled. Cheatham thought it was a waste of time, but went anyway, and was surprised to find Jackson amenable.

  After reflecting so, Cheatham said “Well, he is a bigger bastard than even Bragg, if you can believe that. Trains the men, drives them. Officers. Harder than ever before. Works his generals like dogs too. We drill and march every day. Every day excepting Sunday, Bishop. Jackson is very religious. No work on the Sabbath, and always encouraging the men to attend services.”

  Polk brightened at that, but Cheatham didn’t notice. Puffing on his pipe, he went on. “He dressed down a few brigadiers in public over the state of their latrines. Shoots deserters too. Even caught a colonel drunk on duty on Rocky Face Ridge, our defensive line north of Dalton. Cashiered the man, even though there weren’t no fighting going on at the time. I suppose it was his own damn fault, poor sumbitch, but still seems a might bit harsh in this old fellow’s eyes.”

  Polk sighed. Drinking was the curse of their army, a curse that extended to Old Frank himself. “That is sad to hear. Very discouraging. I had such fine hopes for the man.”

  “Well, it ain’t all bad. I’ll say this much for Stonewall Jackson. He is a stone bastard, but he gets his way. Let me tell you a story. Old Jack sent his chief of staff and his commissary man, Pendleton and Hawks, down to Atlanta. The first thing they found was that the War Department’s commissary office in Atlanta was selling meat meant both for our army and Lee’s army out the back door, if you catch my meaning, and making a pretty little fortune. Well, Jackson arrested the scoundrels, Davis sacked them, Jackson’s people tightened a few other things up, and we started getting more and better food up in Dalton. Word has it some friends of Governor Joe Brown were involved, but nothing ever came of that.”

  Cheatham started laughing. “Old Jack also found and requisitioned a few thousand pairs of shoes away from one of Brown’s militia warehouses while he was at it.”

  “Brown must have had conniption” Polk said, surprised. Brown was a populist, and as fierce a States Righter as they came, constantly at odds with Richmond. He ran Georgia as if it were his own little republic.

  Shrugging, Cheatham continued “He was very upset. Jackson made an enemy of Brown, not that I think he cared. But the Atlanta papers made merry hell over the commissary scandal, so old Brown had to sweep the whole thing under the rug.”

  Polk changed the subject, telling Cheatham where he wanted his men to camp, and Cheatham stepped outside to pass the orders along to his staff. The two men then chatted for a while longer, but Polk, having what he wanted, turned his thoughts elsewhere. He looked past the conversation, past even dealing with Sherman, and onto what he hoped defeating Sherman might bring. Polk began to muse on succeeding Jefferson Davis, on becoming the Confederacy’s second President.

  Before the war, Polk had been satisfied with his place as a wealthy landowner and prominent clergymen, enjoying his wide influence, lording it over his slaves and preaching down to the flock. Yet becoming a general gave him an appetite for more. He had become accustomed to autocratic command, to real power, and now he wanted more of it. He had made the transition from bishop to general, so why not from general to president?

  Already an influential and popular figure in the region, Polk had formed close, valuable connections during the war, connections with men just like Frank Cheatham. More to the point, he was a highly placed crony of Jefferson Davis, something that would matter when Davis’s supporters began casting about for a successor. They would need a successor too, because without one they could never retain office, and the choice of the Davis party would be the man who would surely win. Not only would Davis’s stature become unassailable after the war was won, but Davis’s enemies were a fractious lot, united only in opposition and a mutual fondness for squabbling. None of those men would put his ambitions on hold for the sake of one of the others. They would quarrel and fall out amongst themselves, because quarreling was all most of them were good for in the first place.

  Who else was more suitable than Polk? From what he understood, Lee had no interest in politics. Bragg was a cretin, as unelectable as he was inept at leading an army. Judah was a Jew. As far as Polk could see, he would be the only real choice, which meant the highest office in the land was his for the taking in 1867.

  Only one thing was missing. As illustrious as Polk thought his war record was most of it had been spent in the background, saving the country from the failures of Braxton Bragg. Polk had never won a victory to call his own, but he felt that if he could win one, however small, it would cement his reputation. Do that, and the presidency would surely be his.

  Polk dreamed big. Building a permanent presidential mansion in Richmond; lavish state dinners; fashioning a political dynasty like Jefferson’s or Andrew Jackson’s; perhaps even a little war all h
is own, such as seizing Cuba from Spain. If I can spank Sherman’s bottom, Polk thought, the rest will fall into my lap like a ripe apple.

  February 15

  Midday

  Sherman’s Headquarters in the Field, Army of the Tennessee, USA

  Meridian, Mississippi

  When Sherman rode into Meridian at about 3:30 on the afternoon of the 14th, he soon discovered that he had arrived too late. While many warehouses were still stuffed to the rafters with foodstuffs, arms, and ammunition, the repair shops, the arsenal, and the hospital had been emptied of their precious machinery, tools, and equipments. For the Confederacy, such things were precious, almost irreplaceable, and according to the boasting local citizens, the guts of the Confederate war industry in Meridian had been put on trains and shipped away. The last of it slipped out mere minutes before the head of Sherman’s column marched into town.

  It was a blow to Sherman’s plans, but not a severe one. Meridian was a railroad junction town, and Sherman’s most important task was to smash that junction. That done, the Rebels would find it much harder to organize and supply any large scale foray to the Mississippi River, which in turn meant Sherman could reduce the size of his garrisons and send the freed-up troops to East Tennessee, where they would be needed for the spring campaign against Stonewall Jackson. To destroy Meridian’s machinery and supplies would have been even better, but that was secondary to tearing up the railroads.

  Well, the townspeople aren’t gloating now, Sherman thought. His troops were busy pulling up the railroad’s tracks and ties, stacking and lighting the ties into bonfires, and using those fires to soften and bend the rails. They were also scouring the countryside and returning with herds of beeves, fat hams, sides of smoked bacon, baskets of sweet potatoes, sacks of corn meal and everything else the bounty of the Mississippi prairie could yield.

  Sherman was satisfied that his main objective would be achieved, but the lost opportunity still rankled him. He paced back and forth on a now bare railroad embankment outside of town, shrouded in a haze of tobacco and bonfire smoke. Turning back towards Meridian again, he saw General McPherson ride up.