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

by Thomas, R. E.

  “Bill,” McPherson said, saluting. He was a fit man in his middle 30s, with well-fed features and bright, lively eyes, and cut quite a figure in the saddle.

  Leaning over his horse, McPherson extended his hand for a shake. “Your people told me I would find you out here. Is it wise, sir? To be out here alone? I know there are plenty of the men about, but this is still hostile country.”

  Sherman shook hands, and then took the cigar from his mouth. “Mac, I have a close call each and every campaign, and that scrape yesterday fills my quota for this one.”

  “If you say so,” McPherson replied. “The scouts report all’s quiet to the east. From what I can gather, word is Bishop Polk thinks we might turn south and march on Mobile.”

  Sherman nodded, replying “That’s what the newspapers say we are about.” He put the cigar back in his mouth and took several short, sharp pulls on it, billowing smoke. In Sherman’s mind, newspaper men were little better than traitors and spies, so it was only fitting to use them to dispense false and misleading information.

  Cigar still clenched in his teeth, Sherman asked “But knowing the Bishop, he’s holed up in Demopolis, scared, and not sure what to do, despite Stonewall sending him Cheatham’s Division. What about from the north?”

  McPherson said “No word from General Smith.”

  That set Sherman back to pacing. When Sherman and McPherson set out from Vicksburg, General William Sooy Smith should have left Memphis at the head of more than 7,000 cavalry. It was one of several supporting movements Sherman had intended, meant to keep Bishop Polk from guessing what he was up to.

  Unlike all the other diversions, however, Smith had been meant to meet him in Meridian. If Smith had gotten to Meridian on time, he would have caught at least the tail of the Rebel evacuation. Worse, without Smith it was too dangerous to press on and smash Polk’s headquarters at Demopolis.

  Sherman turned back to McPherson and shouted “Dammit! Where the hell is Smith and what has he done with my cavalry?”

  McPherson looked away for a moment, then looked back at Sherman and said “I think we know what happened, Bill, and I can explain it with just three words: Nathan Bedford Forrest.”

  February 27

  Late morning

  Cheatham’s Division, CSA

  Meridian

  Frank Cheatham rode into Meridian ahead of his column, followed by only a modest escort and a few of his staff. He was unconcerned about his personal safety, as he knew the Yankees had pulled out of Meridian a week ago.

  He had a good idea what to expect, for the devastation began many miles east of town. The railroad ties were now heaping piles of ash, with rails stacked haphazardly on top, each one warped into a shallow V-shape. Every bridge and trestle lay demolished.

  Even so, actually seeing what was left of the Mississippi rail town filled him with rage. He could see every single building in Meridian that was not a private home had been razed to the ground.

  Cheatham took his hat off and ran his fingers through his hair. More than a week ago, he and General French had said Sherman was clearly not going to Mobile, that Polk’s Army of Mississippi should march out and at least use the cavalry to put pressure on Sherman. Bishop Polk and that fool Loring insisted Sherman might still go to Mobile, and if he didn’t, Sherman would march on Demopolis next, so the best thing was to sit tight and receive the Yankees on ground of their own choosing.

  The result, Cheatham thought, was that Sherman had camped in Meridian for five days, five full days, all the while freely ravaging the countryside, tearing up the railroad for miles in all directions, and thumbing his nose at them while they sat on their fat old asses back in Demopolis. Polk finally marched for Meridian only after Sherman had absconded, and then they went forward so slowly that Sherman was probably all the way to Vicksburg by now.

  A haggard-looking old woman shuffled up to Cheatham. “General, have you any food? The Yankees stripped us bare, left us with not a crumb, the vandals. Nothing!”

  Cheatham noted her good clothes and realized this woman came from some substance. A proud woman, one who hasn’t eaten in days. He told an aide to rustle up a few pounds of cornmeal and some bacon for the lady.

  Cheatham nudged his horse forward and continued to survey what was left of the little Southern town. He saw the smoldering remains of warehouses and workshops. Even the post office was a charred ruin. A couple of houses were gone as well, probably burnt by spreading fires rather than by design.

  Disgusted, Cheatham took a hefty pull from his whiskey flask, drowning the bitter taste in his mouth. The Yankees who did all of this were getting clean away, he thought, and there was no explaining it except that old Bishop Polk had just plain lost his nerve.

  March 2

  Early evening

  Headquarters, Army of the Gulf, USA

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Sherman stood on the deck of the steamer Diana, arms folded across his chest and wreathed in smoke, tapping his foot against the wooden planking so rapidly and loudly that it half-drowned out the churning of the paddlewheel. When the boat settled in alongside the jetty, he vaulted over the railing even before the boat could be lashed to the cleats. He strode off, leaving his aides scurrying behind him, and soon found the carriage that had been left waiting for his arrival.

  Cigar still clenched in his teeth, Sherman snapped at his followers “Come on, come on. Let’s get on with it. Can’t keep General Banks waiting.” All of them hadn’t even sat down in the carriage when Sherman ordered the driver forward.

  The carriage stopped in front of a fine house in the city, one of the few flying the Stars and Stripes from the front portico. Sherman dismounted, threw away his cigar butt, strode up to the open door and presented himself to a waiting orderly, who showed him to the parlor. A few minutes later, Nathaniel Banks walked in.

  Sherman drew himself to attention and saluted. Although both men were major generals of volunteers, Banks held almost a full year of seniority over him at that rank. Technically, Banks was senior even to Grant, although not for long, since rumor had it Lincoln soon intended to reward Grant with a promotion to the revived rank of lieutenant general.

  Banks saluted back, and then stepped forward to shake hands. Despite being a little short, he was a fit man in his late 30s, and cut a fine image in his resplendent dress uniform, adorned with gold-tasseled epaulettes, shining boots, buttons and buckles, and a magnificent sword.

  Sherman inquired “General Banks, if I may ask, is there a special occasion?”

  Banks replied “My wife and I are attending a party tonight, General Sherman. We would be delighted if you could attend, and I am sure an invitation can be arranged. My family was about to sit down for dinner, as well. Would you care to join us?”

  “Why, I’d be honored to dine with your family this evening, and to accompany you afterward.” Sherman hadn’t bathed beyond a few splashes in the washbasin since setting out for Meridian a month before, and was now silently thankful he was at least wearing a clean field uniform. And that his heavy smoking smothered his body’s backcountry odor.

  Banks ushered Sherman into the elegantly appointed dining room, where he introduced Sherman to his wife Mary, his son, and his two daughters. They all sat down, and soon a first course of crabmeat ravigote was served. Sherman took to the dish with relish, having come to love Louisiana’s cuisine during his brief tenure as superintendent of the Louisiana State Seminary and Military Academy in 1859.

  The small talk between Banks, his wife and Sherman continued as turtle soup, and then crawfish etouffee were brought out. Yet Sherman’s fine feather over the food came to an abrupt halt when Mary Banks asked him “And where is home for you, General Sherman? And how is your own family?”

  Sherman swallowed hard. His eldest son Willie, only nine years old, had passed away five months before. Typhoid fever. He blamed himself for the loss, since it was his idea to bring his family down to visit him in the pestilential late summer miasma of Vicksbur
g.

  Glancing at the Banks children, Sherman smiled weakly and said “They are in Ohio, Madame. And they are well.”

  After the meal, the two generals retired for brandy and cigars before setting out for the rest of the evening.

  Settling down, Sherman asked “Sir, I hope you don’t mind if we have some of that talk I came down here for. I must be getting back no later than tomorrow afternoon.”

  “No, not at all.” Banks took a pull on his cigar. “But first, could you tell me about your own recent adventure in Mississippi?”

  Sherman glowed. “The short of it is I took 20,000 men, marched clear across Mississippi, sacked the state capital for the third time, destroyed Meridian township, and marched back again. The Bishop was so scared he never came out of his bolt hole. I inflicted $50 million worth of damage on the Confederacy, and no one so much as lifted a finger to stop me.”

  Banks replied affably “You know the newspapers tell a different story. They say Mobile was your target and call you a failure.”

  That soured Sherman’s mood. “Yes. I know.” It was the price paid, he thought, for deceiving Polk and Jackson. He spat “A newspaper man is nothing more than a whore, dressed up in ink instead of rouge.”

  Banks changed the subject. “As for the Red. The thick and the thin of it is that I am ready to start the campaign right now. I am lingering here in New Orleans only because I thought it prudent to be on hand for the inauguration of the new state government under the fine and loyal Governor-elect Michael Hahn. We’ll take care of that on the 4th, and after that I see no significant impediments.”

  Banks went on to outline his plan for the Red River campaign, intended to extend Federal control into northwestern Louisiana and eastern Texas. It was a favorite of President Lincoln, who wanted blue troops on the ground in Texas to discourage the meddlesome ambitions of the French and their puppet in Mexico, Maximilian III. Grant scorned the idea, thought the best way to curb the French was to win the war, and thought the best way to do that was to seize Mobile, Alabama instead.

  Sherman favored the Red River idea because it forced the Rebels farther back from the Mississippi, just as his Meridian campaign had. But what was more important to him was to get back the two divisions of 10,000 veteran infantry he was loaning Banks for this Red River business.

  “It’s a good plan, General, but you must bring the Rebels to book as soon as possible. I cannot stress this more strongly: A.J. Smith and his two divisions must be on their way back to Vicksburg in 30 days. Grant and I have Stonewall Jackson to contend with in northern Georgia. I must have those men back, and back on schedule.”

  Banks readily agreed, but Sherman noticed something, a suppressed grimace. A former Speaker of the House and Massachusetts governor, Banks was well-practiced in the art of concealing his thoughts and feelings, but that had slipped past his mask.

  Sherman inquired “You can do me another service, sir. What can you tell me about Stonewall Jackson? We both had brigades at First Bull Run, Jackson and I, but we never danced. You fought him in the Shenandoah, though. I would highly value your opinions on the man.”

  “And at Cedar Mountain,” Banks replied defensively. Sipping quietly on his brandy, he gave what sounded to Sherman like an honest description of his rout at Winchester and his tough, but ultimately lost fight at Cedar Mountain. Sherman thought the man’s frankness did him credit, and it lent some credence to Banks’s belief that he had come within a hair of whipping Jackson at Cedar Mountain. Banks was convinced he would have won if Rebel reinforcements had not arrived, or if he had been better supported. But Sherman noted he became more subdued as he went on, the buff confidence from earlier in the evening slowly evaporating as he told his story.

  The two generals went on to the party, where Sherman was delighted to see some familiar faces, friends and acquaintances from his time in Louisiana before the war. During all the small talk and through the remainder of the evening, Sherman turned over his conversations with Banks in his mind.

  It was very late and many drinks and toasts later by the time Sherman made it to bed, but by then he had made his mind up. Banks wasn’t a bad man, but he lacked resolution and energy. Worse, he was unlucky, at least insofar as war was concerned. If there was a way to flub this Red River business, Sherman was convinced Banks would blunder into it.

  Sherman forgot about bed, went to the desk in the bedroom provided for him, and began composing a letter to Grant. Red River, Shreveport and East Texas be damned, he was getting A.J. Smith and his 10,000 men back as promised.

  March 2

  Late evening

  Headquarters, Army of Mississippi, CSA

  Demopolis

  Polk tore the telegraphed message in half, crumpled it up, and threw it across his office, his usually placid features contorted with bitter, petulant anger.

  “How dare that man!” Polk screamed.

  Upon returning to Demopolis yesterday, Polk found orders waiting from Stonewall Jackson that he should return Cheatham’s Division as soon as practicable. Polk did not find the return of Cheatham practicable at all, and genially replied to Jackson that he needed to retain Cheatham’s services to guard against future aggression from Sherman.

  Jackson’s response was swift and left no room for Polk’s discretion or further discussion: send Cheatham back at once, and make the trains available if they were not already so.

  Damn that man to hell! He was a Maury County Polk, cousin to James K. Polk, the eleventh president of the old Union! He had been ahead of Jackson on the lieutenant generals list! Now that Virginia school teacher was placed over him, lording high and mighty, issuing peremptory orders. Jackson the master, Polk the servant!

  Polk briefly toyed with going around Jackson and taking his case straight to Davis, his old West Point roommate, sweetened with a hint that if he were allowed to retain Cheatham, he might be able to advance onto Jackson and Vicksburg. No, no, it wouldn’t do, he thought. Even if Davis agreed, the price would be that he might actually be expected to make a genuine advance on Vicksburg, a course of action certain to kick over the Yankee hornet’s nest.

  “Cheatham must go back,” Polk muttered bitterly. “He planned this, that jumped up bumpkin! He sent me just enough men to ensure my failure.”

  Sherman had absconded before he could be smote, and whatever Polk might claim in official reports and in the papers, the whole miserable affair was for naught. He knew it, and he knew it was all Jackson’s fault. If Jackson had supported me with an entire corps, Polk thought, why, I could have boldly advanced, confident in the knowledge that Sherman was outnumbered.

  “Who does that man think he is? I am Polk, by God! Polk!” he roared. Polk snatched up a chair and smashed it against the floor, over and over again, until the chair was kindling and he was left panting, hard out of breath.

  He was alone in his office. Polk never condescended to such displays of temper outside of his intimates, and his aides knew to steer clear of him whenever a contrary message came over the telegraph wires.

  While he caught his breath, Polk had an idea. Why can’t I do what Sherman did? Polk thought. Yes, that will do! I will present my own plan for an offensive. Jackson will reinforce me with a corps. With two corps and my cavalry in hand, I could do a capital job of raiding Middle or West Tennessee, just as Sherman had raided Meridian.

  The more Polk considered his idea, the more he liked it. His plan not only had a decidedly military ring to it, but also the demonstrable proof of what Sherman had accomplished behind it. What Sherman had done, Polk would also do, and ruin the Northrons’ plans in the bargain.

  Of course, such a plan had to be submitted to Jackson, and Polk surmised that Jackson would never approve it. To ensure his plan received a favorable hearing, he would submit a copy directly to President Davis as well.

  Polk ran his fingers through his hair, wiped his face off with a handkerchief, straightened his uniform, opened his door, and called for his secretary. Blithely ignoring the pil
e of wooden debris, upholstery and stuffing from the smashed chair, he sat down behind his desk and began dictating his message to Davis.

  CHAPTER 5

  March 3

  Early morning

  Camp of the 41st Tennessee Infantry, Maney’s Brigade, USA

  Dalton, Georgia

  Captain Robert L. Fletcher scowled as he stepped out of the cabin housing regimental command, carefully replacing the crude wooden latch on the door behind him. He was a stocky, fit man in his middle 20s, so broad that he looked short at first glance, despite his average height.

  Despite his bulk, the chill of the dark, pre-dawn air bit at him, causing him to button up the last few buttons on his coat, adjust his scarf and hat, and turn up his collar for good measure. Thanks to the Grimes brothers, he would be out in the cold all morning and might as well prepare for it.

  The morning had started the same way most mornings did since Old Jack took command, just before New Year’s. As per the new general orders, every day except Sundays saw the roughly 260 men and officers of the 41st Tennessee rise from their cabins and tents at 5 a.m., and in the pre-dawn gloom shake life into their limbs in the icy winter chill of the north Georgia mountains, and those not responding to sick call would fall out for breakfast.

  The unwelcome change in routine for Fletcher that morning started with word to report to Colonel Tillman, the regiment’s commander, after reveille. Once there, Tillman gave him a stern talking to about two of his men, the Grimes brothers.

  Sunrise wasn’t for another hour or more yet. The air was full of the smell of corn meal frying in fatback. Captain Fletcher’s stomach growled. He stopped by the officer’s mess and took a tin cup of steaming spruce needle tea back to his company with him. Breakfast would have to wait.

  “Private Nathan Grimes! Private William Grimes! Stand at attention!”

  Fletcher’s entire company numbered only little more than two dozen men, and they were grouped around a set of three campfires, cooking breakfast. He couldn’t see who was who in the darkness, but two of the boys shot up at the campfire farthest from him. Fletcher walked over to them.