“Yessir.” Corse was Sherman’s inspector general and chief troubleshooter.
Grant will send preemptory orders to Banks if need be, Sherman thought, and even halt the entire Red River business if that is what it takes. Still, I’m in Nashville and Grant is in Washington. It always helps to have a man on the spot if you want to get things done.
Sherman took up a new page, and his countenance suddenly darkened. General Thomas in Chattanooga had sent a report from his spies that infantry had departed from Dalton for Atlanta.
That settled it, Sherman thought. The War Department had been sending him reports these last few weeks that Richmond had approved a major raid under Bishop Polk, probably to try and cut his supply lines. Spies and newspapers were all indicating that Jackson would receive reinforcements from the Carolinas, and that Jackson, in turn, would reinforce Polk.
“Well, Major, I suppose we had to expect the Johnnies to make some kind of spoiling attack on us. Now we know. Bishop Polk is coming this way. Reckon he wants to serve me a taste of my own medicine.”
That brought chuckles from Audenried, but the matter was serious enough. Sherman couldn’t let Polk just stroll into Tennessee. The damage even the fumbling Bishop Polk could do with 25,000 infantry at his back would be bad enough, and the newspapers would go mad with exaggeration over the whole business. The only proper use for a newspaper is wiping your backside, Sherman thought, but people still read and believe that trash, God knows why.
He would have to send McPherson. McPherson was posted in northeastern Alabama, the closest to Polk’s Tennessee River starting line. McPherson’s Army of the Tennessee had five infantry divisions, and most of a sixth could be mustered up by pulling his Tennessee River garrisons back in, leaving behind just what handful of men were needed to hold Rebel banditry at bay. Sherman ran the figures in his head, and estimated McPherson would have 28,000 infantry and artillery, all of them Grant’s hardened veterans, the best fighting men in the world.
Was he ready for the job? Sherman thought. He, Grant and many others beside thought of McPherson as the great, rising man of the war. More than once both he and Grant had agreed that if either of them were killed, it would be McPherson who would step into the gap and help finish the job. McPherson had done well at the head of a corps in Vicksburg, but as an army commander Sherman had always intended McPherson to operate under his loose supervision in Georgia.
Sherman looked at Audenried. “Major, you have writing materials? Good. Take this down.”
He began dictating orders for McPherson to concentrate, collect supplies, and be ready to change his base and move to intercept Polk once that situation developed. As he spoke, he realized McPherson would need more cavalry. Kilpatrick was with McPherson, but with only a small force at hand. More than 4,000 horsemen were refitting in Franklin, only 20 miles down the road from Nashville. Some of those troopers must be made ready for action immediately.
He snatched up the draft once Audenried finished writing, reviewed it, made some changes and gave it back. “Take that to the chief of staff. And tell an orderly to have my horse saddled and an escort readied. I depart for Franklin directly.”
April 7
Mid-morning
Headquarters, Army of Tennessee, CSA
Dalton, Georgia
Jackson’s chief aide, James Power Smith, pulled back the flaps of the headquarters tent, and found Jackson busy at his desk. “General?”
Jackson half turned, pen still poised above the page. “Yes, Captain?”
“General Hardee is here to see you. His appointment, sir? He is a tad early.”
Hardee was punctual, Jackson thought. By the book. At least that much could be said about him. “Fetch Sandie. Then bring him in.”
Jackson put his papers away and composed his thoughts. The last of Stewart’s Corps was departing today. The first of Hood’s Corps would follow tomorrow. The time had come to tell Hardee he was being left behind to shield Atlanta. Hardee was an old soldier, and ought to obey orders. Yet too many old soldiers in this army obeyed only when and how they wished, and he didn’t trust Hardee.
Besides, he was reluctant to share his intentions with anyone, even his most trusted. “If my hat knew my intentions” Jackson muttered, “I would snatch it from my head and shove it into the stove.”
With his chief of staff and senior corps commander present, Jackson stood up and began. “General Hardee, tomorrow morning I have scheduled two important actions. First, a new division of infantry from the Carolinas will begin arriving in Atlanta, and Edward Walthall will assume command.”
Hardee nodded with approval. He had been expecting the arrival of the new division, organized from brigades in the Carolinas. Walthall, a brigadier in Hindman’s Division, was a good choice for the new command.
“Second, Hood’s Corps will begin departing Dalton for Montgomery, and ultimately Selma, following Stewart’s Corps. I shall accompany them. You will remain here, in command of four divisions of infantry and all of General Wheeler’s cavalry. Your force, designated the Army of Georgia, is initially tasked with shielding Atlanta while I invade Middle Tennessee with the corps of Polk, Hood and Stewart.”
Hardee blinked, and cried “What?”
“Invading Middle Tennessee.” Jackson handed Hardee a sheaf of papers. “You shall command four divisions plus Wheeler during my absence. I have drawn up detailed written orders for you. In summary, your immediate tasks are to demonstrate before the enemy, so as to make your force appear larger and conceal the departure of Hood’s Corps. Your orders contain several specific means for doing this, and you shall apply them all, along with any you see fit to add.”
“Wheeler’s cavalry is to patrol aggressively, as well as to block every pass into North Georgia, and take every step to inhibit spying and scouting. This is also described in detail in your written orders. Finally, you are to share this information with no one. If asked by one of your generals or a civilian authority where Hood or Stewart or myself have gone, you will deny they have left or answer with one of the stories provided.”
“General Jackson, I must protest!” Hardee declared. “You leave me here with, what, 25,000 men? To oppose four times that number!”
Jackson replied patiently “Plus Wheeler, who has 9,000 cavalry. Intelligence indicates the enemy has no intention of advancing until May, and then in concert with their offensive in Virginia. The enemy army is not in close contact with our front on Rocky Face Ridge, and if you conduct your misdirection competently, they will not learn of our absence until after we have crossed the Tennessee River.”
Hardee retorted “Only a third of Wheeler’s men have horses, and most of the rest are off looking for new mounts. And this violates the laws of war! You are dividing our force instead of concentrating it, attempting two large projects at once, and all in the face of the enemy!”
Sandie grimaced. Jackson wouldn’t care for being lectured so. Yet he held his tongue. He knew full well the only cause for his presence was to provide a witness, in the event that Hardee made an insubordinate threat of one kind or another.
“If the enemy advances upon you,” Jackson continued icily, “either in whole or in part, my topographical department has prepared a detailed study of all the ground between here and Atlanta. Several lines of defense are suggested, where you can force the enemy to deploy, and perhaps even to attack you at your advantage.”
Jackson could see that Hardee wasn’t really listening to him, preferring to focus instead on complaining. He knew Hardee had already refused command of this army, and could tell he took pleasure in playing the role of the army’s grand old sage, always ready with textbook answers and criticisms. Jackson had surmised that Hardee wanted no part of the ultimate responsibility of leading a field army, even the smaller field army Jackson was thrusting upon him.
“General Jackson” Hardee said, becoming visibly agitated, “I find your plans militarily unsound, and protest them on the gravest terms. I urge you to reconsider,
sir. If you do not, I fear my lack of confidence in them compels me to request relief.”
Jackson glared at him, shouting “General Hardee, if you truly wish to be relieved of your command, you are free to submit a formal request before I depart for Atlanta. I will endorse it. In the meantime, your orders stand. You will obey them to the letter, you will speak to no one of either this conversation or your orders except as specifically permitted, and you will continue to do so until such time the War Department sends a suitable replacement for you. Dismissed!”
Jackson watched him storm out. If he resigned, Jackson thought, good riddance to the man.
Sandie said quietly “If I may say so, sir, is it wise, leaving Hardee here?”
Jackson nodded. “Yes, yes.” He wished he was as confident as he sounded. He would prefer to get rid of Hardee, and bring Richard Taylor in from Louisiana. But that would not happen, not unless Hardee consented to go, and like it or not the fussy, pedantic Georgian was among the best-qualified for the task of protecting Atlanta.
Sandie nodded. “Yessir. Do you think Hardee will go so far as to resign?” He worried that it was usually best to not have a man leading an enterprise if that man was convinced of its failure.
Jackson shrugged. “I do not know. If he does, Davis will try to persuade him otherwise for a time, then transfer him to some out of the way place. Hardee must know that. If he stays, he will follow his orders, if only to shield himself from blame.”
If he does not follow his orders, Jackson thought, Hardee will bring down upon himself the selfsame disaster he dreads so.
April 12
Late afternoon
41st Tennessee Infantry, Maney’s Brigade, CSA
Montgomery, Alabama
Fletcher was the first of his company to hop off the rail carriage, quickly stepping out to face the car from which his men were emerging. He had most of them collected when the bugle called for assembly, and the entire regiment fell into line.
Coming to attention, Fletcher sneaked a look over to the station platform. Old Straight was there, having a word with George Maney. Whatever it was, George didn’t look happy.
Fletcher had never stopped thinking of his brigade commander as “George.” He had known General Maney before the war, when Maney had split his time between a successful law practice in Franklin and serving in the state legislature. They had been on opposing sides of a couple of cases, and he had gone to Maney for advice a number of times as well. Maney was about a dozen years older, and enjoyed the measure of success Fletcher wanted for himself.
General Maney stepped to the edge of the platform, before the center of his brigade. “Boys, I’m afraid I have some bad news. Last time we came by here, it was by river to Selma. Well, General Stewart tells me that there aren’t enough boats. Some steamers broke their engines, some barges have burst their seams. Laid up for repairs. Can’t wait here for our turn, so we’re walking.”
A year ago, that would have produced groans, Fletcher thought. Not now, though. Things were much tighter in Jackson’s army.
Maney paused, and Fletcher thought Maney might be waiting for groans himself. When there were none, he continued. “Now here’s the good news. We’re due in Selma in four days, boys. That’s about 16 miles a day, give or take, and we’ll have the road all to ourselves. Some other boys went ahead of us, but they left yesterday. And General Stewart’s seen to it that commissary wagons are waiting for us all down the road, so no need for you boys to carry rations.”
There wasn’t even a murmur, and Fletcher could feel the men brightening all around him. No soldier would ever complain of being relieved of the burden of carrying rations for a four-day route march.
“Now, I feel the need to remind you boys, since we’re taking to the road. According to our special orders, we keep our flags rolled up. If you meet a civilian or an officer or a soldier who is unknown to you, you are not to tell him where you are from, what unit you are with, where you are going or what officers you serve under. In fact, the less you tell that fellow, the better. Disobedience to this order will meet with the severest penalties, understood?”
A deep, loud “Yessir!” rose from the ranks.
“Alright then. We camp outside of town tonight. One more piece of good news. General Stewart asked the fine citizens of Montgomery to furnish us with a hot supper. So there’s plenty of Brunswick stew and buttermilk cornbread waiting for us.”
That brought a chorus of enthusiastic cheering. The brigade marched out of the rail yard and through Montgomery, but unlike their last visit in February, they avoided the center of town.
Another thing that’s different, Fletcher thought. All the secrecy. Fletcher wasn’t sure how much of Cheatham’s Division was even going to Selma, just as he didn’t know for sure they had been going to Selma until just now.
The next day, in high spirits from a fine breakfast of leftovers from previous night’s fare, Maney’s Brigade set out on the Selma Road, marching according to Jackson’s rule: march for 50 minutes, rest for 10 minutes, and march again. The roads were muddy, but hardly the worst Fletcher had seen. That night the brigade camped near Magnolia Crest House. The next day, they resumed the road march and reached White Hall Plantation.
The regiment fell out. Most of the men lined up at the commissary wagons to receive their ration of corn meal for that night and the next day. Looking over to White Hall, Fletcher had an idea. After asking Colonel Tillman for permission, he went over to the house, and returned about 20 minutes later with a bundle of old bailing wire in one hand, and a piece of paper in the other.
Fletcher carried his wares straight over to the Grimes brothers. “Evening, boys.”
The boys had their shoes off, airing out their feet. “Evening, sir” they replied in unison, both sounding a bit suspicious. Fletcher was being casual, so they didn’t bother to get up or salute.
“I have a use for your talents, boys.” He tossed the bailing wire down by where Nathan was laying. “Over yonder is a bend in the river. I reckon if you boys set some snares, we’ll have fresh meat for breakfast.”
The brothers relaxed. They had been trapping since they could walk, filling out what little their father put on the table, and they enjoyed doing it.
“Get your shoes on, and get out there while there’s still some daylight. This pass will see you through.” He proffered the paper to Willie, who sat up and took it. “Just so long as you steer clear of the big house, there. The duty officer will wake you before reveille, so you can check your traps and be back before breakfast.”
The boys set out, walking the stiffness out of their backs and limbs, and carrying their muskets should they run into bigger game. They stopped only long enough to ask the darkies what the easiest way down to the river was. The slaves pointed them to a place they called Enconochaca, warning that it was haunted from a fight with the Creeks that took place there many years before.
“Good” Nathan said, as they walked away. “I reckon either the darkies ain’t trapping there because they scared, or the trapping’s so good they don’t want us going down there.”
The boys went looking for animal tracks, laying rabbit snares and squirrel poles until the setting sun turned the light red. Not sure where they were exactly, they turned south and trudged toward where they knew the road would be.
Emerging from the woods and onto the road, the brothers found themselves face to face with a mounted captain wearing a fine, clean uniform, who called them to attention. Behind the captain was a small party, all mounted. A one-armed colonel in a shabby coat and cap rode forward.
“You men, what are you doing here?” he demanded.
Nathan replied “We’s on a detail, sir.” He looked up at the colonel, but couldn’t really see his face in the shadows.
“Do you have any papers?” the colonel asked sharply. The colonel had a funny way of holding the reins, the boys thought. His thumb was sticking up for no reason.
“Yessir.” There was a pause, and Nathan
realized nothing was happening. He nudged Willie with his elbow. “Give it to him.”
Willie shook his head.
The colonel grew impatient. “Do you have the pass or don’t you?”
“Colonel, sir,” Willie said quietly, “Our paper says our regiment, our colonel and our captain. We’s under orders, sir, not to tell none of that to anyone strange, including officers. I reckon I can’t give it to you. Sir.” Willie saluted again, to emphasize his obedience.
Willie’s words were met with silence, and then the shabby colonel laughed, slapping his hand on his thigh. “Good, good. That’s good.”
April 15
Mid-morning
The Lee House
Headquarters, Army of Mississippi, CSA
Selma
Polk had come to Selma to meet the reinforcements for his raid, and had chosen the Lee House for his quarters. He liked the fine Greek Revival house for its stately appearance; for its location, only five blocks from the Selma Ordnance and Naval Foundry, where his reinforcements were arriving; and because he appreciated the serendipity that it was built by cousin of the famed Robert E. Lee.
After a leisurely breakfast, Polk strode down to the riverfront arsenal, where he had occupied some offices and set up headquarters. A.P Stewart himself had yet to arrive, but the last of his troops had already begun to offload from the river boats and barges ferrying them down from Montgomery.
Polk was in an expansive mood as he sat down at his desk. Stonewall Jackson had thoughtfully sent a large quantity of supplies before Stewart, so he needn’t worry about the grimy business of keeping his Army of Mississippi in biscuits and bullets. Since the Yankees had abandoned Corinth in January, and the railroads around Meridian and Corinth had both been repaired, those supplies could be sent by train to Florence. It was a rickety, roundabout ride to be sure, but quicker than mule-drawn wagons over central Alabama. The rest he would forage from Tennessee itself.
Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) Page 13
