Yet Jackson never joked about such things. Sandie knew he had meant every word, and had Loring gone to confront him or refused to leave the field, he would have trussed Loring up and locked him away.
8 p.m.
Headquarters, Army of the Tennessee, USA
Oak Ridge
South of Lawrenceburg
McPherson had taken a tavern between Lawrenceburg and Oak Ridge as his headquarters, just off the Military Road and overlooking White Oak Hollow. The tavern was a two-room affair, built as a pair of log cabins with a corridor between them, and then sheathed in clapboard, so it was more rustic than its outward appearance might have suggested.
Exhausted, McPherson sagged in his rocking chair. He had spent most of the day in the saddle, personally inspecting every aspect of the Army of the Tennessee’s deployment. He trusted most of his officers, but knew even the best men made mistakes or misunderstood their orders, and just as he knew things had a way of going askew if given half a chance.
Dodge and Logan were both there, along with most of the Army of the Tennessee’s division commanders. From the XVI Corps came tall, skinny James Veatch, a Hoosier lawyer turned solid soldier, as well as Thomas Sweeney, a salty old regular, and widely regarded as the fieriest, most combative, and hardest swearing Irishman in an army that had a hefty share of such characters.
Logan had brought three of his division commanders with him: William Harrow, a Lincoln crony and hard drinker; professional and reliable Morgan Smith; and Peter Osterhaus, a German émigré and product of the Prussian officer corps. The XV Corps’ remaining division, under John Smith, was far to the rear, having started its march from Decatur and the south bank of the Tennessee River, and not expected to arrive until well after midnight.
McPherson listened as each division commander gave a report on his position and status. Veatch, Sweeney, Harrow and Smith were posted on Oak Ridge, a line of 10 brigades covering a frontage of just under three miles. Veatch was tied into Shoal Creek, and deployed on the thickly forested, hilly and broken ground on the right. Sweeney was next, astride the Military Road. Harrow and Smith followed, facing thinly wooded bottom country and extending down to where the ridge met the plains.
Yates’s Sharpshooters had since returned from Wildcat Ridge, replaced by a brigade from Harrow’s Division and 12 guns, including the army’s sole battery of 20-pounder Parrot rifled cannon. Osterhaus’s troops were hidden in White Oak Hollow, shrouded by the thick woods and the surrounding hills. Minty’s cavalry was now on the extreme left, covering the Pulaski Road. The army’s wagon train, only recently arrived, was parked in the town.
After Osterhaus finished, McPherson stood up. “Gentlemen, today while we’ve been busy entrenching, the enemy advanced pickets to within 200 yards of our line. I have two orders for the morning. Sweeney, Veatch, Harrow and Smith are to throw out a skirmish line just before dawn, drive the enemy pickets, take prisoners for questioning, and provide protection for my second order. That is to send out work details, fell trees and construct abatis.”
“What about John Smith’s division?” Logan asked.
“I want them to bivouac in Lawrenceburg. From there, they can guard the trains, quickly reinforce either Wildcat Ridge or Minty on the Pulaski Road, and if need be, they aren’t two miles from the front line.”
“And the left, sir?” Logan continued. “They’ve got a hell of an artillery platform in Haynie Hill. If they try to get around my flank...”
“They can’t approach you unobserved,” McPherson said. “If they try to turn your flank, there will be plenty of time, and you have Osterhaus close by.”
Some smaller details were discussed, and the meeting broke up. As they walked back to their horses, Dodge had a word with his commanders.
“Sweeney, you’ve got the Western Sharpshooters. Veatch, you have Yates’s Sharpshooters. Both those regiments are armed with Henry rifles. When you push out your skirmishers, I want them front and center. Those repeaters are hungry, so give each man a double issue of ammunition. Burn those Rebs back. Drown them with lead.”
10 p.m.
Hood’s Corps, Army of Tennessee, CSA
North of the Military Road and Loretto Road Junction
Six Miles South of Redding Ridge
Hood rode into his headquarters camp with the relief of a sick man finally at the end of a wearisome day. He returned the greetings of Cheatham and Cleburne, both sitting on a fallen tree trunk and waiting for him, and then rode around to the other side of his tent to endure the day’s last ordeal.
Sagging in the saddle, Hood waited for his orderlies to loosen the straps that held him in place. They then gently pushed his cork leg over the saddle, and gingerly lowered him to the ground. While one man helped him stand, another brought his crutches. Hood shooed the orderlies back, and straightened out his uniform coat with his one good hand. Making an effort to put some spring into his step, he loped forward on his crutches.
Hood found his camp chair already set out. “Evening gentlemen” he said, carefully positioning himself and settling down. “I trust you did not wait for me before pitching in.”
Cleburne chuckled. “Sam, I had to hold Frank here back from eating the last of your bean soup and cornbread.”
Cheatham shrugged. “Ain’t my fault I was born with God-given, red-blooded, healthy appetites.” He stepped up and proffered a small bottle. “Sam, before your supper, would you care for some? It’s the last of my family’s own special spirits. Brought it out for this grand occasion, of being back here in Tennessee.”
Hood extended his tin cup. “Mighty thankful, Frank.” He then waved away the offer of food, too tired and sore to eat.
“What did Old Jack have to say?” Cleburne asked. Even the corps’ lowest drummer boy knew the Yankees were waiting for them in Lawrenceburg, and the camps burned with talk about what the next day held for them all.
Hood grunted. He resented having to ride all the way to army headquarters to receive humdrum orders that could have easily been sent by courier. If he wasn’t shattered before making the twelve-mile round-trip, he certainly was now.
“Reveille at the usual time, make sure the men fill their canteens, get a good breakfast and 60 rounds of ammunition, and march them up to the front at the regulation pace. The usual thing about driving stragglers like cattle.”
Cheatham smirked. “Serving in this army makes a man into an old woman, reading tea leaves all God damned day.” He paused for a time, then continued. “You know about Loring, I reckon?”
Hood replied “Ever hear of Richard Brooke Garnett? No? Well, Garnett had the Stonewall Brigade after Jackson, and one day found himself outnumbered, out of ammunition, and attacked on three sides. He retreated, and if I can say so, did a damn fine job of it to get out of a fix like that. But he did it without orders, and Old Jack didn’t care for it, not one little bit. He charged Garnett with dereliction, accused him of cowardice. A court martial was started, but never finished. Garnett died at Gettysburg.”
No one spoke for a while after that. Hood finally said “It was much worse for Garnett, because he had the Stonewall Brigade, you see. Old Jack used to be very touchy about his old brigade.”
Cheatham said nothing. He had sized up Stonewall Jackson as one tough, mean bastard early on, and was determined not to cross him if it could be helped. If Loring couldn’t see that, he was a plain fool, and would eventually reap a fool’s reward. Jeff Davis might save Loring yet, Cheatham thought, but only by sending him to the Trans-Mississippi, to exile in Kirby Smithdom. Or bringing him to Richmond and putting him behind a desk, like Davis had done with Bragg.
Deciding to change the subject, Cheatham asked “What do you think’s waiting for us, up Old Hickory’s road?”
Hood flinched from a spasm in his back. Shifting in his chair, he said “I know exactly who is waiting for us up tomorrow. Mac’s waiting for us.”
Seeing that confused them, Hood continued. “McPherson. I went to West Point with him. He
graduated first in our class. I know that might not mean much for you two, but Mac was as much a protégé of Robert E. Lee as I was. More even.”
“So he’s one to be wary of?” Cleburne asked.
Hood stared into the fire, sad eyes growing sadder. “Hands down, money on the barrel, James Birdseye McPherson is the best man in their army. He won’t run, he won’t make mistakes, and he will make things very hard on us tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 9
May 5
Shortly after midnight
Headquarters, Army of Tennessee, CSA
Redding Ridge
“I failed in my duty after Romney,” Jackson said quietly. “That much is perfectly clear now. Loring was insubordinate three years ago, and has been insubordinate ever since. I should have pressed the case against that man more forcefully then, made sure he was cashiered. Instead, I took the easier path. I allowed the War Department to sweep the ugly thing under the rug. They sent Loring here. We had a chance to win easily here today, Loring’s sins ruined it, and at the bottom it’s all because I relaxed in my duty, and let him off the hook.”
Stewart replied “I doubt you will get your court martial, you know. Some generals have done as bad or worse, and nothing ever came of it. Sometimes Richmond prefers to shove them farther from sight, instead of getting rid of them. So, they go to some less important, less visible place. Maybe they do better, maybe they do more harm. Gideon Pillow comes to mind, in that respect. He’s now a conscription officer, I’m told. Loring has friends in Florida, and I think cashiering him might be an expense Richmond wants to avoid.”
Jackson soured. His western Virginia twang crept into his speech. “I won’t let them. Not this time. He must be punished, and the failure to punish corrected. We cannot have a dutiful, disciplined army if we do not have dutiful, disciplined officers.”
Stewart nodded, but said nothing.
“This business with Loring is, in miniature, the story of our country in this war. It is as I told you before. When I think on this war, with its half-victories, its quarrelsome generals, squabbling and ineffectual politicians, the cost in blood and treasure, and all of its lost opportunities... I cannot help but think God’s purpose is to correct our ways. That we will win and have our own country, but only after we have become a better people, only after we earn it.”
“And I’ve told you before, Tom. Providence wills all momentous events, but I would be careful about thinking the will of the Divine can be so discerned. We cannot look back upon even the events of antiquity and read His will with any certainty.”
Jackson shrugged. “Yes, yes. But Providence has a purpose. There is no harm in wondering at it, I suppose, only in presuming upon it. A man must endeavor to always be humble before God.”
Stewart smiled. They had discussed theology many times before, and he imaged Jackson was much like the Crusader of old. The more costly the task, the more it called for devotion.
Jackson stood up. “Well, Pete, I don’t want to keep you any longer.”
Stewart rose. “Do you have any orders for tomorrow?”
“No, no. Expect written battle orders shortly, but not yet.”
Stewart saluted and left. Jackson took to his knees and prayed for a time. Then he sat down and thought things over. He didn’t bother with his map. Every detail was already fixed in his mind, as he had studied every square yard of ground through the day.
I have 46,000 of all arms, Jackson thought, while the enemy cannot have above 35,000. If he is still there tomorrow, it’s because McPherson does not yet know he is outnumbered. My obfuscation won’t last long, perhaps not past tomorrow morning. I must strike him now, despite this mediocre ground, while I still have the advantage, else he falls back to Huntsville or Nashville. I cannot allow the enemy to gain the safety of their fortresses. If that happens, all will be for naught. If my strategy is to bear any fruit, I must strike McPherson here and now.
Jackson’s conclusion was to attack, but to attack where, and in what manner? A wide flanking movement, out between Lawrenceburg and Pulaski, would take too long. A shorter movement to flank and assail the enemy’s left would surely be observed, would reveal the size of his army, and could be easily countered. Worse, success would only push the enemy back on Lawrenceburg and the Military Road, leaving open their line of retreat. Finally, the enemy would surely expect an attack of some kind on their left. General Polk had been urging just such a maneuver all day.
Jackson settled on his plan. He had Sandie woken up to prepare the initial written orders. At dawn, Polk’s and Stewart’s Corps were to put out a double skirmish line, deploying two companies instead of the more usual one, to seize control of the valley between the two armies. It offered a partially covered approach for an attack, and that at least had some potential. He granted permission in advance to strengthen the skirmishers and bombard enemy work parties with artillery if necessary.
Jackson checked his watch. It was just past two in the morning. With his staff busy writing orders for Polk and Stewart, he sat down and penned a new, separate set of orders himself.
Stepping out of his tent, Jackson handed the folded paper to a courier. “Send that to General Forrest. Wake him if necessary. He is to report to me immediately.”
Forrest was asleep when the message reached him, bivouacked with his men in an open field southeast of Haynie Hill. He rubbed his eyes, got up, and took the message over to a nearby campfire for better reading light.
May 5, Army Headquarters
Maj. General Nathan B. Forrest, CSA
Upon receipt of this message, turn command of your brigades over to Brigadier General Abraham Buford, and report to me for further orders. Instruct General Buford to have his command ready for action at first light.
Respectfully and sincerely,
T.J. Jackson, General Commanding
He blinked. “Does this mean what I think it means?” he mumbled aloud, and read the message again. Forrest decided it did.
Twice before, Braxton Bragg had ordered him to hand over the cavalry he had personally raised, trained and armed to the command of another. The second time he responded by verbally abusing Bragg in his headquarters tent, cussing him down like a dog and challenging him to fight.
Now here Forrest was again, his command taken away from him by Stonewall Jackson, a West Pointer and one who had not even bothered to call on him yet, and given to another West Pointer, Abe Buford. That Forrest liked Buford didn’t assuage his anger. This was one outrage too many, and Forrest made up his mind then and there he would suffer no more injustices from the West Point clique that ran the army, even if they hanged him for it.
Although he was filled with baleful anger, Forrest remained outwardly calm, and quietly ordered his horse saddled. Getting onto his mount, he told his aides in clipped tones to remain in camp, and that he would be going to headquarters alone. Whatever happened, it was best if none of them were involved.
Arriving at Jackson’s tent village, Forrest dismounted, and strode from his horse straight through the busy throng of staffers.
James Power Smith stepped forward. “Begging your pardon, General Forrest...”
“Get out of my way” Forrest said, deliberate menace on each word, as he effortlessly shoved Smith aside and almost off his feet.
Bursting into Jackson’s tent, Forrest shook the message in his hand and shouted in a thick West Tennessee drawl “What do you mean by this? Shitfire! To rob me and give my men to one of your dandy eastern favorites? You ain’t going get it. I ain’t going tolerate this here insult, not from you, not from any other West Point scoundrels. You can all go on back to Richmond and to Hell, far as I care. You may as well tear up these here orders, because I ain’t obeying them, and I dare you to make me try.”
Jackson stood flabbergasted, but only for a moment. Taking a step forward, he met Forrest’s glare and snarled “You sit down, General, and be silent. Silent, silent, I say! Or I will give you cause to regret it.”
Forr
est had gone into that tent fully determined to challenge Jackson to fight him with pistols, right then and there, rather than give up his cavalry for a third time. He expected to be shot or hung for it, not that it mattered, for he could tolerate the indignities heaped upon him no longer. Yet now that he saw how Jackson’s eyes were lit up, he paused. Instead of smacking Jackson in the jaw, he took a step backward.
Smith sprang into the tent, armed with a cocked revolver. Jackson instantly cried “Out Smith! Get out!” the hill country twang tearing through his speech. Then he bellowed at Forrest “And you! I thought I told you to sit down!”
Forrest stood motionless, eyes moving like those of a pensive cat. Smith snapped off a flustered salute and withdrew. Jackson glared at Forrest. Staring straight back at Jackson, Forrest sat down.
“I do not know what you are on about, and nor do I care” Jackson snapped at Forrest, his accent returning to normal. “I want you to assume temporary command over all the cavalry with this army. Your division and Red Jackson’s.”
Forrest’s eyes widened. His anger dissipated instantly, replaced by the shameful sensation of having acted like a fool, a damnable, hot-tempered fool.
He was about to speak, but Jackson cut him off. “At first light, I want you to amuse the enemy left flank with one division. Give them a good theatrical, make it look like there is an army corps deploying there. With the other division, you are to cut the Pulaski Road, attack the enemy cavalry there, and drive it as far back onto the town as possible. Understood?”
“Yessir! General, I want to...”
“There is no time for that!” Jackson snapped. “It will take the rest of the night for you to get ready. You have your orders. Now get out!”
Forrest stood to attention. “Yes! Sir!” he said, deliberately emphasizing each word.
As Forrest turned to leave, Jackson said “General Forrest, if you ever so mutinously abuse any officer under my command again, I’ll have you stood up against a wall and shot. If it costs a thousand lives, I’ll do it.”
Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) Page 18
