Veatch’s Division ceased to exist.
7:30 p.m.
Maney’s Brigade, Cheatham’s Division, CSA
White Oak Hollow
After advancing about a third of a mile, Maney’s Brigade found themselves in a fight with a brigade of blue belly Missourians, “homemade Yankees,” at a range of about 30 yards. Men on both sides took shelter behind trees and rocks, and stood in to trade bullets for a full hour.
Nathan and Willie shared a thick oak tree, Willie loading while Nathan fired. After an hour, the front of their tree had been chewed up by musket balls, and Nathan was merely shooting in the general direction of the Yankees. A thick pall of smoke hung between the trees, and the failing light could not even begin to penetrate it.
The brothers knew from experience that fights of this kind were grappling rather than slugging matches. Given time, one side would tire or run low on ammunition, and then withdraw. Yet that took two, three or even four hours. Time was not on their side, and before long the word came to cease firing and withdraw to the shelter of their starting line.
7:30 p.m.
Field Hospital, Army of Tennessee, CSA
Bryant’s Barn
Behind Redding Ridge
Fletcher had been waiting his turn outside the barn for hours, listening to the moans and screams, in his grim, private struggle to hang on to the last shreds of his courage. At least they had the merciful sense to pile up the severed limbs somewhere out of sight, he thought.
Finally, a couple of negroes came and put Fletcher on a stretcher and brought him into the barn, laying him out on a table. The interior of the barn was lit by lanterns and the day’s last light. He saw that the sawbones was the army’s chief surgeon, the same man who thought the regiment didn’t have good enough latrines back in January.
Hunter McGuire said “Captain, how long have you been in the army?”
“Since the November of ‘61.”
“Well, then, I don’t need to tell you what I’ve got to do here tonight. I must amputate, below the knee. You understand?”
Fletcher nodded. He had been preparing for that obvious, terrible confirmation all afternoon.
McGuire continued “Now we need to be quick, so this will be an open amputation. We have no chloroform, so all I can offer you is some strong whiskey.”
“Can I go home?” Fletcher asked, almost croaking. The army didn’t keep captains who couldn’t walk.
“As soon as you are well enough to travel, Captain. Your stump won’t heal completely for several months, mind you, but as soon as you are well enough, you can go home. You are from hereabouts?”
“40 miles from here, give or take.”
McGuire nodded, and motioned for the tin cup of whiskey. Fletcher gulped it down nervously. Already weak from blood loss, the strong spirits sent his head reeling.
A piece of leather-bound wood was placed in his mouth, and the negro orderlies held him down. Fletcher twitched a little, but he didn’t push back. Instead, he bit down hard, and fought even harder not to scream. He did not need to fight for long. In a few minutes, the operation was over.
Fletcher was carried out the front of the barn, and set down beside other recent officer amputees. The remains of his leg and foot were carried out the back of the barn, and dumped onto a ghastly rubbish heap.
9:00 p.m.
Headquarters in the Field, Army of the Tennessee, USA
Confederate Post Office
Lawrenceburg
McPherson waited until it was dark and quiet, and then sent out the call for all corps and division commanders to report to the town post office for orders. The tavern he had been using was now dangerously close to the front lines, and while he would have preferred the courthouse, that building, the surrounding houses, and all the lawns in-between were crammed with his wounded. The county jail had been burned in a skirmish the previous November, so that left the post office. McPherson arrived there first, went inside, and slumped into a chair.
It had been a very near run thing. The Confederates had hammered at him up and down the line all evening, raking for any sign of weakness. On the left, Morgan Smith had a hand-to-hand fight with the Rebels. Logan put in his slender reserves, just a few regiments, but it was enough to throw them back. The right had been wide open for a time, but that gap had been plugged. There was still no word from either James Veatch or Grenville Dodge. Both men were probably lost, and Veatch’s entire division along with them.
Stonewall Jackson almost certainly is in command, not Polk, McPherson thought. No way to know for sure right now, but it is beyond doubt that there are at least six Confederate infantry divisions over there. Without Veatch, I have only five, and their divisions are always bigger than ours anyway. We’re lucky to have survived. Most of us survived.
Sighing, McPherson called for pen and paper. He had sent a dispatch for Sherman that morning, but much had changed since then. It was time to tell Uncle Billy that he had been beaten, and would be retreating to Nashville. He described his intentions with as much detail as brevity allowed, and then handed the message a courier.
“Get that to the telegraph office in Columbia, quick as you can. Ride that horse to death, if you have to.”
That done, McPherson collected himself for the meeting to come. It was to be no council of war. His mind was made up about the necessity of his chosen course of action, and his generals were coming to receive orders, not discuss them.
One by one, McPherson’s seven senior commanders arrived: Logan, Sweeney, Harrow, Osterhaus, Morgan Smith, John Smith, and Minty, the latter the only one without stars on his shoulder straps. The army’s senior staff officers were present as well. McPherson started the meeting not by asking for reports, but by flatly declaring “Gentlemen, we are leaving.”
No one was surprised. Every man had heard by now that Stonewall Jackson was in command of the Confederate army, an army that plainly had them outnumbered. Even so, the words weighed heavily on the gathered generals, if only because they were so unused to hearing them.
“When you go back to your outfits,” McPherson continued, “you are to order your men to light camp fires, as many as possible. You know the drill. Let’s put on a good show, and make the Rebels think we’re all still here. Minty, beginning at midnight, your cavalry will relieve the infantry on the line one by one, starting with John Smith’s Division and moving down the line, ending at Sweeney. Then you bring up the rear. Understood? Everyone understands?”
The generals all grunted in agreement. No one asked what road they would take, for there was only one road open: the Military Road, leading to Nashville.
McPherson then said to his chief quartermaster “Your job is to see all the mules unharnessed from our wagon train. We’re taking the mules, but leaving the wagons. Organize a detail to thrust bags of food and ammunition at every platoon and gun crew that passes through the wagon park on its way out of town. Leave whatever we can’t carry.”
The quartermaster goggled. “Sir, you want me to abandon all those stores for the enemy to capture?”
“Yes, I do. If we burn the wagons, the Rebels will see the flames tonight or the smoke in the morning, and sure as the devil, they’ll attack when they see it. I wouldn’t put a night assault past Stonewall Jackson. And you can use those teamless wagons to block the road. Anything that buys us more time is worth it.”
McPherson now moved on to the retreat’s most unpleasant business. “I want the ambulances unharnessed as well. We are leaving the wounded behind.”
That brought outraged protests from all around. Sweeney cursed and swore, the army’s chief surgeon pleaded, and the other division commanders were aghast. Even Logan joined in. Only Peter Osterhaus remained quiet, a look of resignation on his face.
McPherson raised his hand, motioning for them to quiet down. “Make no mistake, gentlemen. Tomorrow we will be in a foot race, and the stakes are the survival of this army. The ambulances and wagons are impedimenta, and we need every advantage
we can get. That is Stonewall Jackson over there, a man who made his bones training his infantry into ‘foot cavalry’.”
Logan asked “Can we at least bring along those less severely injured?”
McPherson shook his head. “You all know a column marches as fast as its slowest element. Jackson can afford to leave his wagons and wounded behind, with no fear of capture. He’ll move fast. We have to move faster.”
They can see I’m right, McPherson thought. It still leaves a bad taste in their mouth. Mine too. No one likes it. I need to buck them up.
With a wry smile, McPherson continued “Stonewall Jackson believes he is the hardest, fastest marcher in America. I aim to show him the error of that belief. I believe this army, our army, is the fleetest of foot that has ever gone to war, and tomorrow we’re going to prove it. We’re leaving the wagons, the ambulances and the wounded, but by sunset tomorrow, this army will straddle the Duck River.”
Logan said “Mac, you can’t be serious? Columbia is 40 miles away! The men will straggle by the thousand.”
“No, they won’t. They know as well as I do that straggling means capture, or worse, murder at the hands of some secessesh bushwhacker. Gentlemen, you have my orders. See to them. Dismissed.”
10:00 p.m.
Headquarters, Army of Tennessee, CSA
Behind Redding Ridge
Jackson had also called all his senior commanders together: Polk, Featherston, Cleburne, French, Maney, Clayton, Stevenson, and Forrest. Sandie Pendleton was in attendance, and also Frank Cheatham, although it was well understood that the latter wasn’t up to resuming his duties yet.
Jackson listened quietly as each man gave his report. In addition to Hood and Cheatham, three brigadiers and more than a dozen colonels were among the casualties. Against that was the capture of two dozen enemy cannon, and thousands of prisoners from the known destruction of Veatch’s Division, including General Veatch himself. More than that was not known yet.
Cleburne was the last called on to speak. Polk sat serenely, but inwardly he grew upset as he listened to the Irishman’s frank admission that he had gone to Featherston and openly usurped command over a division of Polk’s Corps. Heretofore, Featherston hadn’t known for sure that Cleburne lacked proper authority to give him any orders. Now Cleburne was openly admitting to deceiving him, and it left him fuming.
“General Jackson, this man lied to me and committed an illegal act! I demand...”
Jackson shouted back “Demand?! You demand?!”
As far as he was concerned, Cleburne’s destruction of Veatch’s Division was the only real accomplishment of the entire day. He was in no mood whatsoever for a spat over how that one bright spot came about.
Jackson sighed, letting go of his burning desire to pillory Featherston. An ugly display of temper now would serve no purpose.
Instead, he said “As the only major general fit for duty in Hood’s Corps, General Cleburne must assume acting command. That is final.”
“But,” Featherston sputtered.
“Final!” Jackson growled.
Featherston’s expression soured, but he held his tongue.
“Half an hour before dawn,” Jackson said “all infantry divisions are to advance skirmishers to probe the enemy lines. That is all. Dismissed.”
Polk spoke up. “General Jackson, as you have heard from every one of your commanders, there is hardly a morsel of food in this army. When can we expect the wagons to catch up?”
“Dismissed,” Jackson repeated flatly.
He watched as the generals filed out, waiting for Forrest to pass and seeking out his eyes. “General Forrest, a moment, please.”
Forrest stopped. He had just been musing on how his first, stormy meeting with Jackson had been in the early hours of this very same day. It felt like a week ago.
“General Jackson, I wish to apologize to you for my outburst this morning. There ain’t no excusing it, but...”
Jackson waved him off. “That matter is concluded. I wish to hear no more of it, but there is something else. I have heard that you personally shot men who were skulking behind the lines today. Is this true?”
Forrest nodded. “I shot at a man, sir, to put the scare in him. Just the one, he ain’t wounded, let alone killed, and he was running, not skulking.”
Jackson nodded. “I approve of your intentions, but under the law, even cowards are entitled to a fair trial. Arrest such people in the future, instead of shooting them.”
Forrest was slightly surprised by his commander’s punctiliousness. Whatever his other faults, Braxton Bragg had no such qualms. He would readily order the summary execution of a deserter or coward, if the circumstances called for it. It was one of the few things about Bragg that Forrest approved of.
“General Jackson,” Forrest replied, “I can’t obey your order, so if you insist, I’ll have call to resign. And I’ll tell you why. If that man had kept running, I would have shot him dead right where he was. I ain’t shooting at them yellow bastards for punishment. I’m shooting at them to put the scare in them and get them back onto the firing line. Ain’t no coward going to stand and fight just because I threaten them with arrest now and a shooting later.”
Jackson considered that for a moment. When one man started running, others always followed. “You have a point. Very well. Shoot as many skulkers as you deem proper. But shoot to wound them. I want to try them later, and if found guilty, stood before a firing squad.”
Forrest chuckled at that, saying “Yessir.” He saluted and left.
Only Jackson and Sandie remained. Alone at last, Sandie said softly “General, don’t you think the Federals will retreat during the night?”
Jackson grinned back at him. “If that is what I thought, Sandie, I dared not reveal it. But you are right, and that is why you are to prepare marching orders for the army tonight: Stewart, Polk, Cleburne and Forrest. If he is still in Lawrenceburg, I have a separate set of attack orders I want prepared too. Either way, you will have the paperwork ready for dispatch by dawn.”
Jackson continued, sketching out his various plans while Sandie quietly took notes on what he wanted, for both major contingencies. When that was done, Sandie asked “What about rations? General Polk was right. The ammunition wagons caught up with us this evening, so the cartridge boxes and caissons will be full in the morning, but most of the men emptied their haversacks today. The rations won’t be here until early tomorrow morning.”
Jackson replied flatly “If the enemy is still in Lawrenceburg tomorrow, we can distribute rations. If not, I won’t wait for them.” Better they starve now than have to storm the fortifications at Nashville later, he thought.
Sandie said nothing, and went about turning his notes into formal orders, while Jackson stole a couple of hours of sleep.
10:30 p.m.
Maney’s Brigade, Cheatham’s Division
Oak Ridge
Nathan drained the last of his pillaged flask, and then threw it away.
Willie muttered “You ought not to drink like that, not on an empty belly.”
“God dammit,” Nathan spat. “It’s because my belly’s empty that I’m drinking it all.”
Nathan slumped onto his back. It wasn’t just the exhaustion and the hunger. It was the awful taste in his mouth from biting open cartridges all day. He had only half a canteen of water left, there wasn’t a creek or spring anywhere near, and he knew better than to drink the rest before he knew when more might be coming.
Unlike the Yankees across the way, not a man in the regiment lit a campfire. No one had any food to cook, or anything to boil, and it was a pleasantly cool night. Willie laid out both their gum blankets, one on top of the other. Nathan crawled over and took his place, Willie lay down, the boys shook out their other blankets, and they went to sleep.
CHAPTER 12
May 6
4:30 a.m.
Main Headquarters, Military Division of the Mississippi, USA
Richardson House
&nbs
p; Chattanooga, Tennessee
Sherman awoke sharply, his mind clear. Audenried was there.
“There is an urgent message for you, sir. From General McPherson.”
Sherman rolled into a sitting position on the side of the bed. He snatched the paper from Audenried’s hand, and asked for more light. He read the message, then set it aside and sat quietly for a moment.
Finally, Sherman whispered “I’ll be damned.”
“Sir?” Audenried asked.
Sherman jumped up. “Major, go tell the duty officer to rouse the staff. Every man. There are plans to make and papers to draw up. Then you go yourself, straight to General Thomas’s headquarters. Get him out of bed and get his staff up as well. Tell Old Pap to come directly over here.”
Audenried left smartly. Alone now, Sherman dressed, repeating again and in a more regular tone of voice “I’ll be damned.”
Stonewall Jackson in Lawrence County, Sherman thought, with Polk, Hood and Stewart. That was at least six infantry divisions, maybe as many as eight, plus cavalry. Perhaps 50,000 men, maybe more. McPherson has a little over 30,000.
Emerging from his bedroom, Sherman went immediately to his gathering staff, every one of them bleary-eyed. He lit a cigar, waved the match out, and took several hard drags before sitting down and starting to write.
Sherman’s first set of orders were to the garrison commanders along the Nashville and Decatur railroad, now uncovered by McPherson’s defeat, calling for a consolidation in Pulaski, Athens, Huntsville, and Decatur, if practicable. Those towns had forts and large garrisons, and might be able to hold out if a major Rebel force came calling. The rest of the railroad was held by small detachments in log blockhouses, and Jackson or Forrest could gobble those men up at will.
Sherman blotted his ink, took the paper, and held it out. “Take that to the telegraph office. It takes priority.”
George H. Thomas walked in, the floorboards creaking under his bulk. A tall, erect man endowed early in life with a set of wide, powerful shoulders, which had come to be rivaled by his huge belly. Thomas had put on considerable weight over the last few years, and Sherman thought he now resembled nothing so much as a portly, aged bear.
Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) Page 23
