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

by Thomas, R. E.

  Thomas grunted “Good morning,” and shook hands with Sherman.

  “What do you think of this?” Sherman asked, giving Thomas the telegram from McPherson.

  Thomas spent several minutes reading the message. Sherman tapped his foot against the floor, expending his nervous energy and impatience, but saying nothing.

  Finally, Thomas asked flatly “So which corps are we leaving to garrison Chattanooga?”

  Sherman grinned at Thomas’s implication that most of the army would go north. “None. I’m taking one of your corps, putting it on the Nashville and Chattanooga, and reforming the Army of the Tennessee in Nashville. A.J. Smith and the XVI Corps’ other two divisions are on the Mississippi River as we speak, so I’m sending them on to Louisville, and then to Nashville by the trains. That ought to give me sufficient force to break up Jackson.”

  “You’re assuming McPherson will bring his army to Nashville intact,” Thomas said, quietly but firmly. “And isn’t it dangerous to send troops to Nashville by train with an enemy army running loose in Middle Tennessee?”

  “Yes, I am,” Sherman replied confidently. “And as for Jackson in Middle Tennessee, I’m betting he will pursue Mac right up to the gates of Nashville. Even if he doesn’t, he is three or four days hard marching from the Nashville and Chattanooga line. I’ll have that corps moved from here to there by then.”

  “Really?” Thomas asked, more audibly.

  “I intend to leave the wagons, cannon and caissons for last. Men and animals go first. Nashville has an ample stock of surplus artillery, and hundreds of wagons under repair in the city’s workshops. I can replace those things quickly enough. I can’t replace the men as readily, and will have a damned hard time finding new horses and mules. We can move that much in three days, I’m certain of it.”

  Sherman had thought through the transportation problems while waiting for Thomas, his mind clicking through the details like an arithmometer. While he hadn’t finished working through the details of his mental plan just yet, he had done enough to achieve certainty that he had sufficient time and wherewithal to move the essentials, and that anything that he had not deemed essential could be replaced in a matter of weeks.

  Thomas folded his hands across his broad chest. “Which corps do you want?”

  Sherman motioned at Thomas. “Schofield’s Army of the Ohio is still in Knoxville and too far away, as we need to start putting men in the cars now. I want you to get about making it happen immediately, so I’m sorry to say, it has to be a corps from your Army of the Cumberland, one that is on hand. I was going to leave the choice to...”

  “Hooker,” Thomas interrupted.

  Sherman was surprised at the choice for a moment, as well as the uncharacteristic speed with which it was delivered, but then thought better of it. They had been roommates at West Point, served together afterward in the 3rd U.S. Artillery, and then came together again in Kentucky during the early days of the war. He knew George Thomas very well, and Thomas had served with the Army of the Cumberland since before it even bore that name. The two corps Thomas wanted to keep were veterans of that army, survivors of Perryville, Stones River, Chickamauga, and Chattanooga. They were Thomas’s boys.

  Joe Hooker’s XX Corps, on the other hand, was made up of spit and polish soldiers from back east, most definitely not Thomas’s boys. “Fighting” Joe himself was the half-disgraced former commander of the Army of the Potomac. What made it a surprise was that while XX Corps weren’t family, they were the biggest outfit in the entire western theater, 20,000 strong.

  Sherman said “Very well. Get Hooker moving at once. I’ll draw up orders putting Schofield under your command. You rank him anyway, and Schofield isn’t the sort to make trouble, but I’ll put it in writing and make it official anyway. That gives you the IV, XIV and XXIII Corps, plus two divisions of cavalry. If the reports are true, then Hardee it must be in Dalton with what amounts to one big corps. You are to go after him and push onto Atlanta.”

  “Now, what can you tell me about Bill Hardee?” asked Sherman. “You mentioned you served with him, last time I was here.”

  Thomas replied “Yes, we were both majors in Albert Johnston’s 2nd Cavalry, in the Old Army.” After that he was quiet for a time, but finally he grinned slightly and remarked “Able, but thoroughly conventional. He is a by the book man, which only figures, as he wrote that book. Once something is done to his expectations, he tends to take it for granted. Becomes complacent.”

  Sherman nodded. He could see Thomas already had some ideas on how to proceed against Hardee, but chose not to ask. Sherman knew Thomas would share his plans when he was good and ready.

  Thomas asked “Is there anything further, Bill?”

  “Just one thing. Your supply line might be interrupted in the coming days, but you have ample stores here in Chattanooga. I put in enough supplies to sustain an army twice the size of what you’ll be left with for more than 30 days.”

  Sherman paused, reflecting on whether what he wanted to say was appropriate. Deciding it was, he continued. “George, this is your time. You wanted an independent field army, you waited until you could get one honestly, without the scheming and the politicking, and now you have it. Whip Hardee, but do it quickly. I’m not going to leave you stranded in North Georgia, but you need to get this done before you’re scraping the bottom of your cracker barrel.”

  5:30 a.m.

  Maney’s Brigade, Cheatham’s Division, CSA

  Outside Lawrenceburg, Tennessee

  Nathan Grimes woke with a start. By reflex, he seized the arm that was gently shaking him. Then his eyes cleared and he could see Corporal Marks.

  “Get up, Nathan. We’s on patrol.”

  “Any food?” Nathan asked.

  “Naw.”

  Nathan’s stomach growled as he sat up. He gave Willie a shove to wake him as well, and set about rolling the bulk of his gear up in his gum blanket. He was on his feet and ready in little more than a minute.

  The company mustered beyond the trench line, 18 sleepy, hungry men led by a first sergeant. They spread out by groups of two and four, and advanced towards the Yankee line. Nathan and Willie formed one such skirmish group, just the two of them. The company returned to the woods of White Oak Hollow, and before long campfires could be seen flickering, standing out in the inky dark of the nighttime forest.

  Then Tennesseans crept up to where they expected to find the enemy picket line, and then to where they expected to find the enemy main line. All they found were some scraps of rubbish and crackling, well-fueled campfires.

  “Damn, fellas,” Nathan said, in hushed, but audible tones. “They was just here.”

  First Sergeant Halpern gathered up the company, and dispatched a runner back to the regiment. Then he told the rest to have a look around. “See if them blue bellies didn’t leave a cracker box behind or something’.”

  6:30 am

  Army of Tennessee, CSA

  Lawrenceburg

  Word that the Yankees had skedaddled during the night made its way up to Jackson’s headquarters, whereupon Sandie Pendleton issued the set of detailed written orders for a pursuit, orders that had occupied so much of his sleepless night. The other, now useless set he of orders carried out to a nearby campfire and burned.

  Nathan Bedford Forrest left first, leading the chase. He took the four brigades of Red Jackson’s cavalry around the low rolling country and across the many shallow creeks east of Lawrenceburg, rejoining Andrew Jackson’s Military Road a few miles north of town. A.P. Stewart was directed to take his corps and Abe Buford’s cavalry east to Pulaski, swing around the Federals and cut them off from Nashville. The corps of Polk and the deceased Hood, now under Cleburne, would push up behind Forrest as the main body of the pursuit.

  Polk yawned as he rode past French’s column, his guidon-bearer beside him and a large entourage of staffers and escorting cavalry behind him. He didn’t like rising early and had never truly become accustomed to it, even after more than
three years of military service.

  If he was more tired than usual on this particular morning, it was because Polk had spent most of the early morning hours dictating and editing a letter that was to be sent to friendly Confederate newspapers, a letter that was to be published under a pseudonym. Still, it wasn’t every day he was at hand to liberate a Southern town, and he fully intended to be the first general of note into Lawrenceburg.

  Thinking about it brought a self-satisfied smile to Polk’s face. It was a masterpiece of political craftsmanship, giving the lion’s share of the credit for bagging Veatch’s Division to Polk, but not slighting the noble Featherston or the aggressive Cleburne in the process. The letter criticized no one, was impossible to trace back to him, and it would put the idea that he had been instrumental to winning the Battle of Shoal Creek in the public’s mind first.

  Polk led his party of several dozen riders into Lawrenceburg, and found the county courthouse, many surrounding houses and almost any open patch of grass thereabouts filled with Northern casualties. The air stank of rot, rust and feces. “There must be thousands of them,” Polk stammered, surprised by the scale of the carnage. Why, they’ve abandoned their wounded, Polk thought. They must be fleeing in terror!

  After he dispatched an aide to inform General Jackson of his discovery, Polk exchanged a few words with the surgeons who approached him. It was common for some doctors to remain with their wounded, and the custom was to allow them to return to their own side unmolested as soon as their duties were discharged.

  Townspeople began to emerge from their houses. Lawrenceburg had seen a skirmish or two, as well as some lawlessness, but never a field army. All the people knew that morning was that a major battle had been fought south of town the day before.

  They must not even know we’ve won the battle, thought Polk. Turning his horse around, he said “People of Lawrenceburg, you are free! The northerner’s yoke is lifted! I am Leonidas Polk, and my gallant boys are marching the Military Road right now, marching to Nashville! Who among you will come out, and show us the patriotic spirit of God’s own Tennessee?”

  He led his entourage back to the main road, a crowd gathering behind him. Soon people were lining one side of the road, waving state and Confederate flags, cheering the passing soldiers on and pressing offerings of food into their hands.

  Adopting an erect, equestrian pose, Polk returned the salutes of the colonels and brigadiers as they passed. Someone was playing a fiddle, although Polk could not spy who, and the march took on a parade-like atmosphere. When Featherston rode up, Polk called out to him “God bless you boys. We have a hard march ahead, but the harder you go, the faster we’ll chase the invader from our sacred soil!”

  North of Lawrenceburg, General French rode at the front of his division, and was the first to discover the vast, collection of abandoned Yankee wagons on the outskirts of town. Immediately recognizing the potential for trouble, French detailed his provosts and his personal escort to cordon off the wagons, discouraging potential looting. He also dispatched an aide to inform Polk of the find. When his division had passed the wagon park, French called in his personal escort, but left behind his handful of provosts to continue guarding the wagons.

  Featherston’s Division came up next, with Featherston near the front. Marveling at the hundreds of wagons, all stuffed with supplies, he murmured “My my. What do we have here?” and spurred off to have a closer look, trailing Loring’s former staffers behind him.

  He rode up to the cordon formed by French’s provosts, and addressed their leader. “Major, what goes on here?”

  Saluting, the major replied “On General French’s orders, sir, we are to remain here to prevent looting until relieved.”

  Featherston blinked. Looting? he thought. By who? It isn’t as if the townspeople are going to come out and raid the Yankees’ wagons with an entire army marching by.

  Featherston waved the man off. “Consider yourself relieved. Return to General French.”

  The major paused, then said cautiously “We can wait until you’ve summoned your own guard, sir.”

  “No, no. That won’t be necessary. You are dismissed, Major.”

  Featherston waited for French’s provost detail to ride away, and then set about looking for a wagon that might contain the stores of a high-ranking headquarters mess. Surely, he thought, there are some delectables here, something suitable for my table.

  The first of Featherston’s soldiers to march past the wagon park were the men of Quarles’s Brigade, which had Tennessee men in it and were in high spirits after their joyous reception in town. Then Adams’ Brigade resisted the temptation of the fat Yankee wagons as well, as their now-deceased commander had been a salty Old Army man, and had turned his Mississippians into a well-disciplined outfit.

  Next Featherston’s old brigade marched into the wagon park, whereupon some men broke ranks. At first they confined themselves to ransacking the contents of those wagons nearest the road in search of food, and then just as quickly fell back into the column. Yet as the brigade passed, more and more men fanned out, farther and farther from the road. When Snodgrass brought his brigade into the wagon park, much of it broke ranks and streamed into the wagon park to join in, and the looting began in earnest.

  Featherston emerged from a wagon with a sackful of canned delicacies to find himself surrounded by a thousand of his men, all running amok. The sight left him slack-jawed.

  “Spread out and put a stop to this riot!” he croaked at his staff. Mounting his horse, he trotted over to a nearby sergeant, busily carving up a ham with a Bowie knife, and stuffing chunks of meat into his haversack. “You there!” he ordered. “Stop this brigandage at once. You’re a sergeant, by God. Help me round these men up and get them back in formation.”

  The sergeant sneered back “Old Swet, you can kiss my britches and take my stripes. I’m taking this here ham!”

  As Featherston ineffectually demanded that his men stop their looting, Polk arrived in response to French’s message. Expecting to find the fine prize of a fat Union wagon train, he instead found a riot. Broken crates were scattered everywhere, wagons had been overturned, and a few had even been set alight by toppled lanterns.

  The head of Hood’s Corps was marching up. Polk quickly decided the best way to avoid becoming tarnished by this catastrophe was to be the one who resolved it. He rode over to the commander of that first, oncoming regiment.

  Polk barked “Major, I want you to deploy your men into a line, single-ranked. Fix bayonets, advance double quick to the edge of the wagon park ahead, and then hold fast for further orders. Do you understand?”

  “Yessir!”

  “Then get to it, man, get to it!”

  Polk then rode into the riotous mass, trailing his escort and staffers. Adopting the style of the fire and brimstone preacher, he bellowed “Sinners! Blackhearts! You dare thieve from your brothers! Thieve and steal, while the Yankee gets away! You call yourselves Southrons? Sinners! You shame your flag! Shame your God!”

  Polk continued in this way for several minutes, and most men stopped what they were doing and looked away, shamed-faced. Slowly and grudgingly, in the way of a chastised child that knows he has done wrong, but is too proud to quite own up to it, the riotous butternuts began to fall back into line. Polk ordered Featherston to get them moving. Once he was out of the wagon park, Polk sagged with relief. It had not been necessary to break up the riot by bayonet point.

  Jackson galloped onto the scene. He stopped before Polk and demanded “General Polk, report! Why was my column halted? What mischief happened here?”

  Polk took the last step to insulate himself from the entire ugly affair. “General Jackson, it is my misfortune to report that General Featherston lost control of his troops. Some of them broke ranks, sir, and ransacked this wagon park, looking for Yankee rations, I’m sure. It’s disgraceful, absolutely disgraceful.”

  Polk met Jackson’s blazing eyes and said “I’m afraid Featherston must be repl
aced. Quarles is next in line. He is the only other brigadier in the division fit for duty.”

  Jackson’s replied in a quiet, menacing tone “No. I must suffer that fool Featherston a while longer. I would send him back to his brigade right now with the harshest reprimand, were it not for the certainty that no one under him is fit to take his place. Loring obviously allowed the entire division to deteriorate into demoralization.”

  As he spoke, Jackson became more determined than ever to court martial and cashier Loring. As his mind lingered on that thought, he testily dismissed Polk. “Alright, alright. That is all. For now.”

  11:30 a.m.

  Maney’s Brigade, Cheatham’s Division, CSA

  Andrew Jackson Military Road

  Four Miles North of Lawrenceburg

  Nathan Grimes took a drink from his canteen, hoping that would help make him feel a little less sick. Water wasn’t the problem, though, and he knew it. Not a man in the regiment had eaten since yesterday morning, and they had fought a battle since then. The day’s marching orders suspended the usual 10 minute break every hour, so they had and would continue to push on without rest. Nathan’s legs and back ached and burned, he felt a little sickly, and they hadn’t even been on the road that long.

  He called out “Hey, Ed?!”

  Corporal Marks replied “Yeap?” casting a glance over his shoulder. The regiment was marching in the free-limbed, spacious stride of the Westerner, but the officers kept them in a loose formation. Marks marched in the rank ahead of Nathan and Willie.

  “Remember what them other fellers said, about coming back from Kentucky?”

  Marks said “Yeap, I certainly do.” The men who had been with Bragg in Kentucky were always spinning yarns about coming through Cumberland Gap and East Tennessee in the dead of winter, marching shoeless over mountains with an icy wind blowing in their face, and only a handful of parched corn in their haversacks.