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

by Thomas, R. E.

  “Reckon they’ll finally shut up after this?”

  Marks drawled slowly, affably. “They might. They just might.”

  Talking wasn’t working. Nathan had hoped to take his mind off his plight, but each step made him feel weaker and hungrier. He whispered to his brother “Let’s fall out, go foraging. We’ll catch up tonight, bring some vittles for the company.”

  “No” Willie shot back, with uncharacteristic firmness.

  “No?”

  Willie became irritated, and hissed “No. You just don’t get it, do you, Nathan?”

  “Well, why don’t you explain it to me, seeing as how you reckon you know everything now?” asked Nathan, half-amused and half-annoyed.

  Willie ignored the jibe. “This ain’t like before. Donelson, Raymond, Chickamauga, ain’t like none of that. We got them Yankees on the run this time! Old Jack’s going take us all the way. If we don’t whip them and whip them fellers good, I reckon ain’t going be no Pemberton or Bragg to blame. This whole thing, it’s all on us.”

  Nathan was quiet for a time. Then they heard cheers rising from behind them, farther back down the road.

  “Besides,” Willie said, “I reckon them fellers in the Cumberland Gap didn’t have Old Jack hounding them every which way.”

  As Willie Grimes spoke those last words, Jackson pounded up the road, followed by his staff officers, who were struggling to keep up. He had spent most of the middle part of the morning attending to details in Lawrenceburg, not the least among them putting his commissary chief, Wells Hawks, onto organizing the captured wagon trains, as well as to seeing that the almost 4,000 Federal prisoners were organized, issued rations, and marched off to Florence under guard. He had also personally ordered the punishment for those looters from Featherston’s Division who had broken into the Yankee whiskey stores and gotten drunk, and were therefore unable to rejoin the march on any terms: they were to fell trees, so each one of them could fashion a rough post, and carry that post on their shoulders to wherever the army went to.

  Now that he was on the road with his soldiers again, Jackson was stopping to cajole stragglers as he went. For the most part, he chose to ignore soldiers who were still trudging forward, trying to keep up, in favor of focusing his ire upon those who had stopped for rest or wandered off the road in search of food or water. He shouted at them, shamed them, threatened them, anything to get them back on the road and moving again.

  Jackson was in the midst of such a harangue at one such hapless group of stragglers when a courier galloped up on a frothing horse. “Message from General Forrest for you, sir. With the General’s compliments.”

  Jackson took the message and read it. Forrest was capturing enemy stragglers by the dozens, and was locked in a running skirmish with their rear guard. As of yet, he could not pin that rear guard down. Whenever he tried to make them stand, they shot their way out with repeaters.

  Handing the message to Sandie, he said “McPherson is forcing the march. Forcing it hard.”

  Sandie said “Forrest is several miles to the front. They might be in Maury County by now. I have to say, General, I never would have counted on such good marching from the Northrons.”

  Jackson grunted “I do not want them good.”

  “No, sir.”

  They can keep Forrest back, Jackson thought. They can force the march with extreme vigor today, they can get ahead. But they can’t keep this pace up. Tomorrow they will slow down. We’ll still be on their heels, and Stewart will be out in front of them.

  Jackson dismounted, withdrew his writing satchel from his saddlebag, and retired to a nearby tree stump to compose fresh orders for A.P Stewart.

  Noon

  Stewart’s Corps, Army of Tennessee, CSA

  Pulaski, Tennessee

  Stewart rode forward to Pulaski in response to a summons from Brigadier General Abraham Buford, whom he had sent ahead with the cavalry to bottle up the town garrison, and to find a way around the center of town and onto the Columbia Pike. Stewart had forced the march from Lawrenceburg, and with a clear road ahead of him, his infantry was now only a few miles from town. He found Buford waiting for him on the roadside, roughly a mile outside of town.

  “I’ve found your way around Pulaski, General Stewart!” Buford declared cheerily. “I just finished reconnoitering it myself.”

  Pointing off the road and to the north, Buford continued. “This here track leads through the hills, goes along Pigeon Roost Creek, and comes back out onto the Bumpass Road. That’s the old frontier times name for the Pike. Now that track is rough, and it’s narrow in spots, but it is solid ground.”

  Stewart asked “How long is your detour? Can artillery and wagons pass it?”

  “Yes, they can. The trail is a little more than three miles.” Buford smacked his thigh, adding “One more thing. We found that the Yankees had set up a commissary for runaways south of town. There must have been a few thousand darkies down there, all told. The darkies ran for the hills as soon as we showed up, but I captured the commissary’s stores, sir.”

  “Outstanding, Buford, outstanding!” Stewart exclaimed. The supply wagons were back in Lawrenceburg, and he had more than 15,000 hungry mouths to feed. Now he had a large store of Yankee hardtack, bacon, beans, and coffee to do it with. Stewart issued orders to his staff to bring those stores up to the junction, where Buford’s Pigeon Roost track met the Pulaski Road, and to organize an operation to hand out rations as the men marched by.

  That done, Stewart turned his attention to the enemy. “What about the Union fort?”

  “I surrounded it with dismounted cavalry. There are some hills north and west of that fort, in range and of equal height. Perfect for artillery.”

  “Really? Then let’s go have a look.”

  Buford took Stewart up to the top of the hills west of Pulaski, their combined staffs and escorts numbering close to one hundred riders. There was little need for secrecy, as the town was already full of Confederate cavalry. Stewart made sure his guidon was in full view of any watchful eyes from the Federal fort, announcing his presence to the Yankee garrison. He saw that he could bring up guns onto this western hill unseen, and he guessed the range to be about 1,200 yards.

  Putting guns on the northern hills would mean doubling back on the Columbia Pike, and there might not be enough time for his guns to make the trip.

  “Bring our rifled guns up” Stewart said to his chief of artillery, “and put them on this hill. Buford, I want you to send your horse artillery around to those firing positions on the north. Keep your guns out of sight. At four o’clock, my rifles will fire some ranging shot. When you hear it, push your guns forward. Then we’ll make a surrender demand.”

  Buford tipped his hat. “Right, sir.”

  Stewart returned to where the Pigeon Roost track met the Pulaski Road, to show himself to his soldiers as they marched off the road and started their detour. He was watching as his rifled cannon clattered past and rolled toward Pulaski when a courier arrived, bearing a message from Jackson.

  Noon, May 6

  Army Headquarters in the Field

  To Lt. Gen. Alexander P. Stewart

  My Dearest General,

  I regret to share news that our enemy is making fast progress north by means of disciplined marches. He has sustained a lead of several miles, and unencumbered by wagons as he is, he may reach Columbia by nightfall.

  In view of these developments, you are ordered to bivouac on the road tonight, and give your troops four hours rest. Upon resuming your march, direct your corps to the Lewisburg Pike, and follow this road north. You are to continue through Lewisburg, suspending all stops for rest, until reaching the vicinity of Spring Hill, Thompson’s Station or Franklin. Once there, your corps will cross over on whatever road is most convenient, intercept the enemy, and impede his further advance.

  Sincerely and Respectfully,

  T.J. Jackson

  General, CSA

  Stewart smiled as he folded the mess
age up and put it in his pocket. He knew that the typical Jackson order would specify when he was to bivouac, when he was to get up, where he was to intercept McPherson’s army, and every other last detail, foreseeable or unforeseeable. Stewart had received such orders himself during the winter, but these days Jackson was leaving him with some discretion. He was Stonewall Jackson’s right-hand man now, and that made him glow with pride.

  He imagined a map of the region in his mind, every detail meticulously memorized days ago. McPherson was set to finish a 40 mile march in one day. Even without his wagons, it was an impressive feat, so much so Stewart involuntarily whistled at the thought. Yet the Federals would be left blasted by their own exertion. They could never set such a pace tomorrow.

  My soldiers will be fed tonight, Stewart thought, and have hardtack to eat on the road tomorrow. The winter training in Georgia and the march from central Alabama had made them superbly fit. If he left behind his own wagons, he might match what the Federals were accomplishing this day, and he might just overtake them tomorrow afternoon.

  Stewart checked his watch. It was half past three. He dictated the orders he wanted drawn up to his staff, left them to do the paperwork, and then rode into Pulaski.

  Finding Buford, he said “General, when this affair with the garrison is over, whatever the outcome, you are to go with two brigades of your cavalry to Lewisburg. They are to ride through dark and on until they get there, understood? Leave your other brigade behind to protect our rear and the corps wagon train.”

  “But what about this fort and its supplies? We can...”

  Stewart interrupted him. “Capturing this fort doesn’t matter when there is an entire Federal army out there as a prize. We have our orders.”

  Stewart could see from Buford’s pained expression that he didn’t like the idea, and was thinking about whether to argue some more. No proper raider would like the idea, Stewart thought, but we are more than raiders here today.

  Finally, Buford said “Yessir.”

  Almost on cue, the Confederate guns fired a salvo. The two generals watched through their glasses as some cannonballs struck home, cratering into the fort’s breastworks. Turning to the northern hills, they watched as Buford’s guns were rapidly brought forward and unlimbered. The cannon in the fort remained silent.

  Stewart said “We’ve made our impression. Time to see if those Yankees want to come out. Send your messenger, General Buford.”

  Buford signaled to his chief aide, who left along with an escort bearing a white flag. Before long, they returned with a blue-coated officer in tow.

  Introducing himself, the northern officer said “Major Owings, 9th Indiana Cavalry. I have the pleasure to represent Brigadier General John Starkweather, U.S. Volunteers.”

  Stewart knew the name. Starkweather had been a brigadier in their old enemy, the Army of the Cumberland, and consequently had been at Perryville, Murfreesboro and Chickamauga. A man like that might prove a tough nut to crack.

  “I am Lieutenant General Alexander Stewart, Major, and this man is Brigadier General Abraham Buford. It is my duty to inform you that our army, under General Thomas Jackson, met and defeated the Federal force under the command of General McPherson in Lawrenceburg yesterday. I am here with my entire corps, plus General Buford’s division of cavalry. To prevent a needless effusion of blood, I must call upon General Starkweather to surrender his garrison immediately, and I invite him to discuss terms.”

  The officer hesitated, and then said “I will relay your request to the General.”

  “Major Owings, before you go back, I thought I might show you the predicament you and your garrison are in. Would you accompany me?”

  Owings nodded, and Stewart led him out of Pulaski and onto the road to Lawrenceburg to see a long column of infantry on the march. The men on the road were Clayton’s, Stewart’s old division, and they waved and cheered at the sight of their former chief.

  Stewart explained “This division is swinging around to the north and east of town, safely out of sight of your artillery. Behind them is another division. In the morning, I will have my entire corps and all my cannon in place and ready to assault your fort after dawn. If you force me to attack, I cannot answer for the bloodshed that must ensue.”

  No need to exaggerate, Stewart thought. The reality looks bad enough for them.

  Major Owings swallowed. “I will relay this back to my commanding officer, sir.”

  Owings returned to the fort with his grey-coated minders, and Stewart settled in to wait for a reply. It was not long before those greycoats returned bearing a message.

  Afternoon, May 6

  Pulaski, Tennessee

  To Lt. Gen. A.P. Stewart:

  Dear sir,

  It is my pleasure to inform you that I will not give up so fine a place to hang my hat as this fort without having made the attempt to defend it. While I sincerely regret any inconvenience my decision may have caused you, I fear if you want my fort, you must come take it.

  Kindest Regards,

  John Converse Starkweather,

  Brig. Gen. of Infantry, USA

  Stewart sighed and chuckled as he handed the message to an aide. Starkweather’s bravado would pay dividends for him. There would be no assault, no siege, he thought. At sunrise, Starkweather would find his enemies all long gone. Yet this charade was not for nothing. At least now the Yankees might be scared enough to stay in their little bolt hole for a time, and not trouble my wagon train.

  8:00 pm

  The Atheneum

  Headquarters, Army of the Tennessee, USA

  Columbia, Tennessee

  “Your supper, sir.”

  McPherson looked up from his papers to the bacon sandwich and pot of coffee placed before him.

  “Thank you,” he said, pouring a cup of coffee and sipping on it while resuming his work.

  Confederate cavalry had found them not long after sun-up, and dogged them every step of the way. Minty did a fine job of holding them back, but he had shot off most of his ammunition by the time the running cavalry skirmish reached Mt. Pleasant. As soon as his lead division, John Smith’s, crossed Bigby Creek on the outskirts of Columbia, he ordered that division to deploy in defensive positions behind the creek.

  The rest of the Army of the Tennessee marched by, through Columbia, and across the Duck River. Then he withdrew Minty’s cavalry behind Smith, and the pursuing butternuts found a rude surprise waiting for them: a full division of infantry backed by four batteries of artillery, all spoiling for a fight.

  Minty’s tired troopers were now guarding the nearer fords of the Duck River, such as Davis’s Ford about four miles east. In an hour or two, he would pull John Smith’s command and Columbia’s resident garrison back across the Duck, and then demolish the bridges. In the meantime, McPherson had the next day’s marching orders to draw up.

  McPherson was chewing the last bite of his sandwich when a dusty Colonel Minty came in. McPherson immediately jumped to his feet and offered his hand. “Colonel Minty, that was outstanding work today. Well done, well done! I am recommending you to Sherman for a star and permanent division command.”

  Minty grinned, cheeks turning red. “Thank you, sir. Ahm, it was all in a day’s work.”

  “What complete rot. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a solid cavalryman in this army? The Rebs seem to pluck them from trees, but in our army, fellows like you are a rare quantity.”

  Minty’s posture became visibly more erect, his rising pride dulling the fatigue of spending all of that day and the last in the saddle.

  McPherson continued “Now, I have something I need you to do, and I wanted you to hear it directly from me. We resume the march at 3 a.m. tomorrow. At 2 a.m., I want you to dispatch the Saber Brigade to Franklin. I hate to deprive the rear guard of them, but I don’t think Jackson and Forrest will lay snugly in their beds tonight. I wouldn’t be surprised if they aren’t crossing a more distant ford somewhere. Franklin has some old earthworks that w
ere thrown up there about two years ago. I don’t want any Reb cavalry getting there and blocking our line of retreat. You get there first.”

  “That might be a tall order, if Forrest swings around and rides hard on us. What can I expect in terms of support?” Minty asked.

  “I’m sending the Columbia garrison up behind you by forced march. I can’t very well leave them here. It’s several hundred strong. They are fresh, the only fresh troops I have at this point. I expect they will be there by mid-morning. It will have to do. The rest of us should be there by mid-afternoon.”

  “Yessir. Well, if there is nothing else, I need to see to my men.” The two generals exchanged salutes, and Minty left.

  McPherson picked up his coffee cup. The men are tired, very tired, he thought, and will have trouble keeping up even a normal marching pace. But Jackson would need to repair the bridges to use them, couldn’t use the nearer fords until Minty’s troopers retreated, and using the farther fords entailed a detour of several miles out and several miles back.

  “I’ll get us out of this yet,” he said to himself. “I swear before almighty God I will.”

  CHAPTER 13

  May 7

  6:30 a.m.

  Army of Tennessee, CSA

  Columbia, Tennessee

  “Gentlemen, forward!” Polk shouted. He rode past the fife and drum band he had ordered to the outskirts of Columbia, and led a party of mounted attendants, staff officers and escorts into the town. Nattily attired in spotless, well-brushed uniforms adorned with sparkling spurs, buttons and swords, and wearing polished leather boots, Polk’s assembled headquarters made quite an impression on the residents of Columbia, who hurried from their homes to welcome the troops. Behind them marched the infantry and artillery of his corps, or the Army of Mississippi, as he still insisted on calling it.

  Polk wore the smile of a man content with the world. Last night, he suggested that his troops move into Columbia in the morning, occupy the town, and repair the Duck River bridges. Jackson consented, gave the harder task of forcing the river’s fords to Cleburne, and assigned his own engineers to assist in the bridge work. All Polk had to do now was liberate the seat of Maury County, the home ground of the Polk clan.