River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4)

by Phillip Bryant

  They had awakened to a layer of frost blanketing everything and a chill that never escaped the bones. His troopers weren’t enough to hold a skirmish line and keep a third squad ready for any contingency, so everyone had to do with little sleep and detail on the line every few hours. Annoyingly, the artillerists sounded awfully well rested and gay this morning. To a man, they had retired to bedrolls and slumber while his troopers stayed awake all night.

  Will had allowed himself a few hours’ rest but was up before light seeing to the skirmish line and making sure relief was being conducted on time. If men hated anything about army life, it was inconsistency in command and a disregard for the necessities. Men volunteered and took an oath and were sworn to follow orders, but when those orders were not backed up by attention to detail and relief, the soldiers lost faith in those who would ask them to sacrifice life and limb for them.

  This had been Jackson Kearns’s biggest failure, Will reflected: lack of concern for his men. They had just been pawns for his own climb to the top. Will had other ideas of what his troopers were for, and though at times that meant taking risks with their lives, at least he made sure they were seen to when they needed something. Right now, they needed something to do!

  The morning had passed in quiet. No sounds of skirmishing, no cannon fire, no sounds of anything save for the coughing and grousing and jocularity from the artillery campfires. The fog had abated, leaving a view down the pike and past the naked limbs of the cedar brakes that lined the far distance of the open field. No enemy.

  Perhaps it was time to find out what the enemy was up to.

  Will had positioned himself at the base of the hill with the guns above him and his troopers spread out in an arc two hundred yards from there. If the enemy did approach, this was not the place to be—with the cannon belching fire directly over his head. But he didn’t want the guns to suddenly disappear on him if it came to a fight either. His relief squads were scattered around the base of the hill, with their cook fires and the horse picket behind the hill a distance back with the artillery mounts and caissons. Sitting there now, looking down the pike as it stretched into nothingness, he decided it was time to do something other than sit and wait.

  “Sergeant Monk, come along; we’re going to speak to Colonel Webb and his rangers,” Will called out to his first sergeant. The man started to ride for the rear of the hill when Will called out, “On foot.”

  Monk gave him a curious look as he dismounted, and Will continued, “Orders were to support the battery, but they weren’t clear on doing anything else—like keeping tabs on the enemy. Enemy isn’t about, so I’m going to see if Webb is game for a reconnaissance down the road a bit to see what is what.”

  “Sir, I gotcha.”

  “How’s the rations?”

  “Low, sir. Fodder low too.”

  Will stopped as he made the center of the pike. Their little piece of real estate sat two hundred yards to the left of the pike, and the two crossed the field through damp clods and the remnants of cotton plants. Little white cotton puffs left from harvest still littered the ground, sticking to their damp shoes and trouser legs like heat-resistant snowflakes. The road was devoid of any traffic.

  “You thinkin’ of pushing down the road, sir? Or peel off an’ go cross-country?”

  “Cross-country. See what we can see of the enemy positions; figure out what they doin’. Don’t know why they stopped, an’ tired of waitin’ to find out.”

  Continuing on, they had to cross another picked-over cotton field and travel another three hundred yards to get to the other section of Wiggins’s battery, with the 51st Alabama ranged around it. Colonel Webb stood near the guns contentedly smoking a cigar when Will approached.

  “Hunter, what is it?” Webb asked through his cigar, the words coming out as, “Hun’er, wha’ ishit?”

  “Sir, with your permission and participation, I’m of the mind to see what the Yankees is all about this morning. Push along your flank a patrol to find out why the Yankees is not approaching.”

  Removing his cigar, Webb looked testily at Will. “What you want to go an’ stir up a hornets’ nest for? The boys is enjoying a respite; let ’em.”

  “Is your picket line in contact with the enemy?” Will asked.

  “No, an’ I’m glad fer it,” Webb replied and replaced the cigar, taking a long drag.

  “I propose to find out if they still in our front. No sense them pushing forward last two days to suddenly stop. La Vergne ain’t what I call strategic property. My orders was to support Bryant’s section of guns, but nothing about not keepin’ an eye on the enemy neither.”

  Webb grunted in reply and rolled the cigar from the left to the right side of his mouth. He took another drag. Blowing out slowly and removing the cigar, he regarded Will and Sergeant Monk closely. “You isn’t intending to abandon Bryant’s guns, is you? You isn’t intending to stir up a fight, is you? Don’t think your Colonel Allen will be appreciative of that.”

  “No sir, just to satisfy my curiosity an’ put the men to some use. Standing picket for hours and doing nothing is grating. Want to see what the enemy is up to. Lettin’ you know that we is going to be out, small squad, on your flank.”

  Webb nodded sharply. “You bring trouble down on my boys, I’ll deal with you m’self. You ain’t under my command, but if you was, I’d tell you to keep your mounts on the picket line and your eyes watchin’ the road.”

  “So I have your permission to push out on your flank with a small patrol?” Will asked.

  “Yes, seein’ as you gonna do what you want anyhow. Hunter, you bring trouble with you, an’ I’ll have your head fer it,” Webb snapped and went back to his contemplative cigar smoking.

  As Will and Monk left, the sergeant asked, “Sir, you sure you want to push out? Webb’s right: they boys could use a rest like this, no matter how boring.”

  “We’ll ask for volunteers; I’m certain we’ll have to chase most back with a stick. No sense in sittin’ around waitin’ when we could be developin’ the enemy positions. Do what cavalry supposed to do, not play nursemaid to a bunch of lazy artillerymen! Since Webb nominally in charge, if he don’t say no, then I take that as a yes.”

  As they made their way back to the pike, Will chanced a look over his left shoulder, expecting to see an empty country lane—cold and misty and otherwise devoid of any life. Instead, he stopped short and arrested Monk’s progress with a quick stay of his right hand and a swivel on his heel.

  Banners bobbing in line, many of them. Small in the distance, but borne on the arms of stalwart color-bearers making right for them, perhaps still a mile away. The dark blue of coats and the light blue of trousers forming serpentine columns that filled the road far beyond the tread of the foremost said it all. Will grinned. The wait was over.

  “Belay that order for a patrol, Monk; the enemy comin’ to us! Now we just have to keep Bryant from leavin’ us in the lurch!”

  Will took off at a trot toward Bryant’s position as the first pop pop pop of carbines from Webb’s 51st’s skirmishers sounded.

  Chapter 10

  The General’s General

  Braxton Bragg had waited too long, but Rosecrans had given him little room to divine where he was going to concentrate his army.

  Bragg resumed his restless pacing between the window of the Widow Smith’s receiving room and Johnston’s desk. Was Rosecrans really going to attack Murfreesboro, or was he going to try to slip around Bragg’s left flank and cut him off from Shelbyville and Franklin? The enemy corps moving on Bragg’s left flank was identified early on as McCook’s, but McCook was slow to reveal his intentions. Orders to Wheeler’s and Wharton’s cavalries to slow and impede McCook’s progress had been too effective, his progress now more than a day’s march behind the other corps in motion. Crittenden’s corps had already arrived above Murfreesboro the day before. Thinking the way to Murfreesboro open, Crittenden tried to cross the river and move on the town before being stopped by nightfall and s
harp skirmishing with Cleburne’s positions. But that still didn’t tell Bragg what he needed to know.

  The Widow Smith’s house had become a muddy mess as a constant flow of messengers and messages flowed into Bragg’s presence, the floors now thoroughly scuffed and the cigar ashes lying in piles. Ashes from the fireplace spilled out onto the hearth and dusted the floor in front.

  The pencil-marked map Bragg studied on this 31st of December still wasn’t helping. With his right hand steadying his rumbling bowels and the other tracing the line of the Wilkinson pike, he was no closer to making up his mind.

  Sensing what was to come next, Johnston spoke. “Polk’s corps is already dug in on the south side of the river but can only extend two miles along the Wilkinson road. If what we are hearing is accurate, McCook could be moving southeast to force us to deploy further away from Nolansville.”

  “Has Hardee completed deploying the rest of his corps next to Polk?” Bragg asked.

  “No, sir. Cleburne’s division is still on the north side of the river. Only McCowan’s division is in place next to Polk,” Johnston replied wearily. The tension of the last several days was wearing upon him, and Bragg’s temper was getting hot. “Polk’s divisions have been constructing breastworks since they were moved into position, but the men have been without shelter now for days and the weather has been icy.”

  Bragg stepped away from the desk and roamed back to the window. Through the fog and condensation upon the pane of glass, he could see that the Franklin pike was empty of traffic. He had declared he would stand here and fight if that was what Rosecrans wanted. He wasn’t sure now that he meant it.

  “And Wheeler and Wharton?” Bragg asked, still staring through the foggy window.

  “They have been ordered to return to the army’s flanks, sir. Both report strong columns advancing down the Nashville and Wilkinson pikes. Nothing further reported on the Lebanon pike, but strong columns still at Triune on the Nolansville pike. Thomas’s corps has joined Crittenden’s above the town, and Thomas’s divisions have begun to fan out from the Franklin and Wilkinson pikes into the countryside to confront Polk’s positions. McCook’s intentions still seem to be a mystery.”

  A puzzled look on his face, Johnston began to thumb through a pile of misshapen and folded papers. “Wait, Wheeler reported that the bulk of McCook’s corps was moving down the Nolansville pike from Triune yesterday, but . . .” he paused and wagged an index finger in the air, “. . . only one brigade was seen moving down the Shelbyville pike a day’s march behind Hardee’s last brigade, who arrive here yesterday. Sir, with only a single brigade moving down the Shelbyville pike, it would seem that Rosecrans intends to concentrate here, keeping to the Wilkinson and Bole Jack roads. I don’t think what McCook was up to is a mystery after all.”

  “Lose an army or lose command and save an army?” Bragg said suddenly, turning from the window. “That is what we’ve been wrestling with. Attack or retreat or be damned if we do either!” Contempt dripped from his tone. “I know there are rumors that it will be my head on the chopping block if we retreat without a fight, strategic necessity or not. I’ll not give Polk the satisfaction of seeing my head on a platter!”

  As if struck by something heavy, Bragg started. He turned from the window, marched to Johnston’s desk, and jabbed a boney finger on the map.

  “Move Cleburne’s division back across the river to extend Hardee’s line; we’ll attack Rosecrans’s right flank and push him away from the Franklin road. We’ll attack echelon right, pivoting on the river and Cheatham’s division of Polk’s corps.” He finished with a triumphant tone and a satisfied glint in his eye.

  “So, General, your mind’s made up?” Captain Johnston asked.

  “Yes,” Bragg replied testily with a wave of his hand at his aide. “We’ll act first!”

  “That does leave only Breckenridge to cover the line between the Lebanon pike and the river, not to mention Murfreesboro,” Johnston stated.

  Irritation tinged Bragg’s voice as he crossed back across the room to Johnston’s map. “Rosecrans has concentrated his weight on our right, and McCook with his corps on our left has spent all day fighting forward across the Wilkinson pike, right up to the Franklin pike. Rosecrans means to force us out of Murfreesboro by coup de main, and I mean to push him back.”

  Bragg straightened upright with the declaration and added, “McCook has already brought the bulk of his corps alongside Thomas, and that move toward Nolansville was a feint—we should have seen that earlier! Rosecrans will be weak on the right, as he obviously thinks I’m just going to defend the town. I’ll strike him where he’s weak.”

  It was late evening, New Year’s Eve. Little thought had been given to the last day of the year.

  “You sure Rosecrans will attack north of the river?” Johnston asked. He folded his arms, still looking at the map.

  “Crittenden’s attack on the 29th gave it away; McCook spent all day fighting forward across horrible terrain in the hopes of forcing us away from the town,” Bragg replied. “I shorten my line on the east side of the river and extend Hardee’s line in the southwest, and we can push Rosecrans back—maybe even back to the Nashville turnpike. If we can do that, we can destroy his army while he is still positioning.” He added with a note of triumph, “We can force him back to Nashville.”

  “The ground favors Rosecrans’s defense. The cedars are thick. It will be tough to get our artillery through it to support the infantry,” Johnston said. “The same ground that hampered his advance will aid in his defense; we’ll be attacking over that ground this time.”

  Bragg remained adamant. “Rosecrans has telegraphed what he intends to do now that McCook is on line: he’ll attack us on the east side of the river. He’s positioned McCook to prevent us from retreating toward Franklin and force us back down the Shelbyville pike. We lengthen our line on our left, we can crush his right and swing him back upon his line of retreat, the Nashville pike.”

  Johnston turned from his desk. “It’s already 8 p.m., sir. Cleburne’s division has been in place since the 27th. They will take hours to move. And what if the enemy decides to swing around to the Lebanon pike? Breckenridge can’t connect with Polk’s line across the river and touch the Lebanon pike. Federal cavalry could easily swing down the road and get in behind us.”

  Bragg waved the suggestion away as if it were an annoying insect circling his head. “Rosecrans won’t attack tomorrow; he’ll take another day to get on line. He’s using his cavalry to protect his supply line; Wheeler’s report attests to that. They’ve seen nothing but battalions moving about and small regiments, nothing concentrated. So keep Wharton on the left flank with orders to push at dawn past the enemy flank and get in his rear as the infantry fights forward, and order Wheeler to get back into the saddle and push toward Triune once again and cause as much havoc as possible. I think Rosecrans has opened a door for us.”

  “Sir,” Johnston replied.

  “I want to meet with the corps and division commanders here in an hour. Get the orders ready and issued to all corps for the plan of attack to start at first light, starting with Cleburne’s division and moving left. Each division to step off once the division to their left has come abreast, keeping the line of march and pivot to the right on Cheatham.”

  “At six-thirty o’clock?” Johnston asked, looking up from his notebook as he scribbled down the particulars.

  “Is that first light? Yes, then, six-thirty o’clock to have Cleburne’s brigades step off,” Bragg repeated.

  “Sir, if I might,” Johnston said tentatively, “if we push the enemy back from the left flank and sweep them off the field like a door, we will be concentrating them along the Nashville pike and shortening their line. They will have the advantage in defense with a shorter, compact line based on or near the pike.”

  Bragg turned a hard scowl on the suggestion in silent reply. Giving a slight sigh, he said, “When we drive McCook’s corps before us and give him no rest to reform, we
will drive the whole army in a panic. With Wheeler in his rear and Wharton driving into his retreating columns, Rosecrans won’t be able to stabilize his line long enough to resist. As each brigade drives into the flank of the enemy line, the next brigade to the right moves and forces the enemy to pull back or get cut off. It will happen all down the line, with Withers’s brigades the last to step off and complete the rout. We will rout them. Rosecrans has overextended his right, and he thinks he’s going to cut us off from the Franklin pike and threaten Shelbyville.”

  Bragg took two steps back to the window and calmly brought his hands behind his back. Days of brooding and fretting over what to do had worn heavily upon his turbulent bowels and his sleep. Now he felt lighter.

  Johnston stared at the pencil lines denoting enemy positions. They formed an ugly mark from the Nashville pike, leading south in an undulating line and across the Wilkinson pike and touching the Franklin pike even further south. He’d been making these marks for days, erasing entries for enemy corps and making new markings. Across the Nashville pike and the Nashville railroad to the northeast waited another heavy concentration of identified brigades of General Crittenden’s corps, positioned upon a critical height overlooking a ford in the river with command of a portion of Polk’s current battle line. The enemy had already crossed the river once.

  “What if the enemy attacks us in the same place? If he is intent on cutting us off from the Franklin pike, won’t McCook’s corps be the one to move forward?” Johnston asked, a look of concern on his face. An adjutant’s job was to take and issue orders and serve as a sounding board for his chief. Bragg was often not open to question, but questions needed to be asked. He could study a map same as his chief.

  Again Bragg waved off the suggestion with an annoyed grunt. “McCook spent all day fighting forward. Rosecrans could have initiated a general engagement today but chose instead to move McCook painstakingly forward yard by yard. When they do strike, it will be on our right. They’ll cross the good ford where Crittenden did. Since Rosecrans was good enough to telegraph his first move on the 29th and exhaust McCook in a day’s worth of skirmishing, he won’t be ready to do anything tomorrow.”