River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4)

by Phillip Bryant

  “Then there is some danger in weakening our right.”

  “Not if we strike first, Captain,” Bragg said with a wag of his finger. “We strike him in the morning.”

  “Sir,” Johnston replied.

  “Cleburne attacks at first light.”

  “Sir,” Johnston nodded and looked at his notes. He’d scribbled “six-thirty,” a more precise command than “dawn” or “first light” when timing would be everything. It was his responsibility to issue the orders to each corps commander with notes, and it was their responsibility to pass their own dispositions down to their division commands. The attack would indeed start at dawn, or first light, but six-thirty o’clock seemed a more precise means of communicating. Timing, after all, would be everything.

  Johnston grabbed his stack of orders and began filling in the details, starting with General Hardee’s communication. Yes, Hardee would be happier with “six-thirty” than he would be to read “first light.”

  * * *

  Three miles away in a cramped and chilly tent, Rosecrans was uptight. The general was always uptight, but especially so before an operation was to commence. He took out his unhappiness on everyone. McCook had taken too long to get into position, and when he had, all he did was complain that his line was not long enough and that he suspected the enemy lapped his flank. So frantic were his calls for reinforcements as the sharp fighting commenced around the brick kiln and farmhouse that Rosecrans wished he could relieve the man and place someone else at corps command. If it were not for McCook’s slow progress, he might have been in Murfreesboro now instead of Crittenden’s advance being repulsed by a dug-in force as they arrived in the early evening of the 29th. Now a third of his army had been in place for two days, marking time while the enemy had ample time to fortify. Further, McCook had declined to attend his council of war. And on top of Rosecrans’s command woes, Garesche was mothering him too much.

  Only the unflappable General Thomas was silent as Rosecrans worked out his energy on those present.

  “Crittenden will attack across the river at dawn, and there will be a general movement from Thomas. McCook will demonstrate to hold the enemy in place on their right flank. We will threaten Murfreesboro from the left and center where his forces are divided by the river.”

  Julius Garesche addressed the group. “We have identified Polk’s corps holding the enemy line on the south side of the river and confirmed that there are only two divisions on the north side. The bulk of the enemy line is on the south. Hardee’s corps is split between the north and south sides. His cavalry has been menacing our rear and line of march.”

  “General Thomas, you will move on the ford in the river here.” Rosecrans motioned to a spot on his map that formed a north-south flow half a mile from the ford where Crittenden’s brigades would cross. “Crittenden will move across and march on the enemy positions that are on the right of Polk’s line on the other side of the river with a portion of your corps. The rest will move on Polk’s line to drive him back. We will move directly on the town and hold his other forces in abeyance on the south side of the river.” Rosecrans finished with a satisfied grin: “Bragg will have to abandon the town or risk having a quarter of his army destroyed on the north side of the river.”

  “The Pioneers have completed the bridge across Stone’s River a mile from the good ford and the height overlooking it here.” Julius Garesche pointed to the spot on the map. “It is some distance away from where we have concentrated.”

  “General Rosecrans,” began Major General Crittenden, “the enemy has batteries all along the high ground, covering the fords and the approaches on the north side of the river. We ran into fortified batteries last evening. He is entrenched and ready for us if we attack his right flank.”

  Crittenden was a political general, the kind most despised by regular army types like Rosecrans and Garesche. Of course, political position did not mean a commander was necessarily an incompetent—many thus far in the war had proven otherwise. But the regulars still regarded with suspicion those of the volunteer class, regardless of accolades. Crittenden had served with General Zachary Taylor during the Mexican-American War. He’d started this war as a lieutenant colonel of Kentucky militia. Being Kentuckian, his family was suspect—a brother served with the Confederacy. Despite all that, so far he had handled his corps well. He was small of stature but forceful when in a room full of self-important generals. He had been the first to arrive in front of Murfreesboro and attempt to attack it.

  “The enemy is weak somewhere, General,” Rosecrans replied affably. “He is extended far to the left of the town and for miles across the countryside. He will be weakest here. You will attack him with your whole corps and crush him.”

  Crittenden looked dubious. “That battery will be able to fire on us long before we are able to approach it. He has cavalry out there somewhere near the Lebanon pike. I will have Major Mendenhall place ordnance on the hill above the ford here to counter enemy fire. But General, I believe we gave away our intentions last evening, and the enemy will be doubly prepared to receive us.” Not known for being overly aggressive, Crittenden was not foolish enough to regard the task in a cavalier way.

  “With the line we hold, General, you have satisfactory numbers if you move adroitly across the ford at first light and assail his positions,” Rosecrans replied with a nod, signaling that he was finished with this conversation. He turned back to Thomas.

  “General Thomas, you have overseen your own dispositions? You will press forward once Crittenden’s lines have forced the enemy back on the right and center-right. I calculate Crittenden will have his whole corps across the river by midmorning.”

  “Sir, my corps is drawn up in a more or less jagged line running southeast and holding thick cedar glades, but I’m concerned that the enemy has a fine line of entrenchments five hundred yards to our front under cover of the cedars. Raking his line with artillery will be difficult along Negley’s front.”

  General George Thomas was an unassuming man with a thick salt-and-pepper beard and a hard look that contrasted with his even-tempered disposition and the smooth Kentucky twang to his speech. He continued, “Nearer to General Crittenden’s left, the enemy’s entrenchments can be clearly seen from the south bank of the river and across the Wilkinson pike, extending along my line. Our artillery has been firing upon them since yesterday, but they have established batteries on several hills that front our lines, and their batteries across the river can also cover this front. My line has several open fields to cross, and the enemy’s positions are mostly in the cedars, save for a portion of his line that fronts both my right and McCook’s left. The fighting on Sheridan’s front today was full-fledged battle and the enemy aggressive.”

  Thomas finished his report and leaned back on his camp chair, a simple folding stool with a canvas seat.

  A West Point man and another veteran of the Mexican-American War, Thomas had stayed in the army when many of his compatriots resigned their commissions to seek fortunes in civilian life as Rosecrans did. Older than his chief and some of the men in the tent, Thomas had a no-nonsense approach to his profession, and some had whispered that he only lacked the political and personal drive to achieve higher rank or glory. Certainly he lacked the personal bombast of a Crittenden or the plodding disregard of a McCook. He was someone to whom Rosecrans could give simple direction and not have to think about again. He would achieve the aim directed.

  “McCook’s earlier reports, sir,” broke in Garesche. “He reports that the enemy lines are in front and across the Franklin pike. His own line is not that far from them.”

  “McCook was ordered to move his line further south!” Rosecrans demanded more than stated. “His line was not far enough south—he stopped too soon!”

  “Yes, sir. McCook said he moved along that line past the Griscom house. But his right flank is no more than two hundred yards removed from that of the enemy, whom he can plainly hear. He is positioned on the outskirts of a cedar wo
od with open field in his front.”

  “Send to McCook that he should dispose of his brigades as he sees fit. I’ve not seen the ground he covered; I’ll rely on his judgment.”

  Rosecrans waved his hand in the air and gave an exasperated sigh. “He is supposed to demonstrate tomorrow morning and not bring on an engagement. As far as his flank, send him two brigades from Johnson’s division in reserve. They will extend his line. He is to wait three hours before moving forward and only keep the enemy in place, not start a battle.”

  “Sir,” Garesche nodded.

  “General Rosecrans,” General Thomas broke in, “sir, given the difficulty in communications between the right wing and the center, is it wise to push forward on the left at all? Shouldn’t we just force Bragg to abandon Murfreesboro by forcing his left to fall back to the Shelbyville pike further southeast? My divisions have had a horrible time pressing forward. The cedars are thick in places, the brigade fronts cannot always see their flanks, and communications with McCook’s corps have prevented us from maintaining alignment. If McCook is reporting that the enemy laps his flank on the Wilkinson pike, the enemy might be far stronger than we anticipated.”

  “That is why Crittenden’s corps will initiate the attack on the left. The ground is better by the river, and the shortest route to the town is there. Bragg thinks we are going to attack him through the brush and trees, and he has spread his line out accordingly. We will hit him where he is weakest and force him to abandon Murfreesboro. Your pushing from the center will encourage him to abandon the town.”

  The smugness in Rosecrans’s reply characterized the man. A general needed a certain amount of self-assuredness, and Rosecrans was said to have more than his share of it.

  “I do fear that communication between the wings will be difficult to manage once the attack begins, General,” Thomas went on. “There is more than a mile of open field to cross in front of my left flank division, Negley’s. Negley’s and Wood’s divisions will move forward at first light, and their artillery will be moved as soon as we can find advantage of ground to support the assault, but the ground by the river is level and offers little advantage for command. I do believe, however, that we have an advantage in artillery and longer range guns. The enemy has either been conserving ammunition or does not have the guns necessary to punish us on our current line. They have been quiet for the most part along my line.”

  “Good, General Thomas. I expect that your preparations are sound. Gentleman, I must be off to confer with our absent General McCook to see that he understands what is to happen on the morrow. The enemy has made a mistake stretching himself out so far south of the town. The ground in the south, as attested by both Generals Thomas and McCook, is horrible and ill-suited for maneuver. Despite the difficulties in moving your divisions forward today, Generals, you’ve forced Bragg to stretch his line to protect his rear. Now all we have to do is storm the river on Bragg’s right and push on to the town in the morning.”

  Rosecrans ended with a flourish of his hand and a smile. He was indeed pleased with himself.

  Chapter 11

  The Bitterest of Fruits

  The Lebanon turnpike, struck at last, was a welcome sight to Will Hunter and his troop. It meant that Murfreesboro, and perhaps a rest, was not far ahead. The last several days had drained everyone. The moments of contact with the enemy stirred the soul and got the heart pumping, but once the retreat commenced without stopping to delay the enemy further, exhaustion hit. Will had found himself slumping in the saddle. The mind wandered, the head nodded in and out of sleep, the arms became like heavy sacks.

  The 1st Alabama was whole again, having collected outside of Nolansville and rejoined the rest of Wheeler’s brigade to return to the army. Thoughts of food and a warm blanket even on the cold ground sounded good.

  In his exhaustion, Will had nearly forgotten the near-disaster of babysitting J.P. Bryant’s section of Wiggins’s battery once the enemy finally did advance. If he ever saw the man again, he might have to surrender his sidearm and lieutenant’s bars. For the moment he was just glad to be getting some needed rest. He’d deal with Bryant later.

  As the last of the troop captains rode up and dismounted, Colonel Allen spoke.

  “Get some fires going and the men cooking. Rations to be issued for three days from the wagons. Get the mounts fed; we going to be in the saddle again in a few hours.”

  Audible groans and silent looks of disgust came from several of the group of officers in reply. In his own company, an officer was little different from an enlisted man—perhaps even worse, as a little power and authority gave rise to more intrigue and mischief. For those in authority, the company of other officers was the only place they could be themselves. To their men they had to be like iron, without a pain or complaint in the world.

  Allen met their groans without response. “Something big is in the works for the morning. The commanding general wants us back behind the enemy communication lines again, so we’ll ride around the enemy and move on the Nashville pike near Triune and disrupt his supply and communications.”

  There was nothing to discuss; their job was just to get orders and stand mute a few moments taking them in. Will would spend the few hours before getting back into the saddle making sure food and ammunition were distributed and the men resting. He would be up and on his feet the whole time. That sounded lovely. His anticipated rest evaporated.

  “If you got lame mounts, get them separated now. No telling when they will be replaced, so detail those troopers to division as messengers. Replace mounts from what we capture. Our wagons will be up shortly to draw ammunition.” Allen finished and nodded, his way of saying “dismissed.”

  “Hunter,” Allen said as Will and the other commanders turned to leave.

  “Sir,” Will said, a lump in his throat. Exchanges with Allen lately had been nothing but trouble.

  “Colonel Webb reported your activity while on picket. What did you learn?”

  Will felt some relief. He wasn’t in trouble, then.

  “Enemy well supplied and well fed. They was stationary for a day, and I was curious as to why. Didn’t get the chance to do anything—enemy appeared soon after talking with the colonel. Besides, had enough to deal with gettin’ out of the trap.”

  “Trap?” Allen asked skeptically.

  “Bryant refused to reposition his guns until the enemy was on our flank and headed into our rear. Nearly got gobbled holding them at bay so Bryant could get his guns limbered.”

  Allen frowned. “You need to stop taking long chances; you were ordered to protect Bryant’s battery, not go off on a reconnaissance of the enemy line and get yourself captured or ambushed. Keep your head, Hunter. You have the makings of a fine cavalryman. I saw that in Kentucky and Tennessee. Captain Kearns was the burr in my saddle then, and you was head up on making it worse with borderline insubordination. But you got a good head, and that’s why you are in command of the troop now and not someone else. Just don’t lose it being stupid.”

  “I’ll keep my head, sir,” Will replied.

  “Good. I need to know that you going to keep watch over your men but take advantage of opportunity should it arise. Don’t want my commanders waiting to get orders before reacting, but to keep they heads about them. We march into the enemy rear again, and we’ll likely be cut off from the army for a few days. Need you to keep your men together.”

  Will nodded. Not since the beginning of the war had he exchanged more than a few words at a time with Allen, and till now none of them had been praise or encouragement—just official communications, reprimands, or complaints about Captain Jackson Kearns. This was a novel situation. Too many officers were too busy to do anything more than look out for their own affairs and prevent anyone below them from gaining an edge over them. But Allen’s orders were hardly clear to him. Taking long chances was what Will did: his sense of where a hidden slave might be or where an enemy might be lurking had served him well. For him, “Don’t take long chan
ces but be prepared to take them if need be” was a confusing set of directives. Still, he understood what Allen was getting at. Be bold, but not so bold as to be foolish. But who determined where that line lay?

  “Go see to your troop. Saddle up in three hours.”

  “Sir.” Will saluted and turned on his heel. It was time to put his directives to another test.

  * * *

  It was pitch dark. Night had fallen hours ago, and the 3rd Confederate had been marking time by the Franklin road bridge over Stone’s River for hours now. After establishing a somewhat comfortable camp in line of battle, they had been ordered to stand to, form up, and march back from whence they came two days before. The whole of General Cleburne’s division was on the move, and as artillery and supply wagons rumbled across the bridge, the infantry of Wood’s brigade stood by and watched, waiting for their turn. It was already December 31, a New Year’s Eve they were not going to celebrate. Their former line and camps were out of enemy range, and though they knew he was out there, they had not seen him.

  They had heard the racket from across the river all day long, however, and knew that the enemy was massed on the south side of Stone’s River. What was worse, they were now being relocated closer to the enemy. At least, worse for most of the 3rd Confederate, who were just getting used to the idea of a somewhat quiet New Year’s Day, marked by nothing more than idling.

  “I think this is it, fellas,” commented James Holly. The 3rd Confederate had been marched off the road and put at rest with muskets stacked. A long wait was in order. The conspirators had opportunity for once to get some time to themselves out of the watchful eye of Sergeant Wade.

  “We don’t know where we going,” John Meeks replied. “We might be retreating again. If that the case, we not going to get much of a chance.”