There was a sudden stirring of the officers as General Miller and his staff rode up to Neibling, and a quick conference ensued. Both Young and Philip perked up.
“Looks like we probably going to be moving,” Young said after Miller rode on and Neibling moved to take station in the center of the regiment.
“That cannonade started on the left; probably moving to support the left,” Philip added.
“Well, chief surgeon can wait. I’ll need to march with the regiment,” Young said with an air of relief. “Last place I want to go back to is that field of suffering. You believe Chief Surgeon Gross upbraided me for losing supplies?”
Philip looked at Young and wondered if he really wanted an answer. For some men, one might just feign surprise and answer “He didn’t!” or “Lousy martinet!” With Young’s penchant for feeling persecuted, it was probably best just to nod or shake one’s head in hopes that he wouldn’t launch into another long list of offenses borne. Philip shook his head in the appropriate disbelief. Then he cringed inwardly as Young’s arm flew into the air and he launched into another tirade.
“The man’s a laudanum counter, more concerned with counting bottles and bandages and the cost of buying what is needed than with the problems of war. Most the division lost supplies in the retreat, and he had to go and beg for more.”
Young paused to take in the reactions of his audience. Philip nodded again but was only partially listening, resigned to let Young get this out of his system. Everyone in the army had a unique problem, and it was usually because of someone else. He didn’t feel much sympathy at the moment.
“How much camphor am I dispensing? How much mercury? I should take after the homeopaths, who dispense mercury in small doses. I’ve requisitioned too much tartar emetic this month and blue mass. I tell you, I didn’t seek a commission as surgeon to have some wet nose tell me how to treat the Tennessee quickstep or how much of something I’m using.” Young took a moment to puff on his pipe.
“I suppose I have it good; no one nosing around what cracker I’m serving for communion or what prayer book I’m handing out,” Philip replied.
Young looked at Philip as if he’d just said something blasphemous. “Suppose the army doesn’t have much to do with a chaplain,” he said gruffly. “Seems to have too much to do with a regimental surgeon who just wants to see to his men.”
Philip was glad for the command to come to attention and right face so he could escape Young’s grousing if but for a spell.
The line of march took the brigades down a portion of the Nashville pike and within site of the ruined Cowan house before ascending a steep hill. The smell of gunpowder hung heavy in the air from the late bombardment, and the trees were thick with soldiers resting. Artillery crowded the hill, in park on the reverse of the knoll that stretched for several acres before flattening out into a thick cedar forest at its top. It was up this slope the brigades marched before coming up to the cedars.
With the river close by, the sounds of rushing water were clearly heard between bouts of movement. Everywhere Philip looked, he saw signs of fatigue and disquiet. The army didn’t have fresh reserves to throw into battle; those now crowding the bluff were already spent after three days of fighting. If Rosecrans expected something to happen on this flank, those who would face that something were asleep on their feet.
The brigade pushed through the trees and passed a large formation of Federals sprawled out upon the ground or sitting in small groups about their rifle stacks, looking for the world like they wished to stay right there come hell or high water. The brigade paid them little mind, and they in turn ignored the interlopers, who were just passing through.
It wasn’t until the brigade broke through the trees and back out into the open that they beheld the wide hilltop bristling with short-range and long-range cannon in two lines. The tree line stood upon the apex of the hill that led down to a three-hundred-yard plateau. The guns, caissons, horses, and men crowding the bluff only represented the artillery of a single division, with some extra guns thrown in for good measure. More batteries were spread out along the railroad and pike. But it looked as if fifty or more pieces were gathered just upon this hill, and more were spread out across the river on the opposite rise. Such a position of strength, Philip thought, would be easily defended.
He relaxed a little. This might be the safest place on the battlefield. With the hilltop bristling with cannon, a river, and an opposite hill crowded with infantry, an attack in this quarter felt unlikely.
More infantry were stationed between the rows of guns, and Miller’s brigade marched to take position next to them. Scars from solid shot pockmarked the ground, and dead horses still lay where they had been killed in the earlier bombardment.
Despite the sense of strength the position boasted, Philip did not get the sense that anyone felt secure. As the brigade was halted and put to rest, Philip wandered about the battle-scarred hilltop. Artillery batteries were being serviced as caissons were brought forward to replenish ammunition chests, and the hill was alive with horse teams. A farmhouse lay abandoned below, torn by three days of long-range artillery fire.
The hill presented a flat profile until one reached a point three hundred yards from the tree line, and then it took an abrupt, rocky decline, where more of the curiously flat rocks and huge boulders descended the steep slope and formed trench-like fissures. The drop-off became increasingly steep as one went down. Philip peered down the ledge and observed more infantry and cannon posted near the edge of the riverbank and at the river itself. Any assault on the height could be easily held off by just a few men posted along the rocky slope, as the climb would be impossible to negotiate under fire. However, once across the river, an enemy column could easily skirt the height to spread out and move upon the Nashville pike positions, swinging around to ascend the hill from the gentle slope to the west that the brigade had just come by.
On the opposite bank, which rose gently for several yards, stood another house and fencing. Positioned on a gentle ascent up from there and onto another long hillside were the positions of Van Cleve’s division, and somewhere out in front of them were the enemy.
No cannon stood close to the edge of the hill to overlook the ford. The brigades ranged below confronted a long, tree-lined approach from the enemy’s side of the river. The cannon on the hilltop behind them could cover the course of the riverbank as it turned eastward and away from the hill, with the ground in front becoming more of the flat and cultivated farming land broken by cedar growth.
From where he stood, Philip could see the breastworks of the enemy positions stretched across the landscape from the river’s edge six hundred yards away in a line that ran toward the west. The cannon upon the hill had helped repulse the Confederate attacks as they came rolling toward the line along the railroad tracks and the Cowan house the day before. There were still bodies dotting the fields around the ruins of the house and stretching all the way to the enemy’s breastworks.
Despite the activity and movement, the day was getting on, and darkness would descend in a few hours. Perhaps nothing was going to happen today after all, Philip thought.
Chapter 22
Just a Trifling
Braxton Bragg sat slumped in his chair at the James House, brooding. The rooms were smaller here, but not wholly uncomfortable, and the house was situated closer to Polk’s line of defense than the Widow Smith house by the Franklin pike. Captain Johnston was busy in the corner of the room, sifting through reports at Bragg’s portable desk.
Though the day had been spent in relative quiet, Bragg’s thoughts were not now on shoving Rosecrans back from the Nashville pike but on a different adversary. A different kind of battle was being waged, one he was losing control over: a war of words between Bragg and his generals. A string of missives was being ferried back and forth between the corps commanders and Bragg, some cosigned by Polk’s and Hardee’s division commanders, suggesting that the army had lost confidence in its commander. Unfortunatel
y for Bragg, he had started it. He was falling apart emotionally.
The extracurricular war had started even before the first cannon shot on the morning of 31st December. Dawn had come, and there was no discernible movement by McCown’s division forward. Bragg distinctly remembered his orders being to advance at first light. First light meant just that—light enough to see forward. But his army did not advance. Forty minutes later the first shot was fired, and his day only got worse from there.
McCown’s division had strayed from its wheel movement; Cleburne’s division fought as the front line instead of the reserve leaving no reserve to press any advantage. Then Polk’s divisions failed to gain the Nashville pike as Cleburne’s had done. Reinforcements from Breckenridge across the river did not come up with alacrity and were thrown into combat piecemeal, easily shattered by Rosecrans’s scratch line buttressed by the railroad berm. Though the enemy had been pressed hard and forced back more than three miles, Bragg had failed to dislodge the enemy from the pike, the main aim of the attack.
At the moment, none of this was what stunned the general. In a moment of weakness—or was it just an uncharacteristic fit of indecisiveness?—the general had asked his commanders if the army should retreat after failing the contest on the 31st. Even though McCook’s corps had been shattered and sent fleeing, abandoning over thirty cannon and thousands of small arms and supplies, they had learned that McCook’s corps was larger than estimated, and they could not dislodge him from the road. The enemy still retained possession of the Nashville pike, along with the railroad and the heights overlooking portions of Polk’s line from the hill above the ford in Stone’s River. Probing attacks on the 1st of January had accomplished nothing. So, being in a fretful state of mind, Bragg had sent a query to Polk, Breckenridge, and Hardee asking their opinion of the necessity of retreat. Now that a stalemate had settled in, he was less sure of retaining control. But it was a mistake to show weakness in front of the likes of General Polk.
A series of messages had been burning the trails back and forth between the corps and the division commanders ever since, and what Bragg held in front of him now was a damning notice that he was about to lose his army—not to combat, but to near mutiny.
Unsolicited, at least by himself, had come recommendations that Braxton Bragg resign command of the army. This no less than from some of the division commanders whom he’d thought were well on his side and for pressing the attack. But there they were, cosigned on the communications that the army should retreat and that he, Bragg, should quit his command. Only Hardee was in favor of remaining and attacking.
“I should never have asked the damn question!” Bragg suddenly let out with a fierce scowl. He sat bolt upright in his chair, waving the handful of missives in the air.
“Sir, you will, of course, not accede to the demand,” Captain Johnston replied evenly.
“Accede to the demand? Of course not! Not from the likes of that coward Breckenridge, that politician! It is precisely because of him that we did not finish the job on the 31st! He was too slow in getting reinforcements across the river and up and was uncoordinated in his assaults. No, I will not accede to these cowardly demands. But this note signed by the division commanders? Polk’s doing, no doubt!”
“What are you going to do, sir?” Johnston asked. Haggard from the preceding days of little sleep, he had little energy to deal with an anxious and obnoxious Bragg, whose personality issues only grew worse once fighting began.
“Not retreat; that’s what that damn meddler Polk wants me to do so he can finally remove me from the command of the army and have an excuse to take command himself. No, we stay. I should never have asked their opinions. I thought I was being magnanimous in asking for input, but I see it was a mistake. Polk and Breckenridge have taken advantage of it in circulating this letter.”
“Then, sir, what of the current situation?” Johnston asked hopefully.
“Cannon on the heights here threaten Polk’s line with enfilade fire,” Bragg motioned toward the map, “and they threaten our right flank if the enemy should build another division’s worth of infantry. So far Rosecrans has only put a token force here to keep us honest, but he’s taken a great risk in isolating this division across the river. Here is where we strike. If we can put cannon on this hill here,” Bragg pointed to the heights opposite the river ford, where the enemy had posted his own gun line and held since before the 27th of December, “we can enfilade Rosecrans’s line and force him to retreat. His line along the pike is too strong to take by direct assault, and this hill protects his whole line. We isolate and destroy this division here, though, we can force our way across the ford and up this hill, and he will have no choice but to retreat.”
Forceful though his words were, they were unconvincing. “With who?” Johnston asked.
“Breckenridge reinforced by Cleburne; bring Hardee’s corps back together on this side of the river.”
“You sure you want to entrust this to Breckenridge?” Bragg’s trusted aide asked, incredulous.
“Do I have a choice?” Bragg replied tersely. “His division is still in place; we bring it back together by moving the brigades of Jackson, Preston, and Adams back and have Cleburne move back across as well. The enemy isn’t going to move on the left. We need to move enough force to this point to overwhelm this Yankee division of Van Cleve and force the ford.”
“Sir,” Johnston replied slowly.
“Breckenridge is a petulant ass, but he won’t shrink back from an opportunity to lead the attack. Prepare orders as such. I want it executed by midday. Send orders to Polk to support the assault with every gun he has. Breckenridge is to have his own chief of artillery sent here for orders from me; I want this done right and with proper support.”
“Sir.”
Bragg looked once more at the letter. Despite the language of deference to his rank and the formalized words meant to soften the blow, the voicing of no confidence was like a red-hot poker jabbed into his ribs. An officer, a division commander, was not to do this. It was his duty to take and obey orders, not question them or offer his own suggestion that his superior retire his command. This was all Polk’s doing, and Breckenridge had been caught up in it.
“How many guns?” Bragg asked after a moment of silence.
“Sir?” Johnston asked.
“How many guns they moved up on this hill here?”
“From the morning bombardment, we counted over thirty,” Johnston replied.
Bragg looked at the map, drawn up hastily by his cartographer and now a mess of scribbles and notations of lines and symbols denoting cannon and infantry.
“And across the river?”
“Three batteries, total of fifteen cannon.”
“Does Pegram report anything else?” Bragg asked.
Wharton’s cavalry had been kept on the far left flank, and apart from a quick foray down to the ford early on the 31st to harass the retreating Federals hurrying back across, they had been doing little. “No sir, nothing much from him today. He reported the enemy was preparing the ford for wheeled traffic early on the 31st but did not get far. The enemy lost several wagons that were stuck in the river when he attacked a supply column moving across. The ford is good for foot traffic, but still not for wheeled as far as we know.”
“We can still redeem our position if we can crush Van Cleve and move in force across the ford to occupy the hill here. Once we do so, Polk can attack and we’ll finish moving Rosecrans off.”
“Do you think that possible with all those cannon perched upon this hill here? They will cover the ford and the approach to it,” Johnston asked.
Bragg pursed his lips. “It is curious that he decides to reinforce this hill while making no other move to attack us. But this hill where Van Cleve is positioned is higher in elevation and rolls upward, leaving the enemy only the down slope visible from this hill here. By the time they see us, we’ll be on top of Van Cleve and he will be running for the ford. If we follow closely, his artillery he
re will not be able to fire lest he hit his own retreating brigades. That is, if Breckenridge attacks with coordination.”
Bragg grimaced wryly. “Send to Breckenridge that I wish to convey these orders in person also.”
“You certain you do not want to give this to another, uh . . . more reliable commander?” Johnston asked tentatively.
Bragg smiled a little. “Doing that would be a welcome insult to Polk, but I do not think Breckenridge knows what he is doing in this matter of calling for my resignation. I think he has been coerced or just led into Polk’s influence. I am a little dismayed that he and his commanders should have signed on to this little impertinence,” Bragg waved the letter, “but I think Breckenridge will want to redeem his failure of the 31st.”
“He won’t see it that way, sir. Even though he took command of the brigades sent to Polk’s assistance, he won’t see that it was his fault. They never do,” his aide stated sourly.
“Yes, they are never at fault when they fail. But they are. I give the commands, and it is up to them to obey and do it with energy. If they fail, it is on them.”
“Present company excluded.”
Bragg regarded Johnston closely. “You are predisposed to say or believe that, but I failed to see that these men were going to stab me in the back with that letter. If President Davis wants to relieve me of command, that is his decision. Right now I do not plan to relinquish command in the middle of a crisis. I will drive Rosecrans back. It will be finished here, on the right of the army, and Breckenridge will press the attack this time.”
Bragg finished with an exhausted sigh. Johnston regarded his chief and noted the strain on Bragg’s face. The general hadn’t slept and wasn’t eating. His peptic problems were subsiding only because he was too nervous to eat. Bragg hadn’t left the James house since New Year's morning, but he was wearing a path along the front room and the kitchen where several Negroes were keeping the staff in coffee and food while he barely nibbled on crackers. With the stream of communications coming and going, Bragg hadn’t changed out of his uniform in days. Having repaired to the James house to be closer to the front line, Bragg had deigned to see to conditions himself, relying on impersonal communications to appraise him of affairs.
River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4) Page 39