Mother Earth, Bloody Ground: A Novel Of The Civil War And What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy)

by R. E. Thomas

  MOTHER EARTH,

  Bloody Ground

  A Novel of The Civil War

  and What Might Have Been

  R.E. THOMAS

  BLACK GOLD MEDIA

  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places, and events portrayed are products of the author’s imagination or used factiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  BLACK GOLD MEDIA

  Copyright © 2014 by R.E. Thomas

  ISBN-13: 978-0988892224

  ISBN-10: 0988892227

  stonewallgoeswest.com

  facebook.com/stonewallgoeswest

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact the author or Black Gold Media.

  To My Old Kentucky Home,

  which gave to me an appreciation for both sides

  of my country’s bloodiest calamity

  Acknowledgements

  Writing a book is mostly, but not entirely a solo act. This is my third book and my second novel, and the deeper I get into this craft, the more I come to appreciate both sides of that particular coin. While I could have produced a novel alone, it wouldn’t have been Mother Earth, Bloody Ground without the help of others.

  First I must start with my editorial and production team. On the editorial side, Scott Peters was back to help me shape and polish the text, this time joined by Alexandra Asher and Rebecca Kerins. On the artistic side, my old colleague Lianne Helper of Station 10 Creative graphic design returned to produce another wonderful cover.

  Others contributed in very particular ways, assisting me in adding detail and color to the story. Steve Primm of Murfreesboro pointed me to take either a first or a repeat and much closer look at certain geographical features in Rutherford County during what was my third and final research visit in May 2013. John Brown of Stones River National Battlefield furnished me with some valuable assistance in fleshing out Fortress Rosecrans. Materials provided to me by the Lawrence County Archives, the Tennessee Historical Society, and the West Tennessee Historical Society continued to be useful for what is the most Tennessee-centered part of the trilogy. Finally, I owe a debt to all the caretakers of online archives and the authors of published works who unknowingly helped me along.

  I must also thank some particular people for helping an unknown author draw some attention down on his first novel. Dr. Matthew Lively, author of Calamity at Chancellorsville, gave me my very first book quote, a favor I’ll not forget. The Daily Herald of Columbia, Tennessee was the first newspaper to cover Stonewall Goes West, and Spotsylvania County was kind enough to invite me to launch my book at the 150th Anniversary of the Battle of Chancellorsville.

  Lastly, there are the people in my encouragement category. That list is headed by those friends and family who offered moral support, chiefly my old friends Kurt Maitland and George Bouza; my father-in-law Raoul Santos; and the three most important women in my life, my wife, my mother, and my sister. In addition to George, many other old friends took the time and trouble to come and see me at Chancellorsville last year, and that meant a lot to me.

  As important are the readers who warmly embraced Stonewall Goes West, proving that there was a real audience for serious “For Want Of A Nail” style historical fiction. Your reader reviews, e-mails and notes on my Facebook group have kept me enthusiastic for the project through the troubles I faced in getting things done. The past year was a hard one, but the thought of people who were anxiously waiting for me to finish this book kept things rolling.

  Contents

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part II

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part III

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Part I

  Spring Weather

  And

  Yankee coffee

  May to June 1864

  Chapter 1

  May 17, 1864

  Mid-Morning

  Fort Darling, CSA

  10 miles south of Richmond, Virginia

  Standing on the parapet, Jefferson Davis peered with his one good eye through the burnished brass of a telescope tube. The day before, he had only field glasses with him and could see very little, but could hear much. The rattle of skirmishers firing, the ripping tear of massed musketry, the boom and crack of artillery. Today it was the opposite, as the only noise to be heard was the distant bleating of the bugles, but through the telescope, which was better suited to what sight remained him in any case, he could see billowing clouds of dust and sometimes even snatches of marching columns in blue and gray.

  “Mr. President? If I may, sir?”

  Davis recognized the voice and swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth before turning to face General Pierre Gustav Truffant Beauregard. He stepped down from the parapet with care, and joined Beauregard by the rounded butt of Fort Darling’s mammoth, bottle-like 10-inch cannon.

  Davis drew himself up, ramrod straight, making the most of his four inches of superior height over Beauregard, “The Little Creole,” as he was sometimes called. “Yes, what is it General?”

  “Mr. President, I am delighted to inform you that I can confirm our victory of yesterday. The Yankee Army of the James is withdrawing eastward. I must leave Fort Darling forthwith, to supervise the pursuit.”

  Suppressing a scowl, Davis forced graciousness out his mouth. “Yes, I surmised as much. You are to be congratulated, General Beauregard. Despite being outnumbered two to one, you have stopped that most awful of Northron villains, Benjamin Butler, in his backdoor attempt on Richmond. What shall you call this battle? Drewery’s Bluff? Fort Darling?”

  “I have not given any thought as to what to call it,” Beauregard replied. “But yes. A great victory. Great. It could have been greater still, had I received those reinforcements I asked for. On more equal terms, I could have shattered Butler’s army and driven it into the river.”

  Davis kept his outrage at Beauregard’s slap in the face to himself, retaining his studied, formal manner. The Louisianan’s ingratitude wasn’t much of a surprise, after all, as the two men had been worsening enemies since almost the earliest days of the war.

  As for the Little Creole’s request for reinforcements, the plan as proposed was typical of Beauregard’s preference for flashy, outlandish schemes. Davis could grudgingly admit that Beauregard wasn’t a bad general, but only when forced to abandon his impossible flights of fancy, and even then the little frenchified peacock complained bitterly about what he could have done if only his counsel had been adopted, as he did just now.

  Davis said coldly, “Reinforcements from Lee’s army were impossible, General Beauregard, as I have already explained. At length.” They were impossible because Robert E. Lee had been grappling with General Grant’s bear, the main Yan
kee army, since the 5th of May.

  The only reason you even have this command, Davis thought to himself consolingly, is because General Johnston refused it on the grounds that he would not serve under Lee, choosing instead to renew his dispute with the War Department over his rank.

  “Very well, General Beauregard. See to your pursuit. You are dismissed.”

  Beauregard offered a limp salute, and left Davis to ponder who he despised more: the frenchified peacock before him, the vain and quarrelsome Joseph E. Johnston, or that nefarious Yankee, Benjamin Butler.

  Beauregard and Johnston were the enemies within Davis’s own camp, two troublesome generals with a grossly inflated sense of their importance and ability, and the darlings of every carping, complaining politician and newspaperman in the country who opposed his policies out of spite, poisonous ambition, or misguided and deluded principle.

  Butler, on the other hand, was a turncoat former ally of both Davis and the South. A Massachusetts man and pro-Southern Democrat, Butler had actually put Davis’s name forward for the presidential nomination at the 1860 Democratic National Convention. Instead of becoming a Peace Democrat, as he ought to have done, Butler donned the blue uniform and became a complete miscreant, confiscating slaves as war contraband, officially labeling the ladies of New Orleans harlots, and even filching silverware whenever and wherever he could. “Beast Butler” and “Spoons Butler” they called him, the very personification of Yankee perfidy.

  Davis had responded by ordering that if Butler were captured, he would summarily be executed. No trial, for Butler deserved no judicial niceties, he thought. Just the hangman’s rope or a firing squad. Pity that Butler escaped us this time, but no matter. We may catch him still.

  Davis’s bitter reverie was interrupted by the arrival of John Henninger Reagan, the Confederate Postmaster General. A burly and thick-bearded Texan, Reagan had accompanied Davis’ for this visit to Beauregard’s small army.

  “Mr. President, shall we return to Richmond?”

  Davis nodded. With Butler in retreat and Beauregard in pursuit, there was no reason to linger at Fort Darling. The few belongings they brought with them were gathered by negro servants, and the men were soon on the Richmond Turnpike and riding for the capital, less than 10 miles away.

  His mind off Beauregard and Butler, Davis’s thoughts instantly began sinking into grief. His son, little Joe, had fallen off a balcony and died not three weeks ago. He had allowed himself one day to grieve with Varina and the other children, and then promptly retreated into work. An idle ride back to Richmond was the last thing he needed or desired.

  Davis looked over at his companion, the immensely able administrator who had turned the Confederate Post Office into the best functioning arm of the government. Reagan had also proven a decent strategist, the only member of his Cabinet who preferred reinforcing the West over agreeing to Robert E. Lee’s plan to invade Pennsylvania during the previous summer. Davis too had felt it best to send troops directly to break the siege of Vicksburg, but eventually yielded to Lee and the majority of his Cabinet. But not Reagan, who objected to the end and was ultimately proven right.

  Deciding the best distraction was seeking Reagan’s counsel, Davis asked “If I may inquire, John, I would value your opinions on recent military events.”

  Reagan brightened, pleased to be asked for his counsel. “Things are better than I’d hoped for, Mr. President. It’s true that General Lee is having a hard time with Grant, a very hard time indeed, but Beauregard has turned back Butler, and Breckenridge turned back Sigel at New Market. Richmond and the Shenandoah are safe for the time being, and you can now find reinforcements for Lee accordingly. And our Lee, he has defeated many such Northron invasions. I’m sure he will eventually send this one packing as well.”

  “No, I don’t worry about Virginia. My cause for concern has always been the West, and it is Stonewall’s victory at Lawrenceburg that gives the greatest cause for hope,” Reagan continued. “I think it obvious that what Abe Lincoln intended was to push us everywhere at once, so Sherman’s armies should have attacked us at the same time as Grant, Butler and Sigel. Instead, they’re standing pat. Jackson spoiled them, and then sent General Forrest across the Cumberland to raid in Kentucky to spoil them some more.”

  “Things are going well for us in the West,” Davis agreed. He left his feeling that things going well in the West was a welcome change unsaid. “We beat the Yankees in Louisiana too. The Red River. It has been a long time in coming, having good news from the West.”

  Reagan grinned. “You know that the Red River victory is near and dear to my heart.”

  Davis nodded. A Confederate defeat there would have meant the occupation of East Texas.

  “Now,” Reagan continued. “I reckon that if Jackson can stay in Tennessee, Lee can just hold back Grant, and Hardee’s boys in northern Georgia can keep the Yankees out of Atlanta, and we can hold all that back until November, then Lincoln will lose the election. We’ll get our independence. We might still have a lot of horsetrading to do with the Yankees, but independence will follow as sure as the sun follows the moon.”

  “Yes. That is very much how I thought of it.” Davis continued gravely, “We might need to liberate more of Tennessee before then. Tennessee and Louisiana are back in the Union now, or so Washington says anyway. False state governments manned by traitors. Even the Peace Democrats won’t be able to simply give them back to us. Your ‘horsetrading’ might get one state liberated, John, but not both. Not unless we stake a better claim.”

  “You mean liberating Chattanooga and Nashville?”

  Davis said, “And hopefully Memphis too.”

  “That is a tall order for one summer’s work, Mr. President.”

  “Perhaps. But Jackson is a hard worker. I will tell you this, John, I have no regrets about giving that command to Jackson and shelving Johnston. None. Whatever trouble he has brought me, his service to the country is more than fair compensation.”

  “You mean this business with General Loring?” asked Reagan.

  Davis nodded. At the Battle of Lawrenceburg, Jackson had ordered the arrest of Major General W.W. Loring on charges of insubordination. He did not have Jackson’s full report pertaining to Lawrenceburg yet, but the affair was all over the newspapers, and he already had a sheaf of letters from both Loring and his supporters, protesting his innocence.

  Another letter came from his old friend, General Leonidas Polk, who had been Loring’s immediate superior, and that missive made it sound as if Loring had merely made a hash of exercising his discretion as a division commander. Davis wondered about that. Loring had troubled every commander he had served under in this war.

  Reagan went on. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Well, I do not have anything formal from Jackson as of yet, so I cannot assess the severity of the charges. At the same time, I do not want the commander of the Army of Tennessee distracted by some trivial feud. If it turns out that Jackson’s charges have merit, I believe I will ask Loring to retire. With his pension, if not his reputation.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then the court-martial can wait for winter, and let the damnation be on Loring’s head.”

  The pair continued to talk as they rode on at a moderate pace, Davis first asking Reagan’s opinion of the recently convened Confederate Congress, and then how to improve the Commissary Department. The latter was responsible for supplying the Confederate Army and a source of constant, bitter complaint, in the army, the Congress, and the press. On the Commissary matter, Reagan’s opinion that the Confederacy’s bad roads and lack of railways were at the root of the country’s troubles rang well to Davis, but his suggestion that it was time to bring in new people and remove Colonel Northrop, the Commissary General and one of Davis’s West Point cronies, was not so well received.

  Davis began to half-ignore Reagan, allowing him to chatter on. By the time they reached the forts protecting Manchester, the town across the J
ames River from Richmond, Reagan’s polite, but ultimately insufferable critique of Northrop had left Davis wishing he had never sought Reagan’s counsel in the first place.

  Crossing the Manchester Bridge into Richmond, the pair arrived at the gray, neo-classical eminence of the Executive Mansion, where Reagan took his leave. Davis had just handed his horse over to a darkie groom when his secretary, Burton Harrison, jogged up to him bearing a clutch of papers.

  “Mr. President! Mr. President! I have here the dispatches from General Jackson you’ve been waiting for!”

  At last! Davis thought, visibly happier. Jackson had dutifully sent a string of short messages regarding his general situation starting on May 6th, and his communications were understandably hampered by the need to send his messages back to the telegraph station, at first in Tuscumbia, Alabama, and then extended to Columbia, Tennessee. The resources were not available yet to extend the wire all the way to the Army of Tennessee’s headquarters in Franklin. The messages received merely teased Davis’s thirst for more detail from Jackson on the Battle of Lawrenceburg, the condition of his army, and his future intentions.

  Davis checked his watch. Quarter past eleven. “Burton, I want you to go around to Secretaries Seddon and Benjamin, and also General Bragg. Instruct them to come to the mansion for luncheon at 1 o’clock. We have a Cabinet meeting already scheduled for this afternoon, and I want to discuss General Jackson’s dispatches with them before that meeting. Stop by the War Department before seeing Mr. Benjamin, so you can take a copy with you.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Davis waved his secretary off, his attention focused squarely on the report. He took them up to the privacy of his office, barely taking his eyes off them as he went. He read the papers, considered them, and re-read them until Harrison, who had returned from his errand in the meantime, came to the door to inform him that his guests had arrived.