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

by R. E. Thomas

  Jackson extended his right hand. Forrest took it gladly, happy to at long last have a commander-in-chief who valued him.

  Chapter 3

  June 9, 1864

  Mid-Morning

  Rippavilla Plantation

  Headquarters, Polk’s Corps, CSA

  Spring Hill, Tennessee

  Featherston jumped up from his chair to salute as Polk strode into the parlor. Polk took his hand and gave it a strong shake, saying “Winn, will you walk with me?”

  The pair left the house and walked away from that part of the estate where Polk’s staff had set up their tents. After a few minutes and some bland chatter, Polk said “I’m afraid I have some unfortunate news from Richmond. I sent for you as soon as I saw the news over the wire.”

  Featherston stopped and swallowed. “I’ve been passed over.”

  Polk turned to face him and nodded gravely, while thinking to himself what a blessing it was to have his headquarters closest to the army’s telegraph station in Columbia. It meant he received news hours before anyone else and therefore enjoyed some control over its dissemination.

  “President Davis,” Polk said, “has appointed George Maney of Cheatham’s Division in your place. His promotion to major general has yet to be confirmed by the Senate, but I have no doubts it will be.”

  Putting his hands on his hips, Featherston grimaced and stood quiet for a time. Then he cried, “God dammit!” and kicked the chair. It was frustrated kick rather than a wrathful one, so the chair slid a few inches instead of falling over.

  Polk’s brows furrowed, and he said quietly “General Featherston, please…”

  Ignoring him, Featherston ranted, “Oh, I saw this coming. I saw it when Jackson didn’t give me or the division the credit we were due in his Lawrenceburg dispatches. You know this, General! I held the men back from that slaughter house at Coon Creek, and because of that we had the strength to renew the assault at the right time. I didn’t need that thrice-damned Irishman to tell me to attack, but no! Cleburne got all the credit!”

  Judging the moment was ripe, Polk added, “Cleburne has, in fact, been put up for a brevet to Lieutenant General.”

  “He what?!” Featherston cried. “Over Frank Cheatham! The Devil’s blazes! That knocks it. Knocks it right out the window! Lee and Jackson. I’ll not serve under these damned Virginians a moment longer. Those high and mighty, lordly bastards. They had to be dragged screaming and thrashing out of the Union, and then they turned right around and had the audacity to claim to lead us. Damn them, damn them all! And what was Jeff Davis thinking? He is a Mississippian for chrissakes!”

  Polk reddened. “Winn, I beg you, Our Lord’s name?”

  Almost panting, Featherson snatched up his sword in its scabbard. “Do you know what I’m going to do, General Polk? I’m going to ride straight for Franklin. I’m going to throw this down in front of that man, the high and mighty Stonewall Jackson. I’m going to resign and go home.”

  “That is your right, of course,” Polk said soothingly. “But I think you shouldn’t. You’ll win few converts to your side, resigning in protest in the wake of a victory.”

  “Then what do you think I should do?”

  “Tell your side of the story, for one. You have friends in Mississippi and Richmond. Write to them. But if I may make a suggestion, avoid criticizing the man of the hour directly. Merely describe how your contribution has been slighted. May I trust in your discretion and be frank?”

  Featherston nodded.

  “I know you resent Cleburne, Winn, but the Irishman is a good soldier, and he had the sense to oppose that miscreant failure, Braxton Bragg. But I suspect many will be… uncomfortable with the idea of giving so high a posting to an immigrant, no matter how ardently that immigrant may espouse our cause. His rank is only temporary, and if he should stumble…”

  “I thought you said he was a good soldier.”

  “Yes, to a point. But I recall General Hardee’s sentiments that Cleburne was unsuited for higher command. And if anyone should know, it should be him. Wait, Winn. Be patient. Show some good grace. I know you aren’t alone in your division.”

  Featherston said, “True enough. The other brigade commanders are also upset. Some say army headquarters persecutes us as part of some petty feud Jackson has with Loring.”

  Smiling placidly, Polk said, “Maney is new to your division, new to this level of responsibility, new to my Army of Mississippi. The other brigade leaders will look to you, who they know so well. Maney may come to lean on you too. He needn’t be your enemy. Go back to your brigade, Winn. Go back and wait. As the saying goes, the Lord works in mysterious ways. Tomorrow might bring anything.”

  As the two men walked out to Featherston’s horse, Polk basked in a satisfied glow. His other division commander, French, was nearly as upset over Jackson’s battle dispatches as Featherston. Now he could count on Featherston and most of his colleagues as well. Polk knew George Maney and liked him, but the Tennessee brigadier was still an outsider. So, he needed to know that Maney’s subordinates would be for Polk before Maney. And Stonewall Jackson.

  Polk returned to his office and his work, biding his time for a far more personal and less satisfying appointment. He didn’t look up to acknowledge the knock at the door. “It opens.”

  A clerk announced, “Lieutenant Bell to see you, sir.”

  Just this once, Polk thought, Bell was punctual. “Show him in.”

  Polk still didn’t look up, but instead kept on writing. After spending a few minutes silently finishing the paragraph, he finally turned his eyes towards the young man standing at attention before him. Tall, blonde, immaculately uniformed, standing at perfect attention. Exactly the sort of appearance Polk liked in his entourage, except for the insufferably haughty gleam in Bell’s eyes.

  “I assume you know why you are here, Lieutenant?”

  “Nosir, General, I do not.”

  That was a lie, Polk thought. Samson Bolivar Bell’s father was one of the most prominent planters in West Tennessee, an old friend of the Polks. When young Bell appeared at Polk’s Army of Mississippi headquarters just after New Year’s with a letter of introduction from his wealthy, well-connected father, Polk happily gave him a commission as a two-bar, first lieutenant and a place as aide-de-camp.

  It had proved an unhappy choice. Bell had soon shown himself to be a fractious, dissentious presence in Polk’s military family. When he wasn’t whoring, drinking, gambling, or some combination of the three, the boy was challenging one of the other lieutenants to fight or crudely politicking for a step up into a captain’s slot somewhere. Polk wanted nothing more than to court-martial him and send him home to his papa in disgrace, but Bell’s father was not a man Polk wanted to alienate. Even Isham Harris, the exiled Governor of Tennessee, had stopped by two weeks before to lobby Polk on Bell’s behalf.

  “Give him a company,” Harris had said. “It would make the Bells happy.”

  So, Polk suffered the whelp and waited for an opening to transfer him away out of his command. Now he had it, and Bell knew it, knew it without being told.

  The little fool, Polk thought, smiling pleasantly. Too pleased with himself to see what lies in store for him.

  “Then allow me to surprise you and congratulate you.” Polk reached to a stack of several folded papers, and lifted the first bundle off the top. “This is your transfer and your promotion to captain.”

  Bell gleamed. “Transfer, sir? I am to leave your service?”

  Behind his serenity, Polk’s loathing for the boy sharpened. Bell couldn’t be bothered to make even a failing effort at appearing disappointed to leave the staff. “Yes, Lieutenant. Not Captain yet, Bell. Your rank becomes official upon your transfer. You are going to the infantry. A company is waiting for you in the 41st Tennessee Infantry, Maney’s Brigade, Cheatham’s Division.”

  Bell stepped forward and took the envelope. “It has been my absolute pleasure to serve under your command these past six months, General
Polk. Your leadership is an inspiration to everyone under your command.”

  The way Bell emphasized the word “pleasure” almost snapped Polk’s patience. “I wish you well in your new posting, Bell.” Returning to his paperwork, Polk dismissed him with a “that will be all.”

  Polk tried to continue his office work after Bell sauntered away, but he couldn’t. Instead, he got to his feet and stuck his head outside his door.

  “Do we have any of that ham and biscuits left over from breakfast? Good. Give Mrs. Cheairs my compliments, fetch that up with a pot of tea, and put it in the parlor for me.”

  Polk stewed in his dissatisfaction with the shackles that prevented his humiliation of Bell until his tea was ready, so by the time he settled into the Cheairs family parlor, he was in full sulk over his general unhappiness with his place in Stonewall Jackson’s Army of Tennessee.

  Polk grudgingly admitted to himself he had some cause for contentment. He was finally part of a successful army, an army that had won a clear victory at last month’s Battle of Lawrenceburg. They had liberated a large swathe of Middle Tennessee from Yankee occupation. The Northrons quaked with fear behind their entrenchments in Nashville and northern Georgia, too frightened to come out and fight. And his corps, his Army of Mississippi, was encamped in the northern half of Maury County, the family seat.

  More than tipping the scales against that was Polk’s firm belief he had not received anything like the credit he deserved for the victory at Lawrenceburg. Indeed, in Polk’s opinion the victory would have and should have been all his in the first instance, because it had been his plan to invade Middle Tennessee, a plan Jackson stole from him with the connivance of Jefferson Davis.

  My plan, he thought. My men that crushed Veatch’s Division against the bluffs of Shoal Creek, and yes, Cleburne’s Division were my men, because they were operating under my command at the time, were they not?

  Polk felt even more slighted because while he was in Maury County, he did not even have the satisfaction of setting up headquarters in Columbia or the Rattle and Snap, his family estate. No, he thought, he had to stay here, in Spring Hill, so he was closer to Franklin.

  Such an inconvenience. What difference would an extra 10 miles make if the Yankees came, he wondered. Surely there would be plenty of warning.

  Polk polished off the last of the biscuits and drained his cup of tea. There was one benefit to staying in Spring Hill, he thought. Poor old Major Cheairs is off in a Yankee prison, while his family had been evicted and living in a cabin behind Rippavilla House. They were grateful just to have the family home back, volunteered to Polk the rooms for his personal quarters and office, and gladly catered to the needs of himself and his staff.

  Polk stood and patted his round belly. “That Mrs. Cheairs keeps a pretty kitchen.” He would have to invite and escort Mrs. Cheirs to the banquet he was planning with his brothers, as an act both charitable and gracious.

  June 9, 1864

  Late Afternoon

  Camp of the 41st Tennessee Infantry, CSA

  Hillsboro, Tennessee

  After his servant darkie, Abel, packed his things, Bell and Abel set out from Spring Hill for Hillsboro.

  Away from old Bishop Polk and excited at getting a leg up on the rest of Polk’s stuffy, pious junior aides, Bell mused over his prospects on the ride. He could make a name for himself leading a company of fighting men, and after covering himself with glory, a promotion to major would drop into his hand like a ripe plum.

  “Major Bell,” he said to no one, as no one was there but his darkie, Abel. He liked the sound of that. It would be a title he could wear with pride until the next war with the Yankees came around, because another war surely would. Then he would be heir to the plantation, and that would make him Colonel Bell, ready to whip the Yankees again.

  Hillsboro was half a day’s ride, and Bell was too eager to assume his new rank and take a look at his company to do what he would ordinarily do if he was off on his own, namely stop in a tavern for whiskey, and hopefully a fetching, lonely, and cash-strapped local girl to go with it.

  Instead, Bell and Abel rode straight for Cheatham’s Tennessee Division. After navigating his way through the different camps, he soon found Maney’s Brigade and presented himself to the colonel of the 41st Tennessee.

  “You’ve arrived just in time, Captain Bell,” Colonel Tillman said. “We’re seeing off our brigade commander today.”

  Bell replied, “Yes, Colonel. How’s that?”

  “George Maney has been promoted to major general. We found out about it this morning. He is taking over Scared Turkey’s, er, Loring’s Division. A coincidence, eh? You’ve come to us from Polk’s staff on the day Maney is going over to Polk’s Corps.”

  “Polk prefers to call it the Army of Mississippi.”

  Tillman chuckled at that, since Bell’s arrival put him in a good mood. With Maney moving up, Francis Walker of the 19th Tennessee was replacing him as permanent commander of the brigade, with a brigadier general’s wreathed stars to go with the new posting. Tillman was now the senior colonel in the brigade, and with a Bell of Haywood County leading one of his companies…

  Tillman said, “The brigade is turning out to see Maney off, but your company is excused. You should come, though. Six o’clock.”

  “Why is my company excused?”

  “You’ll see for yourself soon enough. They’re over there. First Sergeant Halpern is running things, so ask for him.”

  Leaving Abel behind to put his things away, Bell walked to where Tillman indicated, out of the tent village of the regiment’s camp, and as he came over the crest of the small hill, he found himself confronted by a small crowd of very nearly naked men lolling about under the shade of a grove of trees. Nearby on a patch of flat ground was a smaller group of half a dozen men who were in uniform, tending a pair of small, steaming iron cauldrons and racks fashioned from lashed tree branches, festooned with drying clothes.

  After a few seconds, Bell realized he was gawking. He stepped into the tree grove and bellowed, “What in God’s name is going on here?”

  A man crowding 40, graying hair at his temples and a small, but solid-looking pot belly gracing his middle, grunted and got to his feet. Bell felt relief that this man, at least, had a wide sheet of torn canvas wrapped around his waist. He ambled up and offered a salute.

  “I’m First Sergeant Halpern, sir. May I help you, Lieutenant?”

  Bell sniffed, “It’s Captain now, Sergeant. Captain Samson Bolivar Bell. This is my company, as of this instant. Now, answer my question. What’s goes on here?”

  “Lice, Captain.”

  “Lice?”

  “Yes, lice. When the brigade came here a few weeks ago, it was our first real stop since we left Georgia, so everyone’s uniforms were crawling with vermin. So, we did what we always do. We stripped off and boiled the little bastards and their damned infernal tiny eggs out of the seams of our clothes.”

  Halpern gave a nod to behind his shoulder. “The thing is I detailed them new boys to the job, and they made a mess of it. New recruits. Always the same. The lice came right back again, so here we are, boiling our clothes a second time. This time I’ve got Grimes keeping an eye on them.”

  Bell grimaced. “And what punishment did you give to those men? The conscripts?”

  “Well, by now our lice had spread to their clothes too, Captain. I figure making them wear those itchy clothes for an extra day while they take care of the rest of us first will do.”

  “The Colonel tells me you are excused from the farewell ceremony planned for General Maney.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Halpern drawled. “They haven’t boiled it all properly yet, so not all the boys will have dry clothes by then.”

  Bell wanted at least some of his company with him to see General Maney off and considered ordering the conscripts to accompany him, but then thought better of it. By all reports, they were lice-ridden, and the thought of standing next to them filled him with di
sgust.

  “Alright. Introduce me to the other non-commissioned officers.”

  “Yessir. Marks and Grimes, front and center!”

  Two sandy blonde, wiry men, one of them well over six feet tall and wearing a plump and pink, L-shaped scar on his cheek, got to their feet. Before they could stand at attention, a nauseated-looking Bell waved them off.

  “Don’t do that,” Bell snapped. “You’re both in scraps of canvas. Jesus Christ, you look ridiculous. Like some gang of catamites.”

  The two men stood at ease, both replying, “Yessir!”

  Halpern said, “This here is Sergeant Edward Marks, raised from corporal just two weeks ago. The tall fellow is Corporal Willard Grimes, also promoted just a couple weeks ago.”

  Bell stared at Grimes. “Aren’t you a bit young to be a corporal?”

  “Captain, sir, I been with the colors since ’61. Only private in the company with as much time served as me is my older brother, Nathan, and he don’t want no stripes, sir.”

  If Willie was annoyed at having a boy captain who looked to be about the same age as himself complaining about his youth, he didn’t show it. Bell showed every sign of being a rich man’s son, and that was how things were.

  “Very well. Sergeant Halpern, have the company ready for separate inspection, before breakfast. I wouldn’t be surprised if General Walker doesn’t parade us tomorrow, and I want you all looking like the best company in this regiment.” Bell smiled. “We should have an advantage, with your freshly washed clothes, what?”

  “Yessir.” Halpern stifled the temptation to shake his head or roll his eyes. Instead, once Bell had taken a few steps, he turned to Willie. “Grimes, you’d better look in on your detail. Some of those nincompoops would chew nettles thinking it was mint.”

  Willie grabbed one of the sheets of canvas they had handy for anyone who needed to leave the grove, and went over to where the lice-boiling station had been set up. At once he saw that the fires hadn’t been kept up, so the clothes were at a low simmer.