by R. E. Thomas
“Well, I appreciate your stopping by, Joe, and your frankness about this Greely business. Journalism! I do believe the Lord made journalists so harlots would have someone to look down upon.”
Chuckling, Hooker gave his salute and left.
Sherman stood staring at the closed door for a time, puffing energetically on his cigar. He had known Joe Hooker in California and had never liked him. Although a man without a vice or two wasn’t much of a man, Sherman thought, Hooker was a man stooped under the weight of his vices. A gambler, drinker, whore-chaser, debtor, and endowed with a tongue that wouldn’t stop wagging even after getting caught in a sausage grinder.
“Fighting” Joe Hooker couldn’t be trusted. He was senior to McPherson by five months, and Sherman was certain that if Hooker wanted to go his own way on some matter, it would be that seniority that Hooker would rely upon. At Sherman’s request, Halleck had confirmed the War Department order dictating that a Presidential appointment to the post of department or army commander trumped any issue of seniority in rank, for all the good it did. Many officers in the army thought the order and the policy behind it dubious. Given the need and the opportunity, Hooker would exploit the ambiguity.
So, I just need to guarantee Hooker never gets that opportunity, Sherman thought to himself.
With the day’s unpleasantness behind him, Sherman went back to work and kept at it until late afternoon and his supper with McPherson and John Logan came around. After washing the ink from his fingers, Sherman called for a small escort and rode back over to the north bank of the Cumberland, where the XV Corps was encamped, and sat down for a meal in the townhouse where Logan kept his quarters. None of the trio of generals wore fancy dress to supper, each preferring to come as he was, as all had spent the day either bent over a desk with paperwork, out in the saddle, or both.
After helping himself to some cornbread, Logan asked, “Mac, pass me that crock of butter?”
McPherson handed the crock over, saying to Sherman “I heard you had to send Hugh home, Bill. It’s a damn shame. He was a good man. Damn shame.”
Sherman toyed with some salad greens. “I’ve been thinking about that. Hugh is a good soldier, but he hasn’t been well. Hasn’t been well for going on two years now. I think that took something out of him, I could see it this morning. He had a good spell for a while, but that wasn’t the same Hugh Ewing that went with us to Vicksburg. To stare down the devil, I think a man needs to have all his faculties.”
McPherson nodded, grunting, “Forrest.”
“What will he do now?” asked Logan, just before popping a chunk of butter-smeared cornbread into his mouth.
“Well, I doubt I can get him a field command. Or a garrison command. Not for a while, if ever. But I can get him a nice desk job. I’m going to put him in quartermaster or commissary in Louisville. I need a man I can trust and with some weight back there, back there permanently, caring for my supply affairs. I grew up with him, he is an Ohio Ewing, and he has a star on his shoulder strap. I believe that makes him perfect for the job. After some months at that, if his health improves, maybe I can bring him back to something better.”
Logan said quietly, “Everyone deserves a second chance.”
“It’s more than that,” Sherman replied. “And it’s more than just family. I owe him. When they all said I was crazy, it was Hugh who fought for me in Washington.”
“Well, you won’t hear of any Illinois Union Democrats jumping on the bandwagon to tar and feather him. That I can promise you,” declared Logan.
McPherson shifted in his seat. Having felt the lash of Radical Republican criticism himself lately, he sympathized, but had no taste for conversation of Washington or politics. “What of Sturgis?”
Sherman swallowed his food, and said, “I haven’t made up my mind about that. And I may need to put someone on the shelf for all the damage Forrest did. So we’ll see.”
Suddenly perturbed, Sherman set down his cutlery. “Damn me, but I don’t understand it. Hugh, Sturgis, these are West Point men. Professionally trained soldiers! Neither man is a coward, neither is stupid. How does one surrender a perfectly defensible fort without trying to fight for it, and the other stumble into battle half-cocked and with his trousers around his ankles?”
“If you ask me,” Logan replied playfully, “You fellows who have been to West Point put far too much weight on having been there! You tend to overlook the merits of men who aren’t from your academy, and at the same time ignore the deficits of men who have been.” Logan chuckled, “If you like them, that is. If you don’t, all bets are off.”
McPherson grinned and pointed a fork in mock accusation. “Why Jack, are you thinking of yourself?”
“No,” Logan said slyly. “Honestly, I was thinking of Bobby Minty. Who led the horse before? Judson Kilpatrick, that’s who, a hothead, whoremonger, scoundrel and fool of the first order, out of West Point and not even 30 yet. Ed McCook, well, he’s there because of politics. Kenner Garrard, another West Point man. McCook and Garrard aren’t bad men, but they aren’t what you want for things like, well, fighting Nathan Bedford Forrest. All the while you have fine, able fellows like Minty, Ben Grierson, and John Wilder, and they couldn’t get up the ladder because they haven’t got the political backing and they haven’t been to West Point.”
“Well then, you should be happy now,” Sherman beamed. “Your army’s cavalry is led by Minty and Grierson, and neither one has been to West Point.”
McPherson stood up. “May I offer a toast, gentlemen? To true fighting men who have not been to West Point!”
As they laughed and clinked glasses, the supper plates were brought out. Logan had found some servants who had run away from Travellers Rest, the Nashville estate, and promptly hired them to provide for his headquarters, at least so long as they were camped north of the city.
The three generals sat down to plates of steak with fried tomatoes and potatoes, served with a light gravy. The men were quiet for a few minutes, as they eagerly dug into their suppers.
McPherson broke the silence. “It’s been a while since we were together like this. How are the families?”
“Mary is well,” Logan said. “Busy with her pen, as always. And she writes that little Mary is healthy.”
“Your girl is six now?” asked McPherson.
“Yep.”
As Logan spoke, Sherman kept his attention focused on his steak. He didn’t want to talk about home just now. He was still grieving for his son, Willie, carried away by typhoid fever almost a year ago, and the letter he had received from his wife just that very day had rubbed salt into that most tender of nerves. Ellen meant well enough, but now was not the time for her to renew her pleas for him to embrace Roman Catholicism.
Between Willie, my poor, dear boy, and the burden of my duties, particularly trying at this time, he thought, what with all the reporters in Nashville anxiously waiting with their breaths held for him to make a single misstep and the Radicals eager to put Hooker in his place just to embarrass Lincoln… Christ on the cross! Couldn’t she see now wasn’t the time to worry about my immortal soul? Worry about my living skin instead!
Sherman spoke up. “What about that lass of yours, Mac? Miss Emily? I did warn you that if you didn’t go make your wedding, you wouldn’t get another chance.” Sherman added teasingly, “Has your ardor for the young lady cooled? I’m suspicious of long engagements, you know.”
Flustered, Mac earnestly protested, “Not at all! How could I go back east and think about things like weddings and honeymoons when the army needed me here. My feelings haven’t changed a whit, why…”
Logan’s thigh-slapping laughter brought Mac instantly to a halt. Even redder than before, he adjusted his napkin and quietly said, “Pardon my outburst, gentlemen.”
Sherman grinned. That was their Mac. Brilliant fellow, usually so relaxed, but on some things, just a little too uptight for his own good.
The men finished their dinners over small talk, and retired to th
e veranda for cigars and bourbon. Once the servants left and the sentries were out of earshot, McPherson said “Bill, there is something I’ve been meaning to raise. I know Nashville doesn’t have room for XV Corps, let alone XVII Corps once Smith gets here with his boys, but I just don’t like having the Cumberland split our army like this. I know your reasoning, but I think we should all be on one side of the river. It’s safer.”
Logan added, “And I wonder if Kentucky really is under threat. Part of the reason for our being here was so some of the army would be in a better position to pursue quickly if the Army of Tennessee crossed the Cumberland. If Jackson hasn’t done that yet, I don’t think he will. The maximum aggressive would have been to cross the river as soon as his supply wagons came up, and they passed out rations. He’s been standing pat for a month. He has something else in mind, I’d stake my bones on it.”
Sherman shrugged. “You might be right, but you know how things are. If I brought you across the river, I would need to advance the entire army beyond the Nashville fortifications. Smith gets here tomorrow, and that brings our strength up to 60,000 men. The city proper hasn’t got the room. The sewage alone… the boys will be down with fevers in a week’s time! And if we move beyond the works, then…”
McPherson finished the sentence, “… then we might bring on a battle before we’re ready.”
With his cigar clenched between his fingers, Sherman pointed emphatically at McPherson. “Yes. Once I start that ball rolling, I don’t want to stop for lack of supplies, and for that we need more transportation. Well, those wagons and mule teams will get to us one way or another, whatever damage Forrest did.”
Sherman studied his most trusted subordinates. Did they know? he wondered. His secret plan was for the Army of the Tennessee in Nashville and the Army of the Cumberland in northern Georgia to launch joint offensives starting on June 15th, only six days away. As the field commander, McPherson had drawn up two plans: one for a pursuit into Kentucky and one for an advance on and around Franklin. Only George H. Thomas, the Army of the Cumberland’s commander, knew about June 15th. It was Sherman’s intention to give McPherson 48 hours’ notice on putting the second plan into effect.
Besides, Sherman thought, I’m not as sanguine as Logan about Stonewall Jackson’s intentions. He is a tricky one, and if anything would put a bee in Washington’s bonnet, it would be Jackson marching on Kentucky. I have to wonder that if I brought the entire army south of the Cumberland, and then didn’t advance on Franklin, would Jackson instantly start a foot race for the Bluegrass behind some diversion?
Chapter 5
June 9, 1864
Early Afternoon
7th Pennsylvania Cavalry, USA
South bank of Mill Creek, west of Concord Church
14 miles south of Nashville, Tennessee
Spear spied movement. “Lieutenant,” he called out in a clear, level tone, not taking his eyes from the place where he saw the flutter. “There’s some fellows behind the crest of that hill yonder.”
“Rebs?” Webster said back.
“Can’t say. Could just be local farm boys. Not runaways, though. They’re white. All I know is I saw some movement, and I saw a face and a hat.”
“Well, let’s have a look.” First Lieutenant Webster called the dozen and a half troopers of his advanced guard to a halt, took out his binoculars, and quietly watched the ridge across from Mill Creek for a few minutes.
“Yep, I see them. They’re hiding in the grass, but they’re there. Two men, both armed. Let’s flush whoever’s up there out. Sergeant Spear, take two men with you, catch up with the point, and loop around behind them. Your job is to bag whoever gets away.”
Spear motioned to his chosen pair, Rose and Crowder, both Pittsburgh glass blowers just like himself, men who had left the glassworks and signed up with him back in ’61. As he put the spurs to his horse, Webster was sending a rider back to bring the company up. By the time Spear’s trio had caught up to the pair of troopers at the very head of their patrol, the first shot cracked, followed by several more.
Spear gripped his reins and shouted, “Dig those spurs in. We’ve got ground to cover, cover quick!” The five men galloped headlong for half a mile, before slowing their horses and turning in around behind where the shooting had been heard. Now Spear led his four troopers at the trot, creeping in behind a line of trees, until they came upon half a dozen Rebel troopers racing across the open field before them.
“Horses,” he commanded. Spear and his men yanked their Spencer carbines up, and each man fired four, five, or even six shots in the space of half a minute. One butternut horseman fell from his saddle. Another was tossed from the saddle when his horse tumbled over.
Spear cried, “Hee-yaw!” and led his troopers out of the trees. The Rebels who were still mounted rode on, the riderless horse following right behind them, leaving the downed pair to the Pennsylvanians.
Riding up, Spear found one Reb had crawled over to help the other, whose trouser leg was already thickly stained with blood. His men already had the pair covered with their Spencers, so Spear laid his carbine across his saddle and asked placidly, “Throw down your arms and surrender.”
The healthy Johnnie yanked a six-shooter out of his belt, clutching it by the cylinder, and threw it away. He did the same with his comrade’s revolver. “Do you have a tourniquet for my friend here, Billy Yank, before he bleeds to death?”
Spear fished his tourniquet out of his saddle bag, and casually tossed it over. Looking over to Crowder, he said, “Jim, they need a horse, and you’re the smallest of us. Dismount, and ride with Riverboat Charlie. Help that wounded man into the saddle, bind the hands of that other one, and no complaining about it either.”
Once his prisoners were mounted, Spear declared, “Now, don’t you two fellows get ideas about running off. My friend Jim here is mighty attached to that nag you’re on, and we all like Jim. If I even think you’re trying to escape, you’ll be dead before you hit the ground.”
Spear took his prisoners back, where he found that the rest of the company gathered. Lieutenant Webster had grabbed a few prisoners of his own, plus some horses. Two corpses, both shot in the chest, lay on the ground.
Captain Vale said, “Lieutenant Webster. Sergeant Spear. Good work. I reckon I’ll have a look around, see if the rest of their regiment is not hereabouts.”
Spear nodded. The plan wasn’t as foolhardy as it might have sounded. The 7th Pennsylvania as a whole was well above normal strength, so their company had almost a hundred men, each one armed with a seven-shot Spencer repeater. Rebel horse outfits often had 200 or less, and the Rebs were carrying with muzzle-loaders.
“Lieutenant, since your guard took these prisoners, you take the sergeant here and six men, and get them back to camp. The main camp, not the battalion bivvie.”
Webster and Spear saluted, gathered their detail, mounted their prisoners, and started the six-mile trip back to Owens Store, where the bulk of the Saber Brigade was camped. After turning over their prisoners to regimental headquarters and Lieutenant Colonel Seibert’s staff, they unsaddled their horses, and began the tasks of watering, grooming, and feeding their mounts.
Spear was in the midst of tending to his horse when Webster came over. “Put on your clean shirt and your best jacket, George. You’re going into Nashville.”
He kept on with brushing his Morgan horse. “What’s that?”
“Colonel Siebert is handing out a 24-hour pass to each company. As it turns out, we’re the only boys from our company here, and that makes assigning that pass my job. I figure if it’s you, I won’t need to bail anyone out of jail in the morning.”
Spear chuckled. “I reckon you’re right. I do like my stripes.” He gave Webster a knowing look. Before becoming a lieutenant, Webster had been a sergeant major. So had Second Lieutenant Brandt for that matter. The officers in their company were very wise to how things were in the ranks, as well as having firsthand knowledge of what went on in the fleshpot
s of Nashville.
Webster said “Now, don’t forget to thank Stonewall Jackson. He chased all the working ladies out of his territory, so I reckon they must have all landed in Nashville. What with all that choice, you ought to get a good deal on a poke.”
I won’t be needing choice, Spear thought. I know who I’m looking for and where to find her.
After tending to his horse, Spear put on his clean shirt and retrieved his best uniform jacket out of the battalion baggage. He stacked his carbine, gave his boots, pistol, holster, sword and scabbard a quick spit polish, saddled his horse, and set out for Nashville. As the only man in the regiment with a pass who had not spent the day in camp, he left hours after the others and made the short, eight-mile journey alone.
After presenting his pass to the provosts on the Nolensville Pike, Spear rode first through the outlying pickets in their rifle pits, and then the massive earthworks of Nashville’s fortifications, a forbidding wall of dirt, stone, and wood studded with iron cannon and girded by row upon row of sharpened stakes, cheval de fries, and deep ditches. It was well after dark by the time he entered the city proper, but he knew the way, straight down Broadway to Smoky Row. He turned onto 2nd Avenue, left his horse with a stable there, and went straight to his favorite brothel, the Red Filly.
Stepping through the door, he peered through the haze of tobacco smoke to see the 7th Pennsylvania’s regimental commissary and quartermaster sergeants at a table, sharing a bottle of whiskey. The other tables were also occupied by blue uniforms, singly or in small groups, and a quick glance around yielded mostly corporals and sergeants, a few lieutenants, and a captain.
Spear smiled. He liked the Red Filly because the house’s girls didn’t cheat and bribe for their clean bills of health from the doctors, nor their licenses from the Army. Just because every prostitute had to have a doctor declare her disease-free and a license from the Army to work didn’t mean all those papers were gotten squarely. Also, the prices at the Filly kept the common privates out. This was a middling place for men with stripes on their sleeves, and the thriftier fellows with bars on their shoulders.