by R. E. Thomas
June 15, 1864
10 P.M.
Headquarters, Army of Tennessee, CSA
Charlotte, Tennessee
Sandie walked up to the front door of the Dickson County Courthouse, a simple brick building adorned only with a central cupola at the top. J.P. Smith had told him it was where he had spent the night with Forrest’s party on the ride back from Clarksville little more than a week ago. Now it was army headquarters for the night, although in keeping with Jackson’s dictum, they only worked indoors and slept in tents on the courthouse lawn.
Going straight to Jackson’s office, he passed the guards and aides and knocked at the door. Upon hearing a muffled “yes, yes” inside, Sandie entered.
“Sir, General Cheatham is here to see you on an urgent matter.” Sandie then deepened the tone of his voice and said, “In the company of a Dr. Coleman.”
Jackson spun out of his chair. Sandie saw a spark of light in his eyes. Oh yes, Sandie thought. He hasn’t said a word, but he has been anxious about this one.
Composing himself, Jackson said steadily, “Bring them to me. Good, good.”
Sandie called for Cheatham, who soon ambled into the office in the company of a wiry figure wearing an ill-fitting, borrowed uniform coat with a trio of captain’s bars about the collar. The rest of the thin man’s clothes contrasted sharply with the coat, as they were impregnated with dust and dried sweat, and he was visibly both animated and weary.
The dingy thin man saluted and spoke with a mild Scottish accent. “General Jackson, sir. May I tell you, sir, this is quite an honor. Captain Alexander Gregg, reporting as ordered.”
Jackson took a step forward and extended his hand. “Nonsense, Captain. The honor is mine.”
The day after arriving in Franklin, Jackson had summoned Cheatham to headquarters and inquired about what had been Bragg’s intelligence service in Tennessee, since he knew Old Frank had had a hand in organizing it. In this way, Jackson took up the reins of the Coleman Scouts. He had never met their current leader, Captain Gregg, before tonight, but to Gregg’s personal supervision went the most important assignment of all: monitoring the movements of the Federal army in Nashville.
“I take it,” Jackson continued, “that McPherson and Sherman are on the move?”
Gregg ran his hand over his head, slicking back his sweaty, dirty hair. “Yessir, General. The XV Corps and XVI Corps were both on separate roads before dawn, bound for Springfield. By sunrise, XX Corps was crowding the bridges and coming north. All of this I saw with my own eyes. As soon as I saw Hooker’s boys crossing the river, I knew the whole army was really on the move. All in all, about 60,000 infantry I reckon. I departed to find General Cheatham at once, as ordered.”
Jackson nodded. His total strength was more than before Lawrenceburg, what with volunteers, conscripts, the lightly wounded returning to duty, and other returnees. Yet with Strahl’s Brigade detached to train its large helping of green troops and garrison his rear, he had about the same number of men as before the march into Tennessee.
Sherman has taken the bait, Jackson thought. If Providence stays with us…
“Sandie, summon all the senior officers. And retrieve those written orders you were instructed to prepare. You know the ones I mean. And see to it Captain Gregg here gets a tent, a wash basin, and a proper meal. And have some coffee sent in for General Cheatham.”
“There is no coffee left, sir. We still have some of that ground sweet potato stuff, though.”
Cheatham nodded, saying “Much obliged.” Sandie saluted and left, his satisfaction bringing a rosy character to his cherubic features. The Tennessean pulled up a chair close by the window, watching Sandie leave as he did so, and realizing that whatever Old Jack was planning for them, that the boyish, 23-year-old colonel who had just walked out the door had known about it for days. Perhaps even weeks or even for the last month.
We all think it’s Alex Stewart that Jackson confides his secrets in, Cheatham thought, but it’s not. Hot damn, it’s not! Not all the time. It’s that boy right there who truly counts as Old Jack’s inner circle.
Cheatham opened a window, sat down, and began rummaging through his pockets for his pipe and tobacco pouch. Jackson returned to his chair by his camp desk, while Captain Quintard, one of his newer western aides, came in to set up a map table.
The two generals sat quietly for a time, Cheatham puffing on his pipe and Jackson ramrod erect in his chair, arm resting on the desktop with his thumb stuck straight into the air.
After a few minutes, Cheatham spoke. “Perhaps you will find this amusing, sir. Have you heard that when I rejoined my division, after leaving the Rattle and Snap banquet, the boys were gossiping that you had finally had enough of my drinking and put me in arrest!”
Surprised, but not amused, Jackson asked, “Why would they think that?”
“I imagine a mixture of finding Alfred Vaughn in command and our mutual reputations.”
Jackson’s expression soured. “Let me assure you that any complaint I have with your drinking, General Cheatham, is at this time strictly personal and private, or else you would have heard about it.”
Cheatham chuckled. He had seen that Jackson was one of those who took themselves too seriously long before. It wasn’t that the man had no sense of humor, but that it was walled off in places.
“You’ve never had much taste for liquor yourself, sir? If I recollect, the Presbyterians don’t take to drink all that often, but nor do they abstain.”
“That is true,” Jackson replied. “I must confess I like the taste of whiskey, and some other spirituous liquors as well. That is why I avoid them.”
Jackson considered Cheatham for a moment. He didn’t care for the Tennessean’s drinking, it was true, but Frank Cheatham was hardly the first hard-drinking officer Jackson had served with. More importantly, Cheatham’s fondness for whiskey never seemed to interfere in his duties, despite the stories. He was an able division commander, but not, Jackson felt, one endowed with the aptitude for higher responsibilities.
The two men did not delve further into small talk while they waited. Instead, Cheatham returned to his pipe and Jackson to his thoughts. It was only when the other generals began to appear that the idle conversation began in earnest. First came A.P. Stewart, Henry Clayton, and Carter Stevenson. As was his custom, Jackson kept Stewart’s Corps nearest to army headquarters. Then Patrick Cleburne and Lucius Polk arrived, followed by Nathan Bedford Forrest. Bishop Polk, Samuel French, and George Maney arrived last, and by that time the hour was approaching midnight.
After greeting Polk’s party, Jackson dispensed with any further pleasantries. “Gentlemen, the hour is late and you all have duties to attend to. I shall be brief. This army is turning east.”
Jackson gauged the expressions of his assembled generals. Whether by temperament or by cue, most followed the example of their corps commander. Like Stewart, Clayton and Stevenson looked impassive. Cleburne, Lucius Polk, and Cheatham were all astonished and made no effort to disguise it. Only Polk’s people showed signs of incongruity. Polk himself appeared content, while Maney looked confused and uncertain, and French was visibly upset.
French said to Jackson, “We’re not marching for Kentucky, sir?”
“No, no.”
“May I ask why, General?”
“No, no.”
“Can you at least tell us if we are turning back?”
“No, no.” Jackson paused, and when no one asked further questions, he continued by explaining how the army would now march east, more or less following the same routes used thus far, only in reverse and with much longer days on the road. In two days time, Stewart’s Corps was to be on the Peytonsville Road and in the vicinity of White House Post Office, while Cleburne and Polk were to be in Spring Hill.
“Gentlemen, Colonel Pendleton has your new written orders. You will receive further directions upon reaching your assigned destinations. Return to your commands and have them ready to march as directed. You al
l have long days ahead of you. General Forrest, will you remain here for the specific instructions for your cavalry?”
Sandie handed each corps commander a bundle of envelopes as he left the room and then followed them out, leaving Jackson and Forrest to discuss the cavalry arrangements alone. He watched as they broke into groups and went to their horses and escorts, his eyes lingering on Polk, French, and Maney.
I must watch Polk more carefully, Sandie thought. Much more carefully. Old Jack is very taken with our Bishop. But he’s not a very good general, more’s the pity. He plays the part. Many of these western old timers seem to love the man. But he’s not up to the job of leading a corps. And if what I have heard has even a half-measure of truth, Polk spends no little time in the shadows, encouraging discontentedness.
But Old Jack likes him. Well, the General has more than his fair share of our Southern fondness for men of the Good Book. I was taken with him too, for a time. Reminds me a bit of my father. It’s like old, bumbling Pastor Dabney. It took us an Old Testament age to make Jackson see that Dabney wasn’t much of a chief of staff, however well-meaning he was, and Dabney had to go. Pastor Dabney even wanted to go. Polk won’t, and he’s much worse. So, I must watch him carefully, spell out every order, even beyond Jackson’s usual exacting standard, and take all the care in the world with handling that one.
As Sandie looked on, Polk and his generals made their way off the courthouse lawn, through the tents, and to their party of aides, escorts and horses.
French muttered to Polk, “I can’t believe it. Has that crackbrain lost his nerve!? We haven’t gotten to Kentucky, haven’t even so much as crossed the Cumberland yet, and we’re already in retreat! It’s a damned disgrace!”
Maney said consolingly, “It’s not like that Sam, not that way at all. There is an old Greek saying. I can’t recall who said it, but it goes, “If the lion skin won’t cover it, we must patch it out with the fox’s.” You know Old Jack. He likes heaping confusion on the enemy. This whole march to the Cumberland was a diversion. If we’re turning back, it’s because the Yankees swallowed the line.”
“A diversion?” French shot back. “Involving the entire army? Not likely. And he won’t tell us the new objective, if we have such an objective. It’s not proper army, I tell you. Not proper army at all.”
Polk listened, enjoying French’s displeasure with the commanding general, but slightly unnerved by the reactions of Maney and the other generals. Under Bragg, he could count on at least half the high command being in opposition, whatever Bragg might order. With Stonewall Jackson, only French and a few brigadiers found their commander so distressing.
After mounting his horse, Polk looked down to his generals. “Gentlemen, shall we carry on?”
June 16, 1864
4 P.M.
41st Tennessee Infantry, CSA
Beech Grove
Maury County, Tennessee
Willie said, “Nathan, how far do you reckon we’ve gone today?”
Nathan shrugged. “About 20 miles. Same as yesterday.”
Once Nathan moved his shoulders, he compulsively kept rolling, shaking his back and neck out. But he never stopped loping forward. He ached, and not just in his feet and back.
“Reckon whatever Old Jack had in mind with them short marching days is done,” Nathan said. “We all back to foot cavalry now.”
Forty foot miles in two days had a way of making a man tired and raw all over and just about equally, he thought. That and the parched, dusty coating in the mouth. The heat. Ugly. Just ugly.
Looking at Captain Bell, struggling alongside the company, he saw the clear signs of a man who was struggling with blisters and an unbalanced load. The way Bell moved his feet, avoiding the tender spots. The jerks in his movement. Nathan grinned at the sight.
But what bothered Nathan more than the customary aches of marching was the drudgery. They had used up the exciting talk yesterday, the rumors of Old Frank under arrest for drinking and what mischief Old Jack might be making by marching them all back and forth. The band and pretty music from their dinner stop was a couple hours behind them, and their campground for the night, wherever that was, lay a couple hours ahead of them.
There was one thing for it. Nathan took a swallow from his canteen, and started singing.
John Brown’s body lies a-moldering in the grave
John Brown’s body lies a-moldering in the grave
Damn him straight to Hell!
Glory, glory hallelujah
Glory, glory hallelujah,
And damn him straight to Hell!
Brown gone to Harper’s Ferry,
To set the darkies free.
He were a scoundrel and a villain,
Set on killing you and me.
Damn him straight to Hell!
Glory, glory hallelujah
Glory, glory hallelujah,
And damn him straight to Hell!
Brown hid out in an old factory,
He called out “do your worst!”
So they called for Bobby Lee.
Lee got him out and Virginie hung him from a tree.
And damn him straight to Hell!
They loved that traitor Brown all around the North,
But the traitor’s noose and traitor’s grave
These were all that he was worth.
And now he rots deep in the earth.
Damn him straight to Hell!
First the regiment picked up with singing the song, then the whole brigade. They sang on, one rollicking tune after another, passing the time until the bugle sounded “Halt!” and the sergeant major barked, “Dis-Missed!” The ranks broke up and fanned out into campsites in the adjacent fields, whereupon they regrouped into their messes.
Most of the men plopped out onto the ground and pulled off their shoes. Some set about collecting firewood, as it was their turn, and a dozen soldiers gathered around a lieutenant to form a canteen detail. These unfortunates began collecting canteens from everyone in the regiment, and were soon trekking to some local creek for water.
Using his blanket roll as a pillow, Nathan lay on the ground with his slouch hat over his face, while the other fellows in the mess lit a cooking fire. Old Jack is right about one thing, he thought. Lying down really is the best rest.
With Willie off to supper with Halpern and Marks, Nathan was the most senior man in the mess, as well as the chief forager and scrounger for the company, if not the regiment. So, only Nathan didn’t have a mess chore, not beyond setting out his tin cup with some crumbled hard tack and water to soak for the skillygale.
A hesitant voice said, “Private Grimes, um, sir?”
Nathan grimaced and reluctantly raised the brim of his hat. It was one of the conscripts. Or was he a volunteer, Nathan thought.
Not that it made a whit of difference to him. After he had caught Lloyd lying in wait to bushwhack Willie, Halpern broke up the “new fellows mess” and distributed them out to all the other messes. His mess got two of the greenhorns, neither of whom were with Lloyd that night. Nathan didn’t know their names, and didn’t care to.
Nathan spat, “Don’t call me ‘private.’ We’re the same rank, dummy,” and placed his hat back across his eyes.
The boy replied, “Yessir. Mr. Grimes then.”
Well, Nathan thought, that didn’t sound half as stupid, at least. “Boy, what do you want?”
“They say all around that you is a mighty bold fellow. I thought you would be the one to ask, excepting them officers and all… is there a battle up ahead?”
“Yep,” Nathan said. “Scared?”
“Well Mr. Grimes, I don’t mind saying I am.”
“Yep. Me too. Any man who tells you different is just plain ignorant or a damn fool liar.”
The boy was quiet for a time, so Nathan continued. “If there is one thing I learned in this army, it’s that we’re all scared together, and we all help each other out.”
The boy still didn’t say anything, so Nathan raised his
hat. The other green boy was there with him now, so he met both their eyes. “There’s a fight coming, that’s for sure. But it ain’t got to be a bad one. Lawrenceburg was bad, and Chickamauga worse. But we hardly got shot at all at Raymond. Jackson, that was somewhere in between. Sometimes you get lucky and wind up in a place where ain’t hardly no Yankees shooting at you. So when the time comes, you stay close to Willie and me or Sergeant Marks or First Sergeant Halpern. Find a nice, thick tree or a big, fat rock to stand behind, and do what we do. You’ll be alright.”
Tired of talking, Nathan rolled over onto his belly. A few dozen yards away was Captain Bell, sitting on a camp stool while his grizzled old darkie, Abel, pulled his boots off. Bell had been able to ride as an aide to Bishop Polk, but now he was an infantry captain. In the infantry, only regimental headquarters and on up got to ride. In the infantry, a man walked. Abel walked too, leading Bell’s unused horse along with the baggage. As to why Bell still had a horse, Nathan could only guess it was because his status as the son of one of the richest landowners in West Tennessee spared him from the full extent of Army regulations.
Nathan watched as Bell’s servant tenderly ministered to his master’s feet, placing salve over the blisters, and then went on to prepare his shelter and his meal.
Rich man’s war and a poor man’s fight, Nathan thought. That’s what the Yankees teased us with in prison, that and ‘why do you fight so some planter can keep his slaves?’ Well, that is how things were everywhere, and he didn’t figure North or South made a damn bit of difference about it. It’s always a rich man’s war, poor man’s fight.
Nathan knew why he joined the army, and what he was fighting for. Initially, he ran off and enlisted with his little brother, both underaged, to get away from Nate Grimes, Sr. Kindly Captain Fletcher understood that, and overlooked their age. He’d grown into a man in the army, and his brother too.
Nate, Sr. had always been a hard man, but not always a violent drunk. That came after Nathan’s mother died of giving birth to Willie, and it got worse when Nate, Sr. lost his land to debt and the neighboring planter. Nathan grew to scorn the idea of working like his father had, only to lose it all and make a rich man richer. If he wouldn’t do that, he sure as hell wasn’t fighting to help a rich man could keep his darkies.