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

by R. E. Thomas

  As he marched over the bridge, Nathan observed with relief that a cluster of wagons was parked on the other side, just a couple hundred yards distant. The wagons meant no going hungry that night. He knew they sometimes out-marched their supplies in this army, like they did Lawrenceburg, but they went hungry not nearly as often under Jackson as they had under Bragg.

  With a veteran infantryman’s eye, Nathan examined the ground around him. Behind him lay an expanse of flat pastures and cedar thickets. Before him was Stewart’s Creek. It was a shady stream, both banks lined with trees. The creek itself wasn’t much to speak of, only about a foot deep in most places. But its banks were steep and four or five feet high, like walls made of gnarled tree roots, small boulders and hard, compacted dirt. It was a natural obstacle, and better still, the bank on their side was higher than the western bank, so they could easily shoot down on anyone trying to get across.

  Nathan turned to Willie, who was studying the ground in much the same way. “If we build a breastwork here, it’s as good as standing behind the walls of a fort.”

  “We don’t need muskets to keep this place,” Willie said. “We could do the job with broomsticks.”

  The Sergeant Major began calling, “Gather around! Gather around!” Nathan saw that the officers were already clustered around Colonel Tillman and realized what was coming. Tillman was telling the officers what he wanted done. The Sergeant Major was going to tell them, the ones who would actually do all the work, how to do it.

  “Men, you might have seen all them rock outcrops hereabouts. The ground here is just too stony to dig in properly, so we are going throw up a barricade. Fetch the axes and the shovels from the wagons. Chop down them trees on the other bank, to clear out a field of fire. Haul the trunks over to this side, and stack them up against the trees on this side. Fill in the little gaps with rocks from the creek, and pack the whole thing in mud. You understand me?”

  The Sergeant Major was met by nods and murmurs of “Yep, sarge” from the more than 200 soldiers gathered around him.

  “We have a lot of ground to cover. 250 yards of it. The regiment is stretched out in a single line, boys. So get busy.”

  The regiment broke up, with some men going to fetch tools and some going to fetch food. Before long, the designated cook in each mess had a fire going and was busy preparing a meal while the men set about fortifying the ground. All except Nathan and Willie, who shot the breeze with their mess cook while waiting to be detailed to foraging, as they usually were.

  Captain Bell left the officer’s meeting pleased with himself. Finally I’ll take this company under tight reins, Bell thought, and make it shine. I’ll see our part of the fieldworks erected first and best.

  Returning to the company, Bell immediately went to First Sergeant Halpern, pointed at the mess cooks, and demanded, “Sergeant! Why aren’t those men at work?”

  “Because,” Halpern replied in a businesslike fashion, “the boys are hungry and need to eat. The other companies are doing the same thing, sir.”

  Bell looked around quickly and saw what Halpern said was true. “What about those two?” he blustered. “That corporal and the man with him over there. Corporal…”

  “Corporal Grimes and Private Grimes, sir. I was just about to ask you about that. Those two are the best foragers and trappers in the regiment. Old Captain Fletcher used to excuse them from duties like this, so they could rustle up some more vittles for us.”

  “Absolutely not,” Bell replied indignantly. “The fortifications come first. If they want to go off in search of food, they can do that later.”

  “Captain,” Halpern said patiently, “sometimes the Grimes boys bring back enough to fatten the cook pots for the entire regiment. Even Colonel Tillman appreciates it.”

  “That may well be so, but this is my company. They work on the fortifications first, and then go foraging if they have time.” Bell then spun about on his heels and walked away, leaving Halpern to mumble, “Yessir, Captain, sir.”

  Halpern went over to the Grimes brothers. “Boys, Captain won’t let you go until we finish fortifying this place. Ed is already seeing about the axework. Nathan, you go join him. Willie, you go take charge of getting rocks out of the creek.”

  The brothers glumly trudged off to the creek. Nathan briefly considered going off foraging anyway, but then he saw Raglan Lloyd sneering at him. Thoughts of escaping hard labor and going foraging were replaced by a sweet desire to beat Lloyd’s face against a rock. Before now, Nathan could sneak away and no one would have said a word about it, not even Halpern. He could at least lay traps before Bell noticed he was gone. Not anymore. Now Lloyd would run to the Captain crying “Deserter! Deserter!” as soon as he was out of sight.

  Nathan sighed, took up a hatchet, and began hacking branches off a felled cedar trunk. He looked over to Willie, who stood bent over at the top of the bank, hoisting up the stones that were handed to him by the men in the creek bed and piling them up.

  He smiled and went back to work. My little brother, he thought, the foreman.

  Chapter 9

  June 21, 1864

  3:00 A.M.

  Rowlett’s Farmhouse

  Headquarters, Army of Tennessee, CSA

  Smith gently shook Jackson by the shoulder. “Time to rise, sir. Do you hear me? Do you hear me, sir?”

  “Yes, yes,” Jackson replied, sluggishly rising from his cot and blinking his way to wakefulness.

  “Breakfast is waiting outside. I’ve gotten a few couriers up to join us on the ride. If you don’t need me, I’ll see to your horse now.”

  Jackson nodded, so Smith turned and ducked under the tent flap. Having slept in his trousers and shirtsleeves, Jackson spent only a few moments splashing water on his face at the basin and dressing. He emerged from his tent wearing a rumpled, sweat-stained uniform, and after a quick visit to the outhouse, sat down at the rough-hewn wooden table standing under the canvas shelter extending out from the front of his tent.

  Before him was a tin plate bearing cornbread and sliced peaches, plus a cup of hot tea, the latter a recent capture from the Federal’s stores. The cornbread was made with milk, courtesy of his hosts, the Rowletts, but with the bare minimum of salt. Jackson had long ago fixed upon simple, plain food with a minimum of seasonings as the curative for his dyspepsia. Even so, he adored fresh fruit, and peaches most of all, so his plate was piled high with them. He also made a point out of a good breakfast, as the pressures of the day often caused him to forget to eat.

  After devouring his meal with relish, Jackson joined Smith and a pair of couriers at the horses. They mounted and made their way down the country track to the nearby road in the starless, overcast early morning darkness. Upon reaching the road, the party turned right, picked up their pace, and rode to Fortress Rosecrans.

  Even if they hadn’t already known the way, there was no risk of becoming lost in the gloom. The noise of freight being shifted and of men shouting reached their ears long before the torches and lanterns around the fort came into sight. Just outside the walls was a gathering convoy of hundreds of wagons and dozens of hulking black cannon.

  Jackson soon found the men he was looking for among the bustling crowd of mules, teamsters, and wagons. There amid the seeming chaos were his chief quartermaster and chief ordnance officer, Lieutenant Colonels John Harman and William Allan; his cavalry chief, Nathan Bedford Forrest; and Colonel Edmund Rucker, commander of the cavalry brigade assigned to escort the convoy.

  Returning the many salutes with one wave of his hand, Jackson asked, “Harman. Allan. Report, please?”

  Allan started. “More of the guns in the fort turned out to be six-pounders than we were expecting, sir, exactly the sort of cannons we don’t need more of. I’ve spoken to Robertson, and he agrees, although he was happy to lay claim to the Napoleons. But there are still plenty of the heavier pieces you wanted.”

  Jackson said eagerly, “What about the heavier pieces?”

  Allan replied as if he wer
e reciting a grocery list. “Eleven 8-inch siege howitzers, eleven 24-pounder rifles, four 24-pounder smoothbores, and four 30-pounder Parrot rifles.”

  Unconsciously, Jackson licked his lips. The gunner in him felt warm satisfaction at the idea of having possession of such a train of guns for sieges and garrisons, like a man who unwraps a gift and finds it to be exactly what he desired.

  Allan looked to Harman, who took the cue. “Due to the necessity of providing captured animals to pull those guns, sir, I’ve only found myself able to add 64 wagons to the army’s transportation. 64 exactly. But that plus the empties will allow us to haul away a small mountain of valuable supplies. As you can see, the convoy is coming together. We’ll be ready to head out by dawn, as promised.”

  “Good, good. You do fine work, Colonel Harman. Fine work.” Jackson looked at his longtime quartermaster, who now wore a broad, toothy smile. Harman was the most efficient mule-driver he had ever know, as well as perhaps the most profane man in the entire Confederate Army. Harman would have preferred to spike the guns and expand the wagon train, but Jackson knew he would need them should Providence see his plans to fruition.

  After a pause, Jackson continued. “We will have more work tomorrow. Hot work. But for now, we must tend to our gains. General Forrest?”

  Forrest tilted his head towards his subordinate. “Colonel Rucker here will provide the escort.”

  Rucker’s hand shot out. “General Jackson, if I may, I have not yet had the pleasure, sir?”

  Jackson shook hands with Rucker. “The pleasure, and the honor, are mine, sir. I know General Forrest regards you highly.”

  Rucker beamed as Forrest spoke. “Rucker’s boys have ridden farther and harder than any of my other cavalry of late. He is a good man for an assignment like this, but a spell of escort duty will give his horses a rest too.”

  “Good, good. Now Colonel, you understand your task.” Jackson began gesticulating at the columns of heavy cannon. “To see this convoy to Columbia unmolested, where you will hand it over to General Strahl? Mind the enemy strongholds at Pulaski and Shelbyville?”

  “Yessir,” Rucker said with enthusiasm. “I understand my assignment perfectly.”

  “Good, good. General Forrest, I wish to speak with you. Privately.”

  The two men withdrew a short distance from the fort and the road, across the clearing and into a stand of cedars.

  “I received your report last night,” Jackson said quietly. “About Federal cavalry occupying Stewartsboro and Smyrna.”

  “Yep. Bluecoat pickets will be giving big old Abe Buford and his boys dirty looks across the Murfreesboro Pike Bridge just after sun-up, I reckon. You still sure you don’t want me to go on ahead and have that bridge burned?”

  “No,” Jackson said firmly. Appearances were important. A closely watched bridge was no danger to him, but leaving it standing implied he might want to come across Stewart’s Creek for a lunge at Sherman’s railroad supply line. “General Forrest, in the fight that is coming, I want you to stay with Red Jackson’s troopers. I anticipate that the enemy will attack us tomorrow morning and attack us on our left. If you must withdraw Red Jackson from his present position on Scales Mountain, your highest priority is covering the Salem Pike, not screening the army’s immediate left. Do you understand?”

  Forrest’s brows furrowed. Covering the Salem Road, miles to the south of the army’s position, would mean exposing the army’s left flank, sure enough. “You are sure that is what you want, General?”

  “Yes, yes. You shall receive those orders in writing later today. Safeguarding the Salem Pike is your paramount concern. I also want that you should speak to no one of this until the battle opens.”

  Forrest frowned, dissatisfied. The instructions to abandon the left flank in favor of screening a road were bizarre. But he knew Old Jack wouldn’t explain why it was to be that way, even if he demanded to be told.

  When Stonewall Jackson goes to meet his maker, Forrest thought to himself, he’ll admit to all his sins easy enough, but refuse to say a thing about why he did any of them, even if Saint Peter threatens him with the fires of Hell. It all comes down to if I trust the man. Do I? I reckon I do.

  Forrest drawled “Well, I reckon you are right about needing me there on the left, to make sure Red falls back like you want. He won’t want to leave Clayton’s flank in the air like that, any more than he’ll care for me looking over his shoulder. But, if that is what you want, that is what I’ll give you.”

  “One last thing. What of the prisoners?”

  “I ordered the boys to drag all the, oh what do you call those things… cheevahl dee freeze?”

  “Cheval de frise.”

  “Yep, them things. I had the boys drag them out to the backs of two lunettes, one next to the other, along with some of the six-pounders that your chiefs there didn’t want. Loaded the guns with double canister. What with men on the walls and behind that line of… cheval de fries… I reckon that will do for prisons. The Yankees have been nice and quiet.”

  “Good. Good.” Jackson dismissed Forrest, collected Smith and the rest of his party, and rode away from the convoy and the fortress. Jackson felt both satisfied and yet also slightly annoyed by his meeting with Forrest as he led his followers to the hamlet of Blackman, where the headquarters of Polk’s Corps had been set up in a schoolhouse. He was pleased by Forrest’s performance, but annoyed by the need to take Forrest ever so slightly into his confidence.

  In Jackson’s mind, orders were to be obeyed without question, and certainly not with explanations of intent. That was his duty as a soldier and a God-fearing man, and so should it be for every man in the army. Beyond that, secrecy was a prime military virtue. But his present army was twice the size of any command he had held in Virginia, and that simple fact demanded a grudging concession in the way he went about things. It was necessary, but he still didn’t care for it. Not one little bit.

  Arriving before the schoolhouse porch, Jackson found Bishop Polk seated there, idly eating a breakfast of biscuits and gravy while thumbing through his pocket New Testament. Seeing Jackson approach, Polk got up from his table and greeted him.

  “Good morning, sir,” he said pleasantly. “I was just preparing for the service I intend to give later today, for those men of my Corps who wish to attend. After your mandated period of drill, of course.”

  Jackson dismounted from his horse, saying “Commendable, General Polk. Commendable. What shall you use for your sermon?”

  “I was considering Romans 13:4.”

  Jackson paused for a moment, and then recited, “For he is God’s servant for your good. But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword in vain. For he is the servant of God, an avenger who carries out God’s wrath on the wrongdoer.”

  Polk beamed. “Very good, sir. Excellent, in fact. The Lord has blessed you with a clear and sound memory.”

  Jackson smiled, slightly embarrassed. “No, No. I fear I know that for the same reason I know anything, by the labors of rote.” Jackson paused, and then said, “If I may say so, I have always been fonder of a different passage from Romans, Chapter 13.”

  “Allow me to guess? Um…. Let every person be subject to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God, and those that exist have been instituted by God. Therefore whoever resists the authorities resists what God has appointed, and those who resist will incur judgment. For rulers are not a terror to good conduct, but to bad. Would you have no fear of the one who is in authority? Then do what is good, and you will receive his approval, for he is God’s servant for your good.”

  “Yes, that is exactly the one.”

  “Perhaps I shall use it instead, and preach on the Yankees, and their betrayal of our liberties, hard-won by our forefathers in the Revolution.”

  “General Polk, I wish to inspect Cockrell’s Brigade this morning and inquire about how they are faring with those captured Henry rifles. Will you accompany me, and while we ride you can inf
orm me as to the standing of your Corps?”

  Polk smiled affably, but beneath his kindly demeanor he was half-irritated at having to refer to his command as a “corps” in the Army of Tennessee. He was still the department commander for Alabama and Mississippi, and his “corps” was part of the Army of Mississippi. Among his own people, he always referred to it that way.

  But only half-irritated, because the mention of the Henry rifles recalled his little headquarters victory. Several hundred of the dreaded sixteen-shot repeaters had been captured along with the 64th Illinois by his troops. The Irishman, Patrick Cleburne, also had a claim to the weapons, but Polk had prevailed in the dispute, so they went to arm Cockrell’s small brigade of Missourians. So small, in fact, that most of Cockrell’s soldiers were able to exchange their muskets for Henrys.

  Leaving his breakfast behind, as he could always have another one made for him later, Polk roused his staff and assembled the style of entourage he deemed proper to a Confederate lieutenant general: one of his senior staff officers, two aides, two enlisted couriers, his guidon-bearer, and two armed escorts. All were nattily turned out and created a vivid contrast with the ragged, weather-beaten appearance of the commanding general, if not with Jackson’s own much smaller party. The contrast was only magnified when Polk himself emerged from the schoolhouse, wearing a finely tailored, exhaustively brushed coat, brightly decorated with gold embroidery and braid. Polk was as dandy as Jackson was seedy.

  Still mounted and sitting behind Jackson, Smith shook his head despite himself. He had never quite understood the sheer extent of Jackson’s tolerance for the pious, and he knew that Old Jack would never have waited patiently for almost half an hour for such a gaggle of military pomp to be assembled for anyone who wasn’t a Bishop Polk or a Reverend Dabney. Not that Dabney would ever have made him wait.