by R. E. Thomas
Sherman spoke rapidly. “Because Milroy is a prisoner and Van Cleve isn’t. Because Milroy is a fire-eating abolitionist and has powerful friends, and Van Cleve doesn’t. God, I loathe politics!” He paused for a breath, then continued. “His health has been poor. I suggested he resign for medical reasons, before the politicians get their carving knives out. Now, what’s the word.”
“You already know most of it, Bill. We bagged some deserters and stragglers from the old battlefield, and they don’t seem to know much. Or if they do, they aren’t saying it just yet. The only wounded we’ve found in the hospitals were those too bad off to move. I’m surprised he left, but Jackson skedaddled pretty darn smoothly.”
Sherman grunted. “Good staff work to thank for that. Seems he took his pick of the stores and arsenal here at Fortress Rosecrans too. All the heavy artillery is gone. All of it. Shipped out two days ago.”
McPherson winced at that.
Brightening, Sherman declared, “Now! I have some good news.” He pulled a folded letter from his pocket and handed it to McPherson. “What do you think of that?”
Sherman lit a cigar while McPherson read the contents. “This is bully news, Bill. The railway from Louisville to Nashville open as of yesterday, and the lead elements of my old corps on the first train!”
Of course, Frank Blair’s XVII Corps was smaller now than it was when I had it, McPherson thought. But another two divisions of veteran infantry is always a welcome thing.
Sherman drew a gauntlet and slapped his thigh with it. With his cigar still clenched in his teeth, he exclaimed, “An extra 10,000 of the best fighting men in the world, and under a good man to boot!”
After a big puff, Sherman took the cigar from his mouth. “Now to business. We need to find the enemy. They can’t have gone far. Minty I want sent down in the direction of Hoover’s Gap and Shelbyville. Grierson will go down by way of Triune and Riggs Crossroads.”
The mention of the latter pair of places prompted McPherson to turn his ear. “You don’t think Jackson is going west, as close to us as that. That would be a damn risky thing to do.”
Sherman said nothing, which raised McPherson’s suspicions. “You know something, don’t you?”
“I have an idea. For the time being, it’s nothing more than that. Issue five days’ rations to the men, top up their ammunition. We’ll know in what direction Jackson’s bastards went this afternoon, and I want to be on the roads and after them before nightfall. Also, draw up a congratulatory order for your army, on their victory at Stewart’s Creek yesterday.”
“Yesterday was a victory? Just a stalemate if you ask me, moreover because it looks like Jackson accomplished everything he came here to do.”
“I’m surprised at you, Mac. Of course it was a victory, insofar as we and the imbecile politicians are concerned. Jackson retreated. We have possession of the field. What more need be said about it?”
McPherson nodded. “Very well.”
A voice called out from behind them, “General Sherman! General McPherson!”
Sherman frowned and turned, and he saw a civilian in a cheap brown suit striding up to them, a civilian with a notepad and a pencil. His mood turned from buoyant to sanguinary. McPherson took half a step away from his friend, instinctively moving away from the restrained, spiteful boil he felt there.
“Chicago Times, Generals, would you care to comment on the action here at Murfreesboro? Some are already calling it a defeat.”
“What is your name? And how did you get here?” Sherman said darkly.
The reporter ignored the question, and asked another of his own. “I have it on good authority that Joe Hooker’s corps bore the brunt of yesterday’s fighting and gained a good lot of ground that he was ordered to give away. Is that true? General Sherman? General McPherson?”
Sherman took a step forward and thrust his face into that of the reporter, brushing the tip of the reporter’s nose with the lit cigar. The reporter yelped and stumbled backwards, barely staying on his feet.
“Oh, my apologies, you sneaking, croaking, venomous harlot! But perhaps you are unaware of my standing orders, a prohibition on all correspondents from traveling with the troops!”
Sherman hollered, “Provost Marshal! Put this louse in irons, and throw him in with the secesh prisoners.”
Color drained from the reporter’s face, and he half-turned to flee, only to see he was instantly surrounded by blue-clad men. “You can’t do that! I have rights!”
“I can and I will. Take him away.” The squealing reporter was borne away by provosts. Sherman took the Provost Marshal aside and quietly told him “Jail that parasite until he divulges how he got here. If he refuses, charge him.”
2:00 P.M.
Headquarters in the Field, Army of Tennessee, CSA
Eagleville, Tennessee
Jackson stayed out of the summer sun in the shade of a large oak tree, just outside the southern outskirts of the little farming hamlet of Eagleville. Sandie was with him, while Forrest sat under the tree with his hat pulled over his face, having seized the opportunity for an afternoon catnap. In the surrounding pasture were hundreds of escorts, aides, and couriers from Jackson’s, Polk’s, and Forrest’s headquarters, either resting or tending to their business.
Over by the road was Polk with his own people, waving to the passing soldiers of his own corps. His band was there, playing the upbeat, patriotic standard of Bonnie Blue Flag. Those men had been on the road since 10 o’clock the previous night and were consequently trudging more than marching, but even so they waved their hats back and cheered their Old Bishop.
Jackson finished reviewing the congratulatory order that would be distributed and read to the men when they made camp that night. It struck the tone he wanted, sparing floridity for a very plain description of the facts of their victory: the demonstration to the enemy that they were not safe in even the greatest of their fortresses; the deprivation to the enemy of a vast quantity of supplies, either through capture or destruction; the wrecking miles of railroad track and bridges; and the enemy’s defeat in battle through the particular efforts of Stewart’s Corps and Maney’s Division of Polk’s Corps.
Handing the paper to Sandie, he said “Good, good. I approve. Use that as the basis for our dispatch to Richmond, and get that to me as soon as you can. Davis and Seddon will want to know of our victory as soon as possible.”
“Very good, sir.” Tired, but visibly pleased, Sandie took the paper and left.
Jackson turned the word “victory” over in his mind while looking toward Polk, who was still enjoying the pomp of an impromptu review by the roadside. He had no doubts that Providence had graced him with a kind of victory, for he had achieved everything he set out to do. Yet he still felt pettifogged, even more so than after his victory at Lawrenceburg.
Polk’s counterattack had not landed as the heavy, concentrated blow Jackson had intended, and he was certain that if it had, Hooker’s entire corps would have been swept from the field. Polk had already called on him that morning, protesting Sandie’s interference in his command, interference that had sent Maney forward without his sanction.
Technically, Sandie’s actions had violated military protocol, but nonetheless he got Maney into battle in time to avert disaster. More important in Jackson’s mind, the Bishop had performed poorly, and because of that he now recognized that Polk had performed poorly at Lawrenceburg, too. Yet looking at him, there by the road, Jackson could see that Polk’s men adored him.
Of course they do, Jackson thought. We Southrons revere our religious leaders, as any proper, civilized people ought to. Polk is a Godly man, a righteous man, and perhaps that makes him to hesitant to shed blood. Yes, that must be it. He is too cautious. The next time I send him into an attack, I shall stay with him, guide him. It’s what Pete has been encouraging me to do all along.
So preoccupied was Jackson that he hadn’t noticed the object of his reverie had come from the road and was now standing before him. “The m
ovement has gone splendidly, has it not, General Jackson? The roads are muddy, but not unduly so.”
Jackson nodded, but said nothing. The mud was slowing their progress, but it took more rain than what they had seen lately to turn the roads into bottomless channels of mire. As it was, when the enemy cavalry went into Murfreesboro that morning, they had missed what at the time had been the underprotected tail of Polk’s Corps marching away on the Salem Pike at a distance of only three or four miles. Once again, he thought, Providence has smiled on this army.
“So, General, now that we have pulled the tail of the Yankee jackal, what is the army’s next move?”
Jackson smiled, amused that Polk never gave up trying to pry his plans from him. His expectation was that the enemy would move either to protect Nashville, shadowing them step by step as they did so, or pursue them directly.
Either way, Jackson believed Sherman would be a little rattled now. The man had a reputation as competent, but also excitable to the point of being erratic. He wanted to lure Sherman into battle on ground of his choosing, and he knew of many good places south of Franklin. What was more, that part of Middle Tennessee was not only closer to his base of supply in Tuscumbia, but would also force Sherman to rely upon wagon convoys for his own supply. If Sherman wouldn’t attack him, then he would turn Sherman’s flank, and cut him off from Nashville.
Jackson knew if he damaged Sherman’s Army of the Tennessee badly enough, he could drive it back on Nashville and pen it up inside its works, whereupon George Thomas and his Army of the Cumberland would have no choice but to abandon its drive into Georgia and come north. And if that didn’t work, with some more captures, more preparation, or a mixture of both, he would finally have the wherewithal to sustain a proper late summer or autumn offensive across the Cumberland River.
He shared none of that with Polk, however. “As you know, your corps will camp beyond Riggs Crossroads tonight. Tomorrow, I hope to see you back in your beloved Maury County, General.”
As Jackson and Polk talked, a courier arrived and delivered a message to Forrest. Jackson only noticed this when Forrest got to his feet and loped over to them.
Forrest took off his hat, revealing burning red cheeks and clear, sharp eyes. “General Jackson, General Polk, I reckon I need to be leaving you now. Yankee cavalry chased off them pickets I had Red send up to Nolensville. They’s up there in force, and got to be met.”
Jackson said “You believe Sherman’s cavalry means to push through your screen. Where do you intend to stop them?”
Forrest replied firmly. “I know a good patch for a fight, round about Triune. It’s a good seven or eight miles from here. That’s where I reckon I’ll stand in with the bluebellies, if it comes to that.”
Jackson eyes lit up. “Very well. General Polk, if he needs it, I want General Forrest to be able to call on infantry from your column for support.”
Polk nodded. “Yes, naturally. Of course.”
Chapter 14
June 23, 1864
3:00 P.M.
Red Jackson’s Cavalry, CSA
Hills two miles north of Triune
After riding hard up from Eagleville, Forrest arrived in the crossroads village of Triune. He knew the area well, having once made his headquarters only a few miles away, at Rigg’s Crossroads. Triune had once been a prosperous place, with four schools and some fine houses and churches. At least half of those buildings now lay in ruins, burned by one side or another.
Mostly Yankees, Forrest thought to himself as he rode past the ruins of the Methodist Church. We did a little damage ourselves, but it was mostly the Yankees.
Forrest continued north, up the Nolensville Road, and by the time he reached the front, the fighting had subsided to intermittent firing, as dismounted skirmishers traded shots and kept a respectful distance from one another. The clearing showed signs of a fight, a cavalry scrape, with most of the dead and wounded clad in blue. Then Forrest saw Red Jackson waving to him from his horse, with Brigadier General Samuel Ferguson mounted next to him.
After Forrest rode up to him, Red Jackson said happily “Afternoon, sir. A regiment of Yankee cavalry came down from Nolensville, sniffing around. I reeled them in for a proper bushwhack and charged, gave them a good blow in the chops. I reckon they’ll be more careful next time.”
“Fine news, Red. Afternoon, General Ferguson. I take it it were your boys that gave them Yankees that bloody mouth?”
Ferguson beamed. “Indeed they did, sir.”
“Well, that’s all fine and dandy, but I reckon we still have a long afternoon before us here. Ain’t over yet. Red, have you got men in them hills to the northeast, like I asked?”
“Armstrong’s Brigade are holding those gaps like you asked, yessir. I’ve sent for Ross’s Texans to come here. I told Ross to bring everything he could spare from the tail of Polk’s Corps here.”
Forrest nodded. If the Yankees got through the gaps in those other hills, several miles to the northeast, before nightfall they could swing down like a hammer on the head of Polk’s column. Armstrong could fend off a probe, but not a determined assault, so Forrest quickly decided the most important thing was to fix the enemy’s attention here, around Triune.
“Red, I want Ferguson here to send some fellows back to Yancey’s Knob. That be the big hill on the other side of Triune. Them fellows is to start digging in. Give them all the tools you’ve got, and take whatever you can find in Triune too. If they got any darkies left in these parts, put them to work, and when Ross comes up, have his boys dismount and join in. When the Yankees come back, you hold them here for as long as you can. Bring up your horse guns, make plenty of noise, and get them good and interested. Fall back on Yancey’s Knob when you need to, then dig in your heels.”
Red said, “Yessir,” while Fergusson nodded and said “I understand, General.”
Forrest brought his horse around, barking, “I’ll be back shortly. Going to rustle us up some infantry support,” before putting his spurs in and galloping away.
He pushed his mount hard all eight miles back to Eagleville, leaving his aides and escorts behind and passing Ross’s Brigade trotting north on the way. Reaching the crossroads, Forrest’s horse was frothing and spent. Jackson and Polk were gone, but he was gladdened to find long, winding columns of marching infantry still on the road. He went in search of a general and rode straight for the first one he saw, which turned out to be Francis Cockrell.
Cockrell was riding placidly with his staff, alongside his soldiers, when Forrest came thundering up. Energized by Forrest’s urgency, he straightened up in the saddle and snapped off a salute. “General Forrest, what are you about, sir?”
Forrest said brusquely, “You’re Cockrell, ain’t you?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“I got me a fight brewing right up that road there,” Forrest said, pointing back to the north and the Nolensville Road, “and you and your boys are going up that way quick, on General Jackson’s orders.”
“General Jackson?”
“Yeap. Old Jack gave me permission to call directly on y’all from Polk’s Corps for support. Your Missouri boys are in Polk’s Corps and you’re right here, so I’m calling on you. He said it to me right in front of the Bishop, and he agreed.”
Old Jack and the Bishop, Cockrell thought. Good enough for me.
To his aides, Cockrell said, “Sound the bugles to halt the column. Go tell the colonels to step off and clear the road, about face, turn onto the Nolensville Road and head north. Once they are headed north, the boys are to pick up the pace. Force the march.”
Forrest nodded. “Now, General Cockrell, I got a favor to ask of you. I need a fresh horse. Can I take one from one of your boys?”
Cockrell agreed. As his Missourians cleared the road and turned around, he started writing a message for his division commander, Samuel French, when French himself came riding up.
French shouted as he rode up, “What in the hell are you doing, General?! Get your bo
ys back on the road and going east at once!”
As French brought his horse to a stop, Cockrell pointed down to Forrest, who was now dismounted. “I have orders to march to the aide of General Forrest’s cavalry, sir.”
French was indignant. “I’ve heard of no such thing. Where are these orders?”
Forrest stepped forward, and snapped up the bridle of French’s mount. Scowling, Forrest said, “They ain’t on paper. I got them spoken like, straight from the commanding general. Polk was there and he confirmed it himself. I can call on any infantry in his corps for support.”
“Not in writing?” French sniffed. “Well, I won’t have it. Your cavalry’s business is your business, General Forrest, but this is something I’ll have to confirm with headquarters. I’ll allow Cockrell to stay here by the crossroads while we wait.”
Forrest radiated blazing anger, prompted French’s horse to jerk away. He yanked the frightened animal back with a powerful tug on its bridle, prompting its submission. To its rider, he snapped, “There ain’t time for that, and you ain’t got no authority to stop me. Cockrell’s here and he comes with me, dammit. Now!”
French stared at Forrest and gulped, but he wasn’t about to back down to a jumped up, illiterate ex-slave dealer. Forrest glared back at him, injurious intent boiling in his eyes.
Cockrell stammered, “Ahm, General French, sir. This is no oral message delivered by a red-cheeked boy with a single bar on his collar, sir. These are orders from our higher authority, delivered in person by a major general. Now you know this business better than I do, having been to West Point and all, but from my time in this army, I do not believe we can question them. Now General Forrest says there is a fight brewing up that road, and he needs our support at once, so…”
Blinking, French muttered, “Yes, of course. I’m within my rights to seek confirmation, but it was always my intent to cooperate. I did say Cockrell could stay here at first, did I not? If I had known how urgent things were…” Puffing himself up, French continued, “I would always help a brother officer.”