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

by R. E. Thomas

  Polk felt both cowed and swept away. Suddenly unable to think of anything but obedience, Polk stammered “Yessir!” After sending a courier to Maney with orders to regroup and go forward as soon as possible, Polk spurred his horse into the woods to personally order Ector and Sears to start forward as soon as they saw Maney go in. Only then did he find General French, who was busy bringing Cantey’s Brigade into position on the edge of the forest.

  French saluted Polk. “Sir, Cantey’s boys were marching off in the wrong direction. I’m afraid their new commander mishandled them, and I had to fetch them and bring them back.”

  Patiently, Polk replied, “That is good, but in the meantime your boys have been going against the Northron’s breastworks piecemeal, General. They shall never take those works going in like that, not ever. You have the God-given chance to strike the blow that shall win us this battle, General French.”

  Polk gestured towards Harrow’s entrenchments. “Now look there. The enemy has shifted a whole battery of cannon to the end of their line.”

  French protested. “I can’t go forward against that as I am now, General Polk! I’d be sending Cantey’s boys into the teeth of those Federal guns!”

  Calmly, Polk said, “You can and you shall. I will go and bring up Cockrell’s boys myself, but you will stay here and attack in conjunction with Maney.”

  Sullenly, French said, “Yes. Sir.”

  The second attacks began before Polk could return with Cockrell’s Brigade. Now better coordinated, the bulk of Polk’s Corps pushed up to within 70 yards of the Federal breastworks, where they stubbornly fought it out for almost 15 minutes. Yet Harrow’s troops stood firm behind the protection of their thick dirt embankment, and so it was the Johnnies who wilted and fell back.

  Polk waited with French while his troops fell back. To an aide, he said, “Tell General Maney he has fought gallantly, but I require one more effort from him. Tell him Cockrell is on the far right now, and this time we’ll get in those works. Be ready to charge.”

  On the other side of the line, Harrow was celebrating the repulse of the second Confederate attack by taking another pull from his flask. To his artillery chief, he said, “Did you see that, Griffiths! Did you see that?! Your guns did magnificently. If those bastards have the cheek to come at us again, we’ll see them off in the same brilliant style. Brilliant! Brilliant!”

  “Sir, it’s General Logan!” cried Griffiths.

  Harrow hid his flask under his coat and turned to face Blackjack as he came thundering up on his great, dark horse. “General Logan, sir! I’m glad to see you. I’ve just seen off two attacks by an entire corps of Confederate infantry, and I can assure you, sir, that I do not exaggerate. I could use some reinforcements. Can you spare me another battery or brigade, to shore up my left? You were very concerned about my left before, sir.”

  Logan noted with some dismay that Harrow’s face was pink, a sure sign he had been at his bottle. Shaking his head, Logan said, “I have nothing for you, General, except orders. Osterhaus is holding the Rebels up, but we’re pulling back our left to East Rock Creek. Now, you know how that creek bends back like a hook, about a mile behind you, yes? Now that you have a lull here, begin falling back on that position at once. Sherman is bringing up Sweeny and Kilby Smith there.”

  After turning his horse around, Logan spurred his horse and galloped away. Harrow withdrew his flask from its hiding place and took another drink. He was about to issue orders calling for the main body to fall back, leaving triple-strength detachment skirmishers in the trenches, when Maney’s Division again started forward from their position on the low ridge, attacking for the third time.

  Harrow reacted with a mix of nerves and excitement. “Well, I don’t see how seeing off the Johnnies one more time can hurt my reputation! Let them come!” He then drained the remainder of his flask.

  Maney’s tattered, bloodied butternuts came on, their flags stained and torn and their ranks thinned by their second major clash in four days. Yet they came on all the same, marching steadily forward, despite instantly coming under fire from bursting shells and case shot. Within minutes of Maney starting his advance, French’s brigades stepped out of the holly forest.

  For this third assault, Cockrell’s graybacks extended out beyond the end of Harrow’s refused line. On his own initiative, the Missourian led his men out and away from the Federal lines, so as to avoid some fire while coming forward, before turning sharply to bring his men into range for their Henry Rifles. Having maneuvered onto an oblique angle from the big smoothbore cannons anchoring the Yankee line, Cockrell halted his men and opened fire, sending a swarm of .44 caliber bullets ripping in amongst the blue gunners.

  In a matter of minutes, canister fire from those guns began to slacken. French rode up to Colonel O’Neal, and told him, “Fix bayonets, Colonel, and charge your brigade. Charge, for God’s sake, charge!”

  Cantey’s Brigade rushed forward, howling and shrieking as they went. A third of the brigade stumbled to a halt when they caught a close-range blast of canister, but the rest rushed in among the glistening Napoleon field guns to chase away the Billy crewmen. Any who stood by their guns were clubbed or speared to death in the frenzy.

  French galloped in behind the charge, exultant over what he thought surely must be the highpoint of his wartime career. “Turn the cannons on them! Turn their own cannons on them!” French dismounted and started sponging out the muzzle of a cannon with his own two hands, and soon his staff followers were helping man the captured Yankee guns.

  First one and then another blast of canister from the captured field pieces flashed down the leg of the Union line, raking the defenders and smashing them into bloody confusion. When the fire slackened, Sears’s Mississippians came roaring forward.

  Within a matter of minutes, Polk’s entire corps was rushing upon the opposing breastworks. Harrow’s men, who had never had much love for the harsh, unfair, and sometimes drunken rule of their division commander, turned and ran.

  Polk set out to join his troops, delighted with his triumph. Surely it is my triumph, he thought, as much as it is anyone’s. Yes, it is. I’m sure it is.

  As he rode forward, he came upon a stretcher party bearing a grisly, soaked and red cargo. “Who is this poor, brave fellow?” Polk asked.

  The corporal leading the party of four said, “Colonel O’Neal, sir. God damned canister chopped him into sausage, it did.”

  In hushed tones, Polk said, “Son, pray for your Colonel, but don’t take the Lord’s name in vein. Especially not while his spirit finds its way to Heaven!”

  Embarrassed, the corporal tipped the brim of his hat. “I shall try, sir.”

  Upon reaching the breastworks, Polk found French, Maney, and their brigadiers already busy trying to get their men reorganized for the press forward. But they soon discovered their men were exhausted from a full day’s marching and fighting, none more so than Maney’s, who had only so recently fought so hard at Hell’s Hillock. Many were out of ammunition.

  Polk sent back to Jackson for permission to wait for the ammunition wagons to come up and resupply his troops. The response was a simple one-line message, delivered verbally by courier “No. Press on for the Shelbyville Road.”

  6:30 P.M.

  Headquarters in the Field, Military Division of the Mississippi, USA

  Bills Cemetery

  1 ¼ miles south of Farmington

  Sherman came upon Harrow in a small family cemetery not 600 yards from where A.J. Smith was putting two divisions in line along the bend of East Rock Creek. Quelling his disgust at finding Harrow without his troops, he rode in among the headstones.

  “General Harrow, your report?”

  “My report?” Harrow slurred. “My report is these yellow bastards up and ran. No discipline! These western troops, I tell you, they have no discipline! But I’ll show them, oh yes, that I promise you. I’ll get to the bottom of this, root out the malcontents, and then…!”

  “By God, Genera
l, are you drunk?!?” snapped Sherman.

  Flustered, Harrow shot back, “Why… no! Of course not. Never!”

  As Harrow sputtered his excuses, Sherman reached for and lit a cigar, so as to calm his anger. He had never wanted Harrow, much less in command of one of his precious XV Corps divisions, but the War Department sent him with President Lincoln’s blessings. The one thing he could not afford right now was a political brouhaha over this drunken hack, and especially not to alienate Lincoln himself.

  “Well then, General Harrow, I suggest that instead of planning your inquiry, you see about rallying your men. Kilby Smith and Sweeny are shaking out a line only a third of a mile behind us, but we need to buy some time for them. See to it.”

  Harrow stared at Sherman for a few seconds, not sure whether he had been rebuked or not. Unable to make up his mind, he saluted and rode away.

  As Harrow left, Sherman recalled Lincoln from when they had met in the spring of 1861, before Fort Sumter. Lincoln had asked him about the rebellion in Louisiana, and when Sherman told him the Louisianans were preparing for war, Lincoln had replied, “I guess we’ll manage to keep house.”

  “I guess we’ll manage to keep house,” snorted Sherman. He had been so appalled by Lincoln’s apparent nonchalance that he had washed his hands of the whole business, at least until Sumter had persuaded him to change his mind. He didn’t know what quite to make of Lincoln now, who was clearly no political lightweight, but just as clearly still a pure politician.

  “Pardon me, sir?” asked Audenried.

  Through puffs on his cigar, Sherman said, “Nothing. Come on. Harrow’s men loathe him, so if they are going to rally, it won’t be because he asked them to do it.”

  Sherman rode out to the first cluster of troops he could see and was relieved to see they did not seem nearly as downtrodden up close as they looked from a distance. More angry than anything, he thought to himself.

  Their colonel, who was busy pulling them together as they fell back, shouted, “Look there! Uncle Billy!”

  Sherman tipped his hat to the colonel and noted from the flags that this was the 46th Ohio. “You boys are from Franklin County, are you not? I’m from down in Lancaster, you know?”

  Raising his voice, Sherman said, “I know you! We were together at Shiloh! And you were at Vicksburg, and at Chattanooga. You are good boys. Today was hard on you, but I must ask something more. Will you rally and do this for me?”

  A dirty-faced captain asked, “What do you need from us, General?”

  “Reinforcements are forming a new line behind the creek, but I need more time. You remember Kilby Smith of the 54th Ohio? He’s back there now, and you know he is a good man, but I need that time. Daniel Morgan asked the militia for two volleys before they fell back. Will you give me three?”

  The Ohioans started chanting, “Four! Four! Four or more!”

  Sherman repeated this performance a dozen times, so that by the time Polk’s Corps came up, Harrow’s Division was reformed, along with its surviving battery of Iowa-crewed rifled cannons. The massed, rolling volleys that met the gray skirmish line was enough to stall the entire advance, forcing the marching columns of tired, thirsty Johnnies to trudge out into line of battle again. When Maney and French’s Divisions were ready to attack, Sherman personally led Harrow’s division neatly back and across East Rock Creek, behind Sweeny’s and Kilby Smith’s soldiers to rest and replenish their cartridge boxes.

  Stonewall Jackson knew that Stewart would not be able to cross the Duck River at Fishing Ford by that time, and now he also knew at least six Union divisions were dug in or digging in behind East Rock Creek. With only an hour of daylight left, he ordered his troops to leave behind advanced pickets and retire to their starting entrenchments for the night.

  Chapter 18

  June 26, 1864

  6:00 A.M.

  41st Tennessee Infantry, CSA

  Bethbirei Church

  Nathan watched as the Sergeant Major collected the roll call reports from each of the regiment’s first sergeants, or those that were in camp anyway. Two companies were up in the main entrenchments, a quarter-mile away, and a third was picketing what had been the stone wall, now a dirt and stone embankment fronting a shallow trench.

  He had urgent business with Captain Bell and hadn’t gotten to him before the assembly. But he waited patiently, biding his time with the agreeable knowledge that Raglan Lloyd had not come back. Most likely, Lloyd had gotten Sergeant Marks to an ambulance, and then promptly deserted.

  As soon as the Sergeant Major shouted “Dismissed!”, Nathan quickly stepped out and got in front of Captain Bell before he could walk off to the officer’s mess.

  “Captain, may I have a word, sir?”

  Bell blinked groggily and looked Nathan over. “Um, yes, Private. Private Grimes, yes? Yes. Yes, of course. I was meaning to have a word with you anyway. Come with me.”

  Nathan followed him to the officers’ mess, where Bell offered him a cup of coffee before leading him across the dirt road. They moved away from the churchyard, where the regiment had pitched its tents and shelters, and over to the shady quiet of the church cemetery.

  “Now Grimes, what is it?” asked Bell.

  “I’d like permission to go to the field hospital and check on Sergeant Marks and the other fellows. I can also lay some traps, get us some fresh meat for the cook pot tomorrow. Scrounge around a bit too. Colonel Tillman will send someone soon, you can bet on that, so if you go see him now and suggest me, I reckon he’ll send me.”

  Bell swallowed some coffee, and then said, “Of course, Private, that is a capital idea. I’m sure we can count on you to rush back here in the event of renewed battle today. But, I wish to ask a favor of you. In return for recommending the Colonel give you a full day pass to attend to these errands.”

  Nathan’s eyes became suspicious. “A favor, sir?”

  “Yes, just this. If anyone should ask you, you tell them we jumped over that wall together. We were both the first men in the entire division to get over that wall.”

  Nathan didn’t see any real harm in that, as he cared little for bragging rights, although the demand lowered his opinion of Bell by one more notch. “That ain’t no thing,” he drawled. “Alright, Captain.”

  “Outstanding!” Bell grinned and slapped Nathan on the shoulder. “Now let me get off to Tillman before someone else does.”

  Bell walked away very pleased. Nathan was thought to have been first over the wall, not just in Walker’s Brigade, but in Cheatham’s entire division. That Bell might have been second didn’t matter, because being first was what people told stories about, what got written up in newspapers and mentioned in dispatches. With Nathan backing him up, saying that they were both first, the little lie would stick from the first, easily becoming the truth. Bell understood full well that the reputations of great men were built on a foundation of such little lies, half-true stories that became Gospel in their repetition.

  Nathan soon had his pass, and after wolfing down his breakfast and retrieving a spool of wire from the quartermaster, he was off. Most of their wounded from yesterday had been carried to the farmhouse and barns of the Whitsell Farm, across Big Rock Creek and about a mile from Bethbirei. Strangely, Sergeant Marks wasn’t there, but the company’s other wounded were, including Pete, whom he found lying under a canvas shelter between the house and barn.

  Nathan was actually glad to see him, especially as the boy still had his leg. “Good morning, Pete. What do the sawbones say?”

  Pete propped himself up. “Morning to you, Mr. Grimes. I reckon I’ll be alright, and keep my leg, not like them other poor fellows. Doc said the bullet went through the fleshy side of my thigh, didn’t hit no bleeders or nothing. He cleaned the hole right up, but I’m here to tell you, that was plenty painful, what with them tools he’s got. Said to me that if it don’t get infected, he reckons I’ll be fine.”

  Nathan liked the sound of that, since it meant Pete might return to the ranks in
late summer. “Pete, may I ask you a personal question?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “What is your last name?”

  “Fielding. I’m Peter Washington Fielding.”

  Smiling, Nathan said, “Now I know, Private Peter W. Fielding. You take care now, hear?”

  Nathan left the hospital and headed north, not east back to camp, striking out along the dirt road alongside Big Rock Creek. After a four-mile hike, he turned off onto a country lane, thinking that if this wasn’t the right place, he would at least find out where the right place was. But that didn’t prove necessary, as the fine, fieldstone farmhouse he had been expecting to see was at the end of the lane.

  As he approached, he saw a girl sweeping off the covered porch. Nathan had the sudden and jarring recollection that he hadn’t seen a girl even halfway toward pretty since Old Jack had run all the whores out of camp a month ago, and he hadn’t the wherewithal to afford their hotly demanded services during that brief opportunity, having lost all of his pitiful back pay at dice. This girl, in her late teens and with her long, shiny brown locks, was a good deal better than half-pretty.

  Blushing despite himself, Nathan approached the porch. The girl hadn’t noticed him until he spoke. “Pardon me, miss, but is this the Fletcher place?”

  With a start, the girl looked up. Nathan could see her tighten her grip on her broomstick as she said, “Army commissary officers came through here the day before yesterday, then again yesterday afternoon. We have no more to give, so you’d best go trouble someone else.”

  Nathan declared plaintively, “You ain’t got a thing to worry about, miss. I ain’t commissary, I ain’t a bummer, and I sure as hell ain’t a deserter. I got a pass, all proper, if you want to see it. No, miss, I’m here to see Captain Fletcher, if that be alright. I reckon you be his kin.”