by R. E. Thomas
He stooped to snatch up a thick handful of grass as he went, and paused before his own horse. He let the gelding nibble up the grass, patting forehead and scratching between his ears. “That’s good, isn’t it Ellis. Yes, that’s right. Good boy.”
Leaving his horse, he went on to battalion headquarters, which consisted of just two canvas tents, one a pup tent serving as Major Jennings’ quarters, and the other set up as an open-sided shelter that was the HQ proper. Such was Uncle Billy’s thriftiness that not even majors, colonels, or staffs had proper Sibley tents to call home, and they were only slightly better off than the rankers.
Seeing Jennings behind a desk under the shelter, Spear presented himself. “Sergeant George Spear, reporting as ordered, sir.”
Jennings signed the document before him, and set down his pen. “Ah, Spear. Do you know why I sent for you?”
Spear eyed Jennings impassively. He scarcely knew the man. Before making major, Jennings had been the captain of A Company, drawn from Juniata County, out between Lewistown and Harrisburg. “No, major, I suppose I have no idea.”
“Well, your company first sergeant, Rothenberger, was killed in that hellish artillery barrage we were trapped in yesterday. You are not just the senior sergeant in your company, but the senior sergeant of this battalion. Furthermore, Captain Vale is very satisfied with you, and I have no reason to overrule him. So, we put you in with the Colonel, who approved. You are now First Sergeant Spear.”
The major pulled a pair of folded up chevrons from his pocket, and pushed them across the table. “Go see Captain Vale, and discuss your new duties with him. Then get those sewn on. Congratulations, First Sergeant.”
Taking the chevrons, Spear said, “Thank you, sir.”
Jennings took up his pen and looked back to his paperwork. “Dismissed.”
Spear turned smartly on his heels and strode out, stopping only once he was standing amid the horses again. Only then did he unfold his chevrons. First Sergeant, he thought. It was much more work and only three dollars a month more, but it was something.
With a smile on his face, he started for his company’s camp, but then felt some wet pinpricks on his face. Looking up, he saw the rain building up strength.
“Damn,” muttered Spear, as he picked up his pace, hoping to reach his pup tent before the rain got worse.
Chapter 19
June 27, 1864
7:00 A.M.
Headquarters, Army of Tennessee, CSA
Farm and Mercantile Bank
Lewisburg, Tennessee
Stalking into the bank, Jackson barked at an orderly, “Take that chair, and set it down alongside Sandie’s desk. No, not there! On the left side!”
Sandie looked up and pursed his lips ever so slightly. Jackson had been irritable since his wrist was injured. McGuire had since changed his diagnosis from a minor fracture to a bad sprain, but this had not improved the commanding general’s mood. Instead, it had grown more short-tempered since the rain began.
This was the second day of near-constant rain, paralyzing both armies with the threat of wet gunpowder and roads turned into bottomless canals of thick slurry. Sandie knew inactivity never suited his chief, so he was more snappish than ever.
Jackson sat down, placing his hand on the desk so the thumb was elevated. Sandie laid the first summary paper before him. “This came to me last night, after you went to bed, sir. It is the Assistant Inspector General’s investigation into the charges against Major Peters, Polk’s Quartermaster, sir?”
Jackson grimaced with distaste at the mention of Peters. “And what did my IG say?”
“Regrettably, Major Peters was not at fault. The investigation shows that Major Peters became lost because General Polk’s chief of artillery, Lieutenant Colonel Samuel Williams, neglected to leave guides after passing through the area, as per standing orders. As for becoming a blockage on the road, he was attempting to move his wagon train off the road, but several of his mule teams were frightened by screaming infantry officers and refused to move.”
Jackson grunted. “I believe Peters still should have found his way, guides or no. But fine. Fine. Release Major Peters with the apologies of this headquarters. Place Colonel Williams under arrest in his stead.”
Sandie felt his stomach turn cold at the thought of how the Bishop would respond to having first his chief quartermaster, and then his chief artillerist placed under arrest. But he knew better than to suggest perhaps Williams should be let go with a reprimand. “Very well, General.”
Setting another paper down before Jackson, Sandie continued. “These are the casualty reports. From Third Murfreesboro, Triune, and Lewisburg, we have suffered roughly 9,000 dead, wounded, and missing.”
Jackson looked the figures over. Unsurprisingly, Stewart and Polk accounted for slightly more than two-thirds of that total, their two Corps having borne the brunt of the fighting. The four days had cost him roughly one-quarter of his army. He felt certain the enemy had suffered worse, but also that they had a much larger army.
Have I worn Sherman down enough to make a difference, wondered Jackson. Probably not, what with two fresh divisions waiting in Nashville to reinforce him. If the reports from the Nashville spies and Coleman Scouts are correct about that. Still, Providence will see us through.
Sandie threaded his fingers together, and placed his hands down on the desk. “Have you thought about what to do with Hardee?”
Jackson nodded. Accompanying his report of the debacle at Resaca, General Hardee had attached a formal request that he be relieved of command of the Army of Georgia. In keeping with Hardee’s accustomed pedantry, the report lectured at length on his difficulties in facing a larger army, and obliquely tried to shift blame away from himself and onto Jackson.
The Army of Georgia had been bogged down by rainy weather and bad roads for days, much as his own army was mired now. The decision on what to do had been an easy one, as Jackson had never cared much for Hardee and his thinly veiled condescension in the first place.
“I shall endorse it,” said Jackson. “Have the letter brought to me, and I shall endorse it at once.”
“That raises the question of who to put in Hardee’s place. I believe you should discuss who you want to command on the Georgia front, in your subordinate department, if only to help steer the War Department’s choice. They should be left on no uncertain terms as to who we do not want, but we will need to make that known through back channels. We should write to General Lee as well, as Davis is certain to seek his advice on the matter.”
Jackson half-wished to send A.P. Stewart to relieve Hardee. He had complete confidence in Stewart, and Old Straight could be there in just a few days, despite the weather. The business would be over and done with. But he knew he needed his best lieutenant here, with the Army of Tennessee. Cleburne was proving competent, but Jackson did not yet trust him with independent operations, and the Bishop demanded direct supervision.
So, Jackson thought about Lee’s army, which had been defending the gates of Richmond for more than a week now. The first name he came to was Jeb Stuart, and instantly Stuart’s handsome, cheery face flashed before him. The plumed hat and cavalier finery. Stuart, who had been killed at Yellow Tavern.
Oh, if only it had been God’s design, Jackson thought, that dear old Stuart could have lived and come here.
Jackson realized he was brooding when his thoughts dwelled not just on Stuart, but also Boswell and Smith, and put a stop to it. He turned instead to sifting through the names of several of Lee’s general officers, discarding the names of those deemed unfit, and then before casting his mental net into remoter parts of the Confederacy.
“They made Jubal Early a Lieutenant General a few weeks ago, and I’d have him, if Lee will consent to part with him. Richard Taylor in Trans-Mississippi has sufficient rank, and I’d welcome him too. Failing that, my only remaining preference is to promote Robert Rodes into the job.”
Sandie murmured, “Lee will never give us Early or Rod
es. That leaves Taylor, unless Richmond foists on us someone that we do not want.”
“Yes, yes. Someone we do not want. Tell the War Department I want Stephen Lee left where he is, tending to my strategic flank in Mississippi. And I don’t want D.H. Hill. He is a good fighter, but too contentious.”
D.H. Hill was the brother of Jackson’s first wife, now long since deceased, and Sandie recalled how Jackson stood aside when Lee banished the argumentative Hill to North Carolina. He added “I believe we should point out that John Pemberton remains bitterly unpopular with the troops, lest President Davis saddle us with him.”
Jackson nodded his head jerkily and said emphatically, “Yes. Yes. No Pemberton.”
“Now, Sandie, I have orders for Forrest. I want him to dispatch a patrol to monitor that enemy garrison in Pulaski and reconnoiter the area. A regiment will do. I also wish him to plan to take that fort as soon as the roads dry sufficiently to allow for a fast strike.”
Situated 25 miles southwest of Lewisburg, Pulaski had returned to Jackson’s thoughts the night before. The fort’s rail connection to Nashville had been cut since the Battle of Lawrenceburg, and the garrison was strategically hemmed in by both his army and his installations at Lawrenceburg and Florence. Yet that little thorn of a fort was still there. He wished he had sent a detachment to destroy the fort sometime in May, except he was certain the garrison would have merely fallen back on the much stronger fort in Decatur if he had done so. To have kept Pulaski would have meant garrisoning it, and he lacked the troops for that.
“Yes, sir. I’ll write it up, sir.”
Jackson stood up. “Good. Good. Now I must get into that … ambulance.” He said the last word with heavy vexation. “For my inspection.”
Sandie stood up and saluted. “Yes sir. Enjoy the tour.” He then motioned to Captain Quintard, who was standing by with a rain poncho and followed Jackson out the door.
June 28, 1864
7:30 A.M.
Headquarters in the Field, Military Division of the Mississippi, USA
Haskins Chapel
Four and a half miles east of Farmington
Once the weather set in, Sherman moved his headquarters to a little church, which he used to house the telegraph exchange, while he moved into a pup tent. Most of the Army of the Tennessee was busy with the tasks of felling timber for strengthening their earthworks and constructing abatis, as well as digging drainage sumps and ditches to keep those earthworks from turning into a network of canals and cisterns. Those not so engaged were assigned to a pioneering detail and were busy felling still more timber to corduroy 15 miles of the Shelbyville Road.
When McPherson stepped into the plain, clapboard chapel, Sherman looked up from the stacks of paper on his desk. “Ah, Mac! Good. Now that you’re here, I’m off. It’s your army, and I’m sure you will take good care of it while I’m in Nashville.”
McPherson put his hands on his hips and smiled. “I was thinking of ordering some several hundred head of cattle slaughtered, enough to put fresh beef on the table for the whole army for supper tonight. It will buck up spirits, what with the rotten weather.”
Sherman nodded slowly. “Yes. Indeed it will. Sound thinking, that.” Beyond the morale value, Sherman’s mind tallied the logistical value of reducing the herd of beeves they drove along behind the army. Fewer cattle meant more grass for the horses and mules, which meant hauling less fodder from the railhead at Shelbyville. The value of grass and fodder rose whenever an army became stationary for more than a day or two.
Pulling on his raincoat and slouch hat, Sherman went outside and jumped up onto his horse. “Look after things here, Mac. I’ll be back in two or three days.”
Some of the Shelbyville Road had yet to be corduroyed, but that part was the last few miles near Farmington. Sherman and his party of aides and escorts enjoyed a roadbed firmed up by a layer of solid tree trunks all the way to Shelbyville, so the ride took only two hours. Once there, he waited for the train and bided his time by inspecting the new supply depot there. Sherman reached his permanent office, where the staff that oversaw every military department from the Mississippi River to the Appalachian Mountains worked, by 1 o’clock.
There he found Frank Blair waiting for him in the foyer, sipping on a cup of coffee. Blair was unmistakable, what with his fiery red hair and beard. Upon seeing Sherman, he jumped up, stuck out his hand, and exclaimed, “Bill!” Six feet tall, Blair towered over Sherman’s five feet, nine inches.
Sherman shook hands. “Good to see you, Frank. Damn good to see you. Are you glad to be away from Washington?”
Blair chuckled. He was a scion of one of the most powerful political families in the country and had spent the winter and spring months serving as a Missouri Congressman, shoring up the conservative wing of the Republican Party while his troops were on furlough.
“That is something I’ve never quite sorted out about you, Bill. You come from the Ewing household. Ferchrissakes, your own brother is a Senator! And yet you have the worst opinion of politicians.”
“Not politicians, Frank. At least not all politicians. Politics. There is a difference. Anyhow, let’s go out on the veranda for a smoke.”
After both men had lit their cigars and had a few puffs, Sherman said, “Frank, I have a special assignment for the XVII Corps.”
“When you told me to wait here in Nashville, rather than to come on down to Shelbyville, that gave me a hint that you might have a trick card in your hat.”
“What I want is for you to go to Decherd, not Shelbyville. Once there, you are to march to Pulaski, join Starkweather’s men already there, and dig in. Get your men a five-day issue of rations, so you can start immediately and won’t be impeded by supply wagons on the march. The roads will be horrible, I know, so form pioneer detachments, put them in the first train you send down there, and corduroy the roads in advance of your main columns. I expect you to manage at least ten miles a day. Ten miles a day, sixty miles, six days total. You can resupply at Pulaski, and your wagons can come up behind you.”
Sherman went on, cigar clenched in his fingers, and gesticulating with both hands. “This is a secret expedition, Frank. As of this moment, the only people who know about it are you and me. We will put one of your aides in each locomotive with special orders to send that train onto Decherd. We tell them, give them the written orders, and put them straight on the departing train so word does not get out. No loose lips gabbing our plans out to every Rebel spy in every whorehouse and to every God-damned reporter in Nashville, understood?”
Blair’s expression was serious, but inwardly he was very excited. An independent exploit like this could lead to high office after the war, perhaps even the White House itself. “Understood. I won’t tell a soul. Until we get to Decherd, insofar as anyone in my corps knows, we’re going to Shelbyville.”
“Good. You see, Frank, when the rain stops and the roads dry, I’ll try to get around Jackson’s right flank again. This time, he won’t beat me to the next road junction, because you will already be there. With your two divisions plus Starkweather, you will have almost 12,000 men dug in around Pulaski. Jackson would need his entire army to dislodge you, and if he tries, I’ll fall on his rear and break him into pieces. He will have no choice but to fall back on Lawrenceburg, or perhaps even to Florence.”
Blair said, “And with that, you’ll have maneuvered Stonewall Jackson out of Tennessee, or almost so, without having fired another shot.”
Sherman smacked his right fist into his left palm. “That’s right. That is absolutely right.”
July 5, 1864
11 P.M.
Headquarters, Army of Tennessee, CSA
Farm and Mercantile Bank
Lewisburg, Tennessee
Sandie looked across the lamp-lit room at Jackson, who sat at a table awkwardly turning the page of a newspaper, and smiled. His wrist was doing much better, and he had some use of his right hand now. Also, the rain had stopped and the sun had come out that afternoon.
Although the air had grown oppressively hot and humid with the break in the weather, the promise was there that in a day or two the roads would dry sufficiently to give the army back its mobility.
Returning to his paperwork, Sandie thought to himself that anything was better than the rain. Not every day had brought a thunderstorm and downpour. Sometimes it misted, sometimes it drizzled, but even though the rain slackened at times, it never stopped. The constant drenching had flooded the creeks and overwhelmed the efforts of the troops to drain the water from their trenches, filling them calf-deep with muddy water.
Sandie’s pen stopped as he suddenly wondered about Kate and what the weather might be like in Richmond. His wife’s family, the Corbins, had abandoned their estate of Moss Neck and moved to Richmond during the prolonged Battle of the Wilderness, a wise precaution since Moss Neck was in Caroline County, and now well behind enemy lines. In his last letter, Sandie had advised her to urge her family to move again. A city under siege was no place for them.
The thought of his wife filled him with a warm glow. Her hair, her skin, her smile. The glow made him earnestly wish the war was over, but how could it be? Peace with Union was surrender and degradation. Peace without it could only be won now by outlasting the North, and that meant months more of toil, months more of blood.
Suddenly Nathan Bedford Forrest burst into the bank, throwing the heavy double doors open wide. Sandie started in his chair, but Jackson merely looked up and over at the front doors. The only sign he might be disturbed was the iron in his gaze.
Forrest saluted and said loudly, “General Jackson, I came myself. A host of Yankee troops arrived in Pulaski this afternoon. My boys counted them at more than 5,000 before they were driven from their observation posts, and the Yankee banners had the arrow emblem of the XVII Corps.”
Jackson got to his feet. “Sandie, summon Colonel Harman and start planning a withdrawal to Lawrenceburg. With Pulaski occupied as it is, we must fall back on Columbia and Mt. Pleasant before turning south. Order General Strahl to bring his men up from Florence to Lawrenceburg, and General Forrest, I require you to dispatch a brigade to reinforce Strahl’s Brigade at once. This army moves as soon as the roads have dried out.”