The two Confederate officers press themselves into the wet earth, trying to escape trampling by the horses of a party of Federal officers. The horses sense the men concealed in the brush, but the horsemen are not sufficiently conversant with the ways of their mounts to translate the skittishness. Finally, the big gray bearing the party’s commander distends its belly in disgust and urinates a thick stream on the nearest of the Confederate officers. The gray’s rider waits patiently and then kicks his steed into a trot down the slope toward the fires of the Federal camp in the valley above Nolensville.
When the riders are out of earshot, Major W. D. Pickett of Hardee’s staff, the victim of the urination, indulges in a string of erudite curses, the concluding one delivered in Greek. Colonel Tom Harrison of the 8th Texas Cavalry is amused. “Son, I thought you were going to draw and start shooting. That horse gave you one prodigious pissing.”
“God, I was tempted. Who the hell do you suppose they were?”
Harrison shrugs. “Could have been Rosecrans and his staff for all I know.”
“It wasn’t Rosecrans. Maybe some brigadier, but you’d never catch an army commander wandering around in this weather. That’s what they’ve got staffs for: to get good and wet and goddamned miserable in this goddamned miserable country.”
Harrison grins. “Well, son, maybe you should get done with your spying so we can find a fire.”
Pickett grumbles, lifts his field glasses again. “I figure two divisions, maybe three. This isn’t a foraging expedition; they’re looking for a fight.”
“That’s what we’ve been telling you people most of the day.”
“We believed you, but Bragg’s staff kept asking. They’re starting to let the fires burn down. We can go.”
Together, they begin the slow crawl off the ridge and then the scuttle through the brush to where an orderly, frightened almost to tears, waits with their horses.
Lieutenant General William J. Hardee pushes his chair back to gain some distance from the young staff officer. Hardee has been a soldier twenty-eight of his forty-seven years and knows well the odors of camp and barracks, sweating horses and unbathed men. But this young major is more than ordinarily malodorous, and Hardee wonders what accounts for the sharp smell of horse urine. He clears his throat. “Good work, Major. Get some refreshment and a change of uniform. I’ll send your information on to General Bragg’s headquarters.”
The major leaves, face burning. Hardee sighs, wishing he had said less. He studies the map on his desk. So, Rosy Rosecrans is coming in force, he thinks. I thought he would wait until spring, but perhaps Lincoln and Stanton have forced him to move. Probably the debacle at Fredericksburg has them worried about the French and British again. He leans back, stares at the rain-streaked window. Is there, he wonders, any hope that France and Britain may yet recognize our independence? He doubts it. Oh, he supposes ce grand bouffon Napoleon III may yet dream of an alliance with the Confederacy. But the French won’t move without the British, and the Glad-stone government is caught between its lust for cotton and its revulsion for slavery. And we, Hardee thinks, are too stiff-necked to make even the most innocuous promise about improving the lot of the black man.
Damn slavery. We can tell the world ten thousand times that this war is not about slavery, but the world will choose to believe otherwise as long as we keep slaves. And the world may even be right. But ordinary logic cannot explain our society, cannot explain how delicately things are balanced here. Pat Cleburne told me once that he thought we should enlist the niggers and let them earn their freedom by serving in the army. I warned him never to speak of the subject again. A good man, but odd. Not born of us.
He meditates on Rosecrans, wishes he knew the man better. Where are you going, Rosy? Shelbyville is my guess, with that boy McCook leading the way and Thomas on his right flank. Odd. I would have led with Old Slow Trot and had McCook protecting the flank.
He ponders a while longer, then picks up his pen. He writes a long message to Bragg, carefully qualifying every point as a lawyer might the provisions of a complicated contract. With a reminder about the importance of maintaining interior lines, he concludes, Very respectfully, W. T. Hardee, Lt. Gen. The message is a masterpiece, covering all eventualities and avoiding most responsibilities. He gives the message to an aide and then lies down on the day bed. Let Bragg make the decisions, take the risks. Bill Hardee has a clear conscience, is a good if not a loyal follower. He falls asleep to dream of silks and petticoats rustling across a polished dance floor, of the young women at Morgan’s wedding. So pretty, so graceful, so … ripe. Yes, that is the word. His hand finds his genitals, rests there, warm, anticipatory.
Bierce rises before midnight to take his watch as staff duty officer. He is writing in his journal under the fly of the headquarters tent when the rain stops and a heavy fog envelops the camp. He feels the chill brush of it against his cheek and looks up from his journal to see it rolling in. And though he is the most rational of young men, the sight startles him, for in its thickness, its weight, the fog is prodigious: a fog out of Poe or Mary Shelley or one of the haunted tragedies of Shakespeare. He watches as it enfolds the lanterns and campfires, turns them to yellow and red splotches in its grayness. Bierce takes a lantern from the pole above the table and walks into the fog, lets it embrace him.
He is standing still, breathing it in, feeling it seep into his every pore, when a figure materializes, trips over one of Bierce’s feet, and sprawls. The little man bounces up, fists squared. “Where are you, you bum? I’ll fix you.” He jabs, follows with a looping cross, striking only air. Bierce steps back, starts laughing. “Is that you, Ransom?” the man snarls. “God damn you. What are you doing sneaking around out here?”
“I’m Bierce.”
“Pierce? I don’t know no Pierce. You sure you ain’t Ransom?”
“I’m not Ransom. I’m Lieutenant Bierce, Second Brigade. What or whom are you looking for, soldier?”
The man drops his fists. “Officer, are ya?”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t give you no right to go about tripping men.”
“You tripped over me.”
“Well, you got a lantern. Why don’t you hold it up so a man can see? And you shouldn’t laugh. I coulda broken my neck.”
Bierce shakes his head, smiles. “All right, I’m sorry. All fault is mine. Now what are you doing here?”
“I’m from General Palmer’s headquarters. Got a message for Colonel Hazen.”
“That would be my colonel. I’ll take it.”
The man holds the message uncertainly. “You sure you know where to find him?”
“Absolutely.”
“You sure you’re really with Hazen?”
“Come with me, and I’ll let you wake him yourself.”
“All right, damn it, I will. I don’t trust nobody out here sneaking around in the fog tripping up honest men.”
Bierce leads the man toward the headquarters tents by the gauzy light of the lantern. The orderly is old for his trade, a small wizened man of forty or more, wearing the stripes of a corporal. Bierce holds out a hand for the message. “I need to log it in.”
The man squints at Bierce’s shoulder straps, grudgingly hands the sheet over. Bierce records the date and time, casts a quick glance down the message itself, and frowns at the implication of the order attaching the brigade to Wood’s division. He holds out the message to the man. “Colonel Hazen is on the left-hand side, his adjutant on the right. Personally, I’d wake his adjutant first, but… .”
The orderly steps back. “That’s all right, Lootenant. Now I’m sure you’re who you says, I’ll be getting back.” He tosses a half salute and is gone. Bierce shakes his head. A fool out of Shakespeare with only the look, not the wit. A pity to waste such a fog on him. He goes to wake the adjutant and the colonel.
Hazen reads the message by the light of the lantern Bierce holds. “We’re going to try to force a crossing of Stewart’s Creek in the morning. We
’re assigned to Tom Wood’s division. We’re to go see him immediately.”
Bierce senses Hazen’s excitement on the ride to First Division headquarters. Brigadier General Thomas J. Wood is considered one of the army’s thorough professionals. By rights he should command the corps, but the job is Crittenden’s because of politics. At least Crittenden has the sense to listen to Wood, who is generally considered the real brains of the command.
Wood rises from behind his field desk when they enter the headquarters tent, shakes Hazen’s hand, acknowledges Bierce with a nod. “Is there any sign the fog’s lifting, Bill?”
“None, General.”
“Well, I suppose it may work to our advantage if it lulls the Rebs into thinking we’ll hold position. Come and look at what we need to do.” Bierce edges in to study the map over Hazen’s shoulder as Wood explains. “I’m going to hit the creek with a flying column of three regiments and a battery straight ahead, hoping we catch the Johnnies napping before they can fire the bridge. If that doesn’t work—and it almost certainly won’t—then I’ll feint with one brigade left of the turnpike and make the main assault with the other two on the right.”
“Bloody work,” Hazen says. “I thought Rosy would use the full corps. Maybe wait until Thomas is up.”
“It seems we’re here faster than Bragg anticipated. So far we don’t have any indication that he’s in great strength on the other side of the creek. If we can force a crossing before he’s ready, we’ll save ourselves a lot of work.”
“So where do you want my brigade?”
“Ah, now that’s my little surprise. Look here.” He traces the creek downstream toward Stones River to the point where the Jefferson Pike crosses it a mile south of the hamlet of Smyrna. “We don’t think they’ve burned the bridge here, which is one hell of an oversight. I want you to grab it and create a diversion. If you can draw off enough of the Rebs, it’ll make our job up here a lot easier.”
Hazen nods. “Do I have discretion in tactics?”
“Of course, Bill.”
CHAPTER 4
Saturday Morning
December 27, 1862
Hamilton’s Church, Tennessee
Rosecrans has issued orders for the day: McCook is to push south on the Nolens ville Pike, driving Hardee from Triune. Crittenden is to advance through Lavergne and force a crossing of Stewart’s Creek. Thomas is to cross the rear of McCook’s corps on the Old Liberty Road to assume the center, thus restoring the army to its proper alignment.
ROSECRANS LIGHTS HIS first cigar of the day from the lantern hanging beside the door of his headquarters. “Not much progress this morning, I fear. I suppose you’ll have me signing reports until this damned fog lifts.”
“There are some details that need your attention, General,” Garesché replies. “In the meantime, should we caution General McCook against an advance?”
“No, McCook is not that great a fool. He’ll wait until he can see.” Rosecrans considers. “I imagine we shall have to march on the Sabbath to make up for lost time. I will talk to Father Treacy.”
Garesché glances quickly behind them to see if anyone has overheard. As a devout Catholic, he appreciates Treacy’s presence on the staff. Yet it is exceedingly unwise for Rosecrans to speak of consulting the priest about a tactical decision. Other generals have been destroyed for less in this political war. Fortunately, Treacy is worldly enough to absent himself from the councils of war. Still, there are rumors of Papist influence in the army.
Rosecrans swings his arms against the chill, seems to recover his accustomed enthusiasm. “Perhaps we’ll have some clearing by noon. Then we’ll find out how much fuss Hardee is going to make over Triune and if Bragg is going to fight us along Stewart’s Creek. Let’s go in and hear mass and then we’ll get at your infernal reports.”
South of Nolensville, Alex McCook can barely suppress his disappointment. It is as if William J. Hardee, erstwhile commandant of the United States Military Academy at West Point, has arranged the fog as yet another humiliation for his one-time subordinate. How McCook had loathed Hardee’s seminars for junior instructors. He can picture Hardee even now, shaking his head in that sad, seemingly sympathetic way: “I’m sorry, Lieutenant McCook, but it seems that you haven’t quite mastered the concept. Report to my quarters after parade tonight, and I’ll try to present the principles in a more elementary fashion. This is, after all, a skill you will need in the field.” Oh, he made it sound sympathetic. Made it seem like he was trying to remove some of McCook’s embarrassment. But you could tell the son of a bitch was enjoying every second. All right, McCook thinks. You had your chance then, and a long time later you got lucky at Perryville. Now it’s my turn. Fog or no fog, I’m coming for you this morning.
The thought invigorates him. Hardee will not expect this. No, his precious Rifle and Light Infantry Tactics warns against advancing in thick fog over unscouted ground. But don’t generals become great generals when they dare great risks? McCook shall be Wolfe taking the twisting path up the cliff to the Plains of Abraham. He shall be Washington crossing the ice-choked Delaware to attack at Trenton. He shall be… . Well, there are many examples, but he needs to think of other things now. He turns smiling to his chief of staff. “Order the skirmishers forward. Once we have some firing, we’ll be able to read the Reb positions. Don’t worry about the fog. We’ll be all right.”
The skirmishers edge forward in fog so thick that men a dozen feet apart are mere shadows in the whiteness. Droplets of mist cling to hair, eyebrows, and beards. Men sweat cold fear, pant huge puffs of it in the wet air. Will they see the muzzle flashes if the Rebs fire? Will their own rifles work in this damp? Perhaps they should fix bayonets. But no one stops now, the thought of falling behind more frightening than advancing. Ahead, the sudden loom of a tree, grotesque, monstrous. Then another and another. They push forward into the woods with a rustle of undergrowth against brogans and pant legs. A stick snaps under an unwary foot, heart-stopping as thumbs jerk back rifle hammers in a long ragged clatter. A panting pause. Nothing. The word is passed down the line to ease up on the hammers. Then forward again, edging through the fog, feeling for Johnny Reb, knowing he is there.
The neigh of the horse is unearthly, something out of dream, myth, an ancient collective terror. The skirmishers hesitate in midstride, then dive for trees and bushes as the earth reverberates. The horsemen hurtle out of the fog in a roar of hooves and yells. They are huge, should wear winged helmets, wield battle-axes in their immensity. It is Forrest. Must be. Forrest the unkillable, swinging his gigantic saber, snatching blue-coated soldiers from the ground, using them as shields, and then hurling them aside.
The skirmishers fire wildly, desperately. Horses scream, horsemen throw out their arms, tumble. A bullet in the shoulder spins a youth from his saddle. He hits the ground hard, rolls over, tries to sit up. A sergeant runs forward to dispatch him with a rifle butt, stops at the sight of a blue jacket. My God! Oh, Christ, no! He screams: “Stop, stop, they’re friends, they’re friends! For Chris-sakes, stop shooting!” The yell is taken up as others find blue bodies, make prisoners of men in blue. The firing dies, is replaced by curses and cries. The youth with the shattered shoulder whimpers to the sergeant: “Somebody’s horse spooked. And then mine did and some others, too. We wasn’t charging you boys. Didn’t even know you was coming. Oh, God, I hurt, Sarge. And they’re going to take my arm. Oh, God.” The sergeant, who has seen many such wounds, knows better. No, this will take your life, son. He hides his face.
The skirmishers stand about staring at the wounded and the dead, all thought of advance forgotten. Oh, damn. Oh, goddamn. Oh, goddamn it to hell.
The casualties are carried back to camp. McCook cancels the advance, goes to his headquarters in the roadmaster wagon, where he sits, head in hands, weeping. His chief of staff stands apart, unspeaking, unsympathetic. If only damned fools serve fools, he thinks, then I am truly damned.
Irish Pat Cleburne stands beside Hardee on a sma
ll rise above the road into Triune. They stare into the fog as the muffled sound of musketry fades. “Ours?” Hardee asks.
“I don’t think so. We’re pulled well back from there. They must be shooting at each other.”
Hardee shakes his head. “Young McCook probably pushed a skirmish line forward and collided with his own vedettes. Predictable. He should have learned better at the Academy, but I guess he’s the same fool he always was.”
Cleburne, the one-time corporal, rarely comments when other generals mention the hallowed halls of West Point. But Hardee is a friend, and he chances it. “I thought McCook taught tactics at West Point.”
Hardee scoffs. “McCook taught drill. He was good at that. I’ll venture to say almost as good as you are, though I’m sure no British veteran would admit it.”
“With all respect to American methods, it is difficult to imagine.”
“No doubt. Well, my young Irish friend, I think it’s time you put your division on the road. The fog will break eventually, and you’ll want to be well clear of this place by then.”
“The order is already given, General, though I still wonder why we shouldn’t fight a little here. McCook is anxious, Thomas is still a long way behind. We can bloody McCook and then fall back. Or—”
“Or we can attack with everything at hand and crush McCook before Thomas arrives. I agree entirely, Patrick. But General Bragg prefers to fight before Murfreesboro on poor ground.”
“But certainly if General Bragg understood the advantages we have here—”
“No, Patrick, he is set on his own plan. And I will tell you exactly how he will attack. He will send the men forward shoulder to shoulder in an immense wheel to crush Rosy’s flank. It’s all right out of Napoleon and half a century old. But Braxton Bragg never forgot an old tactic and never learned a new one. And unless we are very lucky, the Yankee artillery will butcher us before we are in rifle range.”
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