Ambulances, supply wagons, and caissons jam the roads, and McCook and his staff must ride most of the distance through the fields. The night is cold, the rain turning intermittently to sleet. At least the men have fires, the informal truce between the armies reestablished with nightfall. The piles of burning fence rails and cedar logs trace the facing curves of the two lines. At the top of a rise, McCook stares anxiously at the far end of his line. Rosecrans has ordered fires built for the width of two brigades beyond the actual termination of McCook’s line on the Franklin Pike—an old but effective ruse to confuse a potential attacker. Yes, the fires are there. Good, he has done all that he was asked to do.
McCook’s staff draws rein under the shadow of the grove of cedars where Garesché has the staff tents pitched. McCook is delighted to see Stanley, who is both classmate and friend, coming to greet him. The cavalry commander looks exhausted. “So, McCook, do you suppose I will be the shortest-serving commander of cavalry in the history of this or any army?”
McCook blinks. “Why? What’s happened?”
“What’s happened? Nothing except that Joe Wheeler’s ripped through our supply trains all the way from Jefferson to Nolensville and beyond. Christ, half of the wagons were yours. You must have known.”
“Well, yes. Of course. But—”
“So somebody’s got to take the blame. And it seems likely to fall directly on the Army of the Cumberland’s chief of cavalry, which I have been for something less than two months.”
McCook accepts a cup of coffee, sips gingerly from the metal lip. “It can’t be that bad.”
“It’s worse. We lost at least five hundred wagons and a thousand men, most of them captured, paroled, and already waltzing back to Nashville.” He drains the last of his cup. “And after I’ve told Rosy all that, I’ll have to confess that I don’t have a goddamn idea where Wheeler is. He headed southwest out of Nolensville but that’s all I know. Right now he may be riding around our right flank to get back to Bragg or doubling back to hit more of our trains.”
McCook feels a huge relief. Rosecrans may give him a measure of hell for being slow to close the gap with Negley, but he will save the better part of his wrath for Stanley. “I’ll go with you. Which tent is he in?”
“He’s in that log shack out in the field. Garesché is having a fit about it, but Rosy won’t budge from a dry cabin, Rebel cannon or no Rebel cannon.”
They follow a path to the cabin, knock, and are admitted by Major Goddard. Rosecrans looks up from his field desk. Surprisingly, he seems in an expansive mood. He waves the two young men to crates turned on end. “Well, General Stanley, how big a hunk did Wheeler take out of us?”
Stanley takes a breath. “A considerable one, General. I estimate… .
At the end of Stanley’s report, Rosecrans takes a minute getting a fresh cigar lit. “Well, Stanley, we’re going to have to do better. I plan to win tomorrow and then chase Bragg down to Chattanooga. It would be helpful if I had efficient cavalry to do a lot of that chasing, but I don’t know that I do.”
“Some of the units did very well, sir. Zahm’s brigade chased the Rebs out of Franklin on our first day out of Nashville, and those Michigan boys took that bridge on the Jefferson Pike in grand style.”
“Yes, we’ve had a few good moments. But we have to find a way to keep the Rebs off our trains. We’ll be all right this time, but that’s mostly because Bragg was fool enough to send Morgan and Forrest raiding when he could better have used them here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, today’s past. Now, General McCook, do I understand correctly that you have a solid line from Negley’s left on the Wilkinson Pike to the Franklin Pike?”
“Yes, General. Sheridan’s holding on to Negley, then comes Davis, then Johnson. Willich’s brigade is on the Franklin Pike.”
“With the extended line of fires I told you to build?”
“Yes, sir. I checked on them before coming over.”
“Good. You’ve both seen the battle order for tomorrow. It will take time to get Crittenden across the river and in position to strike at Bragg’s right. General McCook, can you guarantee me that you’ll hold the right long enough for me to execute that maneuver?”
“Yes, sir. I think I can.”
“I’m talking if Bragg hits you with three maybe four divisions.”
McCook swallows. So many? “We’ll hold.”
“How long?”
“As long as we have to.”
Rosecrans leans back, face in shadow, studying McCook. Damn it, he should have relieved him despite the political power of the McCook tribe. Put Davis, murdering bastard though he is, in this boy’s place. “This is absolutely critical, General. You must hold until Crittenden and Thomas are able to put everything into their attack.”
“I understand, General.”
“All right then. Now, General Stanley… .” Rosecrans begins going over the cavalry’s deployment for the morrow: a straggler line behind the action, strong outposts on the flanks and to the rear. McCook relaxes, stares at the wafting cigar smoke in the rafters, listens to the rain. When this is over, he thinks, I am going to sleep for a week. Then I’ll ask for a transfer. Ask for a garrison command somewhere. Or a mustering rendezvous. He no longer wants to be a general with great responsibilities. Sleep, he thinks. I want a posting where I can sleep nights. In his musing, he forgets to mention to Rosecrans the odd story brought by the old farmer whose daughter had been fondled by a Confederate general, supposedly Bill Hardee.
Corporal Johnny Green and Private Everett Parker of Kentucky Brigade are again standing picket duty on the slopes of Wayne’s Hill. Below them, the fires of the two armies stretch in facing arcs some four miles long. A cold wind has risen with evening, clearing off the smoke so that the fires burn brightly, clouds of sparks billowing skyward whenever someone tosses a green cedar bough on the flames.
An hour before tattoo, bands on both sides strike up. The Rebels roll through Dixie, which brings the response of Yankee Doodle from the Federal side. Echoes of the last measure of The Bonnie Blue Flag are drowned by Hail Columbia. And so it goes, sometimes cacophonous as three or four different songs are played simultaneously, sometimes melodious as all the bands join on Tenting Tonight or Annie Laurie.
Parker and Green smoke their pipes, laugh, hum along, occasionally sing a line or two of a favorite song. A band somewhere out beyond the Yankee center is the first to begin Home Sweet Home. Nearby Yankee and Rebel bands join in, the tune spreading along both lines until perhaps a hundred bands are playing in concert. The singing follows the music, sweeping in a gradual swell until seventy or eighty thousand voices join in. Parker whispers, “Oh, God, Johnny.” Green nods, tries to clear his throat. He must sing or weep, decides to sing.
Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is not met with elsewhere.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home.
There’s no place like home.
Hardee is with Cleburne, helping him move his four brigades into position behind McCown’s three on the south side of the Franklin Pike. Hardee laughs. “What do you really think of this country, Patrick? Here we all are, about to start killing each other but singing together like old friends.”
“I think we’re about to be the first armies in history to reveal their dispositions with a song.”
“Have I ever mentioned that you are altogether too serious? Enjoy this moment, my young friend. It is one that may become part of the folklore of this war. And you are here to witness its truth. You can tell your children and grandchildren about it some day.”
Cleburne, who has never married, feels a sudden lump in his throat, angrily swallows it down. This is no time to become a sentimental Mick, he thinks. He feels Hardee’s hand squeeze his shoulder. “I
’m sorry, Patrick. I sometimes forget how far you are from home.”
“Arkansas is my home, General. Not Ireland.”
“Yes, of course. But there is more to having a home than a room above a drug store.”
Cleburne is both moved and discomforted by Hardee’s words. “I am already a fortunate man, General. If this war doesn’t kill me, I would hope to find a woman who will put up with me. I should like a family. But if I do not survive this war, I will die grateful for the hospitality I found in this land.” He knows this sounds formal, almost a rebuff to the older man’s concern, but he can do no better.
Hardee makes a wordless noise of comfort, pats Cleburne on the shoulder, and lets his hand drop. As the chorus swells again, Hardee sighs. “I suppose I should remarry. I have been a widower too many years. When the war is over, perhaps I shall. For the present, my children are well cared for by their aunt… . Well, I should go assure General Bragg that we are in position to repel a Yankee attack in the morning.”
“I’m not convinced it will fall here, General.”
“No, neither am I. That is something I must discuss with him.”
About them the song continues, repeated once again:
How sweet ’tis to sit ’neath a fond father’s smile,
And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile;
Let others delight ’mid new pleasures to roam,
But give me, oh, give me the pleasures of home.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home.
There’s no place like home.
Rosecrans, Garesché, and Father Treacy stand on the porch of the cabin, listening. “Now isn’t war a hugely strange thing,” Treacy says, the emotion in his voice making his brogue more pronounced.
Rosecrans laughs. “It is when both sides share the same language. A lot of these boys are cousins, brothers-in-law, even brothers. Hell, half the damned bunch is probably related one way or another.”
They are all related, Garesché thinks, and I cannot even count the ways.
“Come on, men,” Rosecrans says. “We can’t let the rest of the army sing without us. Wouldn’t be at all fitting.” He gestures to the orderlies and aides standing about the porch. “Here we go. On the start of the chorus.”
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home.
There’s no place like home.
Braxton Bragg rises from his desk, stalks to the window, and slams it shut. My God, he thinks. Tomorrow morning when they’re supposed to be fighting they’ll be cooking breakfast together. Then what am I supposed to do? Invite Rosecrans and that traitor Thomas to take lunch with me?
He returns to his desk, picks up his pen to continue the letter to his wife. He reads over quickly what he has written, decides that he should write something other than complaints, and begins a new paragraph:
Something quite remarkable just happened. It seems that our bands were competing with those of the Yankees when one took up the tune Home Sweet Home. Within a few moments, nearly all the men on both sides were singing as all the bands played the doleful tune. I did not sing, for you know what an appalling voice I have, particularly since my throat condition last winter, and how much even the normal stress of carrying on daily business discomforts me. But though I do not approve of the fraternization of soldiers one side with the other, even in song, I suppose no great harm is done, and it was truly an astounding thing to hear. The largest chorus in history, I would imagine, for I cannot think what would rival it.
On the morrow, I expect to see much of the future of our cause decided. Generals Hardee and Polk are to visit me shortly, and I will explain my plan to them. Actually, I will suggest one plan and then let them suggest another closer to what I really intend. In that way, though I sacrifice some credit in authorship, I will make them bear more responsibility for the plan’s success. The way our troops are disposed tonight, there is really only one reasonable way of utilizing them in the morning, a plan that will occur even to the doltish Bishop and the foppish Professor. Oh, if I had the subordinates Lee has, I should long since have taken Nashville. But I must do what I can with the poor material I have… .
When at last, after a half dozen repetitions, the song fades away into the dripping night, men have different reactions. Thomas, Sheridan, Wood, Hazen, and most of the professional officers in both armies file the matter away for analysis when they have time for intellectual idling. For the moment, they have work to do. There are a few exceptions: General Jefferson C. Davis upbraids his chief bandsman—an old sergeant whose service began as a boy in the years following the War of 1812—for playing the song to the possible detriment of the soldiers’ aggressive spirit. Charlie Harker, who has sung himself hoarse, is elated, his heart stirred with love for all men. Alex McCook, only thirty-one but feeling immeasurably older, weeps.
Among the commanders who were recently civilians, Negley, Palmer, and Breckinridge are moved by the pathos of the moment to reflect on the grandness of the American character, while Bishop Polk laughs silently at the imbecility of human hopes. Face-down on his cot, breathing heavily through his mouth, Tom Crittenden sleeps through the concert.
On the extreme right of the Union line, Brigadier General August Willich, who is somewhat deaf, must inquire as to the cause when he sees so many of his men weeping. Told the circumstances, he goes among them, giving little pats on shoulders and backs. “Thar now, thar now, my boys. Ve do our duty, and soon ve go home.”
With most of the men asleep in their saddles, Wheeler’s cavalry plods along the Salem Pike toward Murfreesboro. Wheeler hears the bands playing but cannot make out the tune. The singing is like waves on a distant shore, the forlorn notes of the instruments tinkling flotsam on the roll of the breakers.
When the bands fall silent at last, Ambrose Bierce, the most rational of young men, stands in the dark, listening to the wind and the rain blowing through the cedars along Stones River.
Book Two
CHAPTER 1
Wednesday, Midnight–6:00 A.M.
December 31, 1862
Murfreesboro, Tennessee
The Army of the Cumberland is in position to execute Rosecrans’s plan: McCook’s corps holds the right flank on the Franklin Pike; Negley’s division of Thomas’s corps the center at the junction of the Wilkinson Pike and McFadden’s Lane; and Crittenden’s corps the left flank to McFadden’s Ford. Rousseau’s division of Thomas’s corps is in reserve on the Nashville Pike. In the morning, Crittenden will open the Federal attack by crossing the river at McFadden’s Ford, driving in the Confederate pickets, and wheeling to strike the right flank of Bragg’s army.
Bragg has decided on an almost identical plan: he will strike Rosecrans’s right flank with the divisions of McCown and Cleburne, break through, and wheel clockwise to roll up the Federal line, Polk’s divisions joining in as the attack gains momentum. With the exception of Cleburne’s division, which is crossing to the west side of Stones River en route to its new position behind McCown’s division, the Army of Tennessee is in position by midnight.
BRAGG SENSES THE malignity of their approach. Polk and Hardee will come in from the rainy darkness together, smiling and obsequious but united in their contempt for him. Well, so be it. Their disdain is nothing to the revenge he will take once he has wrecked the Yankee army.
He turns a final time to his letter to Elise:
Beyond the unfairness, east and west, of the distribution of supplies, men, and able officers, I find myself most outraged at the absence in our army of one who should have been with us from the beginning. I cannot comprehend how George Thomas can live without honor. In Mexico, I reposed more trust in him than in any of my other subalterns. He was, I believed, an officer of both ability and manly character. In the latter I was mistaken. Now, as we face each other, I hope I was also mistaken in the former. But no matter. My dispositions are sound, my plan impeccable. If the army executes my orders with determination, vic
tory will be mine.
But I grow both weary and wearisome. I will, therefore, bid you good night, Dear Wife, trusting that now, as always, your prayers are with me, as mine are with you.
Your devoted husband,
Braxton Bragg, Gen’l CSA
He folds the letter, seals it, and places it carefully in a drawer. He hears voices in the hall and gathers himself to greet his enemies.
Rosecrans glowers at the map tacked to the wall. The damage to the trains has been worse than they thought, and Rosecrans’s good mood of the early evening has darkened. “We must have some trains left. Wheeler can’t have burned them all in a single day.”
Garesché points. “There is a concentration here on the Wilkinson Pike beyond Stewart’s Creek.”
“Where was Wheeler’s cavalry the last we heard of them?”
“They waylaid a foraging train here in the valley southwest of Nolensville about dusk, and then paused long enough to cook a meal.”
“Insolent bastards. Give me a decent brigade of horse, and I’d give them no rest for picnics. Hell, give me a regiment.”
“Yes, General.” Please, no bluster now, Garesché thinks. It is late and we are on the brink of something so terrible that I cannot look upon it even in my imagination.
“Well, the little bastard’s aggressive, I’ll give him that. Wants to be Bragg’s Stuart, which makes me think he’s not satisfied yet.” Rosecrans traces a road with a thick finger. “Suppose instead of going south to Eagleville, he circles back through Triune, tears through those trains at Stewart’s Creek, and hits our right flank just when McCook’s trying to fend off an attack on his front. That could be a very unpleasant turn of events. Better tell Stanley to go up the Wilkinson Pike to the creek. He’s to get those ordnance wagons through to us and keep Wheeler off our rear.”
“But shouldn’t General Stanley be close at hand in the morning? Perhaps if you sent Kennett or Zahm—”
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