Bright Starry Banner

by Alden R. Carter

“How about Zahm?”

  “I think he’s just to the southeast. A few minutes ago there was a lot of carbine and pistol firing from that direction. Napoleons, too.”

  Kennett curses his poor hearing. “All right, let’s go have a look.”

  They find Zahm and the 3rd Ohio in the belt of trees south of the Nashville Pike, watching disconsolately as Wharton’s men work to turn the ammunition train around. “Hello, Lewis,” Kennett says. “I don’t suppose we should let them do that.”

  “I’m not sure we can prevent it, Colonel. Milliken made an unauthorized charge and cost me a third of my command. Another third ran away.”

  “Well, the third you have left must be the best then. Come, let’s talk this over.” Kennett calls Otis and the captain of the 3rd Kentucky and quickly sketches a plan. They will rush the wagons, drive off the Rebs, then dismount and fight afoot. Two entire companies of the regulars will concentrate on the gunners if the Rebs deploy their battery again. He glances about. “Where’d the teamsters go?”

  Zahm points to the cedars to the east. “They skedaddled for those trees along with maybe a hundred infantry from the guard.”

  “Send someone to see if they’re still there. If they’re not, we’ll have to drive the wagons ourselves. Tell the infantry to come fight with us.” He looks at the three officers. How young they are, how quick to follow a man old enough to be their father. When Stanley shows up, perhaps I should have a fatherly word with him about our arrangement. Over coffee.

  Wharton has dispatched half his brigade on a sweep to the west to gather up more prisoners when the Yankee cavalry charges out of the woods along the pike. Wharton is amazed, curses himself for assuming that there was no more fight in them. The gray troopers trying to get the wagon train turned are equally surprised, mount and run. Wharton yells to his adjutant, tells him to recall the rest of the brigade. He turns his field glasses on the scene below, watches a big, gray-bearded officer calmly posting blue troopers along a ditch and a worm fence as the wagon guard of infantry reappears from the woods, driving several dozen teamsters ahead of them.

  Captain Thruston stares at his rescuer. By God, it’s old Judge Kennett! What the hell did they put in his coffee this morning?

  “Good morning, Captain,” Kennett growls. “Have you any decent coffee in those wagons?”

  “No, sir. Just ammunition.”

  Kennett scowls. “Very disappointing. This army needs decent coffee a damned sight more than it needs ammunition. Well, I suppose I should help you save your train anyway. I’ll lend you a rider for every lead hitch. Grab anyone you like if you’re short of drivers.”

  Wharton watches in frustration as the wagon train again begins creaking north toward the pike. In desperation, he launches a charge, but the dismounted blue cavalry break it up with a cool, steady fire from the cover of the fence and ditch. By the time White’s battery comes hurtling over the hill to set up again, the head of the train is already under cover of the woods. “Hit the wagons!” Wharton snaps.

  But it is too late. The battery is worn and short of ammunition. The blue regulars pepper the gunners with their repeating carbines. At the edge of the belt of trees along the turnpike, the big gray-bearded officer waits until the last of the wagons and cavalry take cover.

  With an anger that he thought he had long outgrown, Wharton grabs a Colt Revolving Rifle captured by one of his troopers and presented to him. He empties it at the distant officer on horseback, but the range is long, the weapon unfamiliar. The officer lifts his hat in ironic salute and rides into the cedars.

  Captain Thruston, Sergeant Barnes, and Corporal Andrews are squatting around a small fire, boiling coffee, when Rosecrans comes down off the pike, his staff trailing. “Are you the officer who says McCook’s ammunition train is saved?” Rosecrans demands.

  “Yes, sir,” Thruston replies, standing to attention.

  “How do you know?”

  “I had charge of it.”

  “Where is it?”

  “On the other side of the trees, General, under as much cover as we could find.”

  Rosecrans stares at him and then suddenly roars with laughter. “Well, great God, man! That’s splendid. How did you get it away?”

  “Well, General, we did some sharp fighting and a great deal more running.”

  “Captain, consider yourself a major from today! And on my staff. I won’t let General McCook have you any longer.” He turns to his staff. “Come, gentlemen. The day is looking brighter.”

  Garesché cannot comprehend Rosecrans’s returning optimism. Everywhere he looks, the chaos seems greater than ever, the flood of refugees unabated. Regiments and brigades still in formation collide, become entangled in the flotsam, begin washing away. And all the time the Confederate shot and shell falling, killing and mangling men, horses, and mules. Twenty yards to his left, a cannonball rips through the knapsack and torso of a very tall soldier, spraying possessions out his chest as if they were bizarre internal organs. The ball decapitates the next man in line, takes the hats off two shorter soldiers, and decapitates the two men in front of them. The two short soldiers—mere boys, he sees—look at their four comrades, dead in a split second, and begin to sob.

  It is only one of a hundred horrible things he witnesses. Yet he functions, scribbles orders, dispatches couriers and staff officers, offers advice to his general, cautions him again and again not to expose himself unnecessarily. Rosecrans only repeats what he has been saying for two hours: “Never mind. This battle must be won.”

  What is wrong with me? Garesché thinks. This is appalling. An abomination to all I hold sacred. I should throw down my sword, strip away my rank, march out between the armies, my arms wide to mine enemies, and beg all these men with guns to lay them down, to stop firing their cannon. Last night we sang together, today we can make peace, no matter what governments say.

  But he goes on writing the orders, dispatching the messengers, offering advice and caution to the general. My God, he thinks, I am enjoying myself! I am a soldier and I have always wanted this; that is the truth, all the rest a fiction, a flattery to a sensitivity of soul I neither possess nor deserve. God forgive me, but I love this.

  Rosecrans is pushing men into line, personally leading regiments and even companies into position. It is simpler to lead than to risk a misinterpretation of orders or to wrestle with the stutter that comes on him when he is greatly excited. He knows that he is violating the sacred chain of command in bypassing, sometimes even countermanding, brigade and division commanders. But the dispersal of units has made it almost impossible for the chain to work efficiently, and he cannot help giving orders that he knows need giving.

  He has heard that Grant repeatedly refused to violate the chain at Shiloh, had allowed regiments and brigades to fall back or to go in the wrong direction because they were following orders given by commanders intermediate in the chain. Grant had run the battle through his division commanders in blind devotion to the principles instilled at West Point. But Rosecrans cannot function this way. Not now. To hell with all traditions, principles, textbooks: This battle must be won!

  He dashes along the line, ignoring the swarming buzz of minié balls and the whoosh of passing shells. He cannot worry about his own death, for his life is in God’s hands—has been in God’s hands since he accepted the true Church. He positions the Chicago Board of Trade Battery, perhaps the army’s finest with its matched teams and fourteen-pounder James rifles, on a height near army headquarters where it can sweep the half mile of open ground to the south. Next he leads Harker’s brigade of Wood’s division up the pike, puts it in at the far end of the new line cobbled together from many pieces of the center and left. He slaps smiling, handsome, lucky Charlie Harker on the shoulder. “You’ve got the flank, Colonel. Hold it for dear life. I’ll be back in a while, and we’ll see about doing some attacking of our own.”

  He needs to check on Sheridan. He gallops down the pike, his staff gamely following, Garesché close at h
is side. A splash of blood spatters his uniform. He glances over, sees blood on Garesché’s chest and face. “Hit, Julius?”

  “No, General. But I’m afraid my poor horse just had his nose stung by a ball.”

  Rosecrans laughs, rides on toward the cedars where Sheridan is fighting for the army’s life.

  CHAPTER 4

  Wednesday, 7:00 A.M.–11:00 A.M.

  December 31, 1862

  The Confederate Left Center below the Wilkinson Turnpike

  While Wharton’s Confederate cavalry rampages across the Federal rear, the Confederate infantry presses forward against Sheridan’s division south of the Wilkinson Pike. But coordination of the Confederate attack proves difficult. McCown’s division has drifted to the west, leaving Cleburne’s division to execute the right wheel called for in Bragg’s plan. Major General Benjamin F. Cheatham’s division is supposed to advance in echelon on Cleburne’s right, but Cheatham, unsure of his tactics, delays.

  ON A RISE behind the Confederate left center, Braxton Bragg can hear his plan going wrong. The firing on the left has widened far beyond what should be the extremity of his flank, and he concludes correctly that McCown has drifted left instead of wheeling right. He is about to dictate a stern message to Hardee when a staff captain on a steaming chestnut mare climbs the rise to hand a message to Brent.

  “What is it, Colonel?” Bragg asks.

  “From Hardee, General: ‘We are driving the enemy but Cleburne’s right is exposed. Where is Cheatham?’”

  Bragg contains his anger with difficulty. “Take a message: ‘General Hardee, McCown appears to have directed his advance too far to the west. Immediately correct his elliptical path and restore him to the front line with Cleburne in reserve. If you cannot execute this maneuver, place McCown in reserve behind Cleburne.’”

  It is a peevish message and one almost impossible to obey now that both McCown and Cleburne are in action. But how dare Hardee—the supposed master of maneuver—deviate from the plan at the very opening of the battle? Is it carelessness or treachery? Well, Professor Hardee should know that Bragg is alert to his every move.

  Colonel Brent waits patiently while his chief frowns at the misty cedars to the west, his eyebrows twitching. At last Brent speaks: “Do you wish to say any more, General? Regarding Cheatham, that is.”

  “General Cheatham’s division is not part of General Hardee’s command and is not his concern.”

  “Yes, sir. Shall I include that?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Colonel! You don’t remind a lieutenant general of what is obvious in the table of organization. General Hardee is not a fool! Send the message I gave you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bragg stands with hands clasped behind his back, scowling at the battle smoke rising from the forest. What a preposterous war! A boy like Brent wearing the insignia of a colonel! My God, he barely knows enough to be a lieutenant. He shakes his head, concentrates on what to do about Cheatham. Polk should have ordered Cheatham’s division forward as soon as McCown engaged. But from the sound of things, Cheatham has yet to move an inch. More evidence of treachery? Or another example of the Bishop’s perpetual incompetence? Whatever the reason, Cheatham must move. Bragg knows he should send the order through Polk, maintaining the chain of command, but time is slipping away. “Colonel Brent,” he snaps.

  “Sir?”

  “A message to General Cheatham, copy to General Polk… .” Bragg dictates, scowling all the time at the smoking cedars.

  If he would permit himself the display of temper, Professor Bill Hardee would wad Bragg’s message into a ball and hurl it from him. Leave it to Bragg to complain about a small deviation from a paper plan while ignoring the crucial question entirely! No plan survives unaltered once battle is joined. Yes, McCown has drifted too far to the west, but he has smashed the end of the Yankee line. And, yes, Cleburne is engaged before the plan anticipated, but he is driving in hard. If Bragg had read Clausewitz’s On War, he might understand something of the relationship of chance, uncertainty, and luck in battle. The plan is evolving according to the Clausewitzian principle of friction, and working the better for it. Just make Cheatham move, goddamn it, and we’ll roll up the entire Yankee line!

  Hardee takes a breath, looks at the staff captain waiting to carry a reply. “Tell General Bragg that I understand and will endeavor to carry out the plan as formulated, adjusting to circumstances only as absolutely necessary.” There, let Bragg chew on that.

  General Benjamin Franklin Cheatham is confused. He is also moderately drunk, but this contributes rather less to his confusion than might be expected, since he has been intoxicated most of his adult life. As a farmer, volunteer officer in Mexico, Gold Rusher, Tennessee militia general, and now Confederate major general, he has found whiskey a wonderful companion. He starts each morning by consuming a pint of good whiskey and reinforcing the dose as necessary throughout the day until evening gives him the opportunity for serious drinking.

  It is not drink that confuses Cheatham, but the orders sent to him by Bishop Polk the night before. Is he to attack with the entire division at once? Or is he to attack in echelon, one brigade after another, left to right? He has expected Polk to arrive before this to clarify the matter. But Polk, prince of the Church and God’s fucking gift to the Army of Tennessee, has yet to show his sorry ass.

  As the sky lightens, Cheatham paces, swigging from his pint of whiskey and cussing steadily. McCown and Cleburne are driving the Yankee flank. He can hear the shift in the firing, the roar moving steadily from northwest to due north as the wheel begins coming his way. But when should he join the attack? And with how much, how soon? If Polk or Hardee or Bragg or someone would just tell him! “Kolstad, get your lead ass over here, goddamn it!” he shouts.

  His assistant adjutant hurries to him. “General?”

  “Go ask that swine-fucker Polk whether he wants me to attack all at once, or by frigging echelon. And is Withers coming in with me directly, or is he supposed to play with himself until I’ve got the Yanks running? Don’t write it down! Just move your ass and get me a goddamn answer.”

  Kolstad goes, hiding a smile. The officers and, particularly, the men like Cheatham all the better for his reputation as the most inventively profane commander in the Army of Tennessee. Moreover, Cheatham is a fighter: never asks a soldier to go where he himself is afraid to lead. They call him “Curls” after the wild ringlets that insist on standing in a thick fringe above his ears despite the load of pomade Cheatham regularly applies to his hair.

  Cheatham snarls, kicks at a rock, misses. Everything in him wants to throw his division into the fight all at once and immediately. He has yet to see subtlety produce much in war. No, go in swinging, pounding, kicking, gouging—the same absence of rules as a barroom brawl. But he hesitates. Ben Cheatham likes being a general and would like to remain one. He knows that Bragg detests him and would take pleasure in ordering his court-martial. He will wait a few more minutes for someone to tell him what to do.

  Though he has spoken to Hardee of putting other than their best into this fight, Bishop Polk has no intention of letting the Yankees off easy. Yankees are, after all, something less than human in Bishop Polk’s primitive cosmography. Not an experiment gone wrong, for that would imply that the Almighty needed experiential experience in the development of the human phylum. Nor are they a corruption of the original perfection, since that would imply a flaw in the creation of the God-image. No, Yankees are what God intended them to be: pale simulacra of the chosen people of the South. Polk has suspected it always, has known it for certain since first seeing the weak flightless souls of the Yankees fluttering vainly among the dead on the battlefield at Shiloh. In his dreams, he has crushed their souls with lupine jaws and tasted a brief escharotic saltiness like fried skin—not unpleasant, but pallid compared to the rich meatiness of a Southern soul.

  When the firing on the left flank begins shortly after first light, Polk expects it to spread quickly to Cheatham�
�s front. When it doesn’t, he sets down his knife and fork to listen carefully. Is Cheatham drunk? Has Bragg countermanded the order to attack? He shakes his head, returns to his breakfast and week-old Nashville paper. After twenty minutes, he sighs and gets up to investigate the delay.

  Cheatham is blushing to the roots of his curls when Polk rides up. “General,” he stammers, “I request immediate relief from my command so that I can go and challenge that pompous son of a bitch to a duel.”

  Polk smiles. “And good morning to you, General Cheatham. I perceive that you have received a message from the commanding general.”

  “You’re goddamn right I have. Just read this goddamn—”

  “Benjamin, please. Remember that I am ordained by my vows to abhor such language.”

  Cheatham looks confused again. “Oh, yes. Certainly. Pardon me, Bishop. But just look at this goddamn message he sent me.”

  Polk sighs. Benjamin, Benjamin, you are incorrigible. He takes the dispatch, reads, eyebrows lifting.

  General Cheatham, you are late in advancing your division. Attack immediately, conforming to Cleburne on your left while wheeling to the right in accordance with the plan forwarded by this headquarters. If you are unable or unfit to execute this order immediately, forthwith relinquish command to your senior subordinate.

  “Well, it would seem that the commanding general is rather on edge. I think, Benjamin, that we should forgive—”

  “Forgive, hell! I’m going to resign and go wring his chicken neck. There isn’t a goddamn military court in the South that’s going to convict me.”

  “If you are going to depend on an acquittal by a military court, then you should retain your commission.”

  “All right, I’ll keep my goddamn commission. But I’m going to throttle the son of a bitch. I’ve never been unfit and I’ve never been unable to fight anybody, anywhere, any time!” As if to emphasize the truth of this remark, Cheatham removes the pint bottle from his coat pocket, uncorks it with his teeth, and drains the last inch. He glares defiantly at Polk.