Bright Starry Banner

by Alden R. Carter

  Through the night there is the occasional question, report, or request from lower down the chain of command. Polk’s responses are calm, measured, for the most part sound. Between times, his staff believes him asleep, but the Bishop is awake, his visions as exquisite as a painting by Heironymus Bosch, the Eater of Souls no longer the dybbuk wolf but a great-beaked, stilt-legged crane feeding among the fluttering souls of the dead.

  An hour before first light, Colonel Brent wakes Bragg with a message from Wheeler. Two, perhaps three, brigades of infantry have reinforced the Yankees, apparently causing Rosecrans to cancel the retreat, although the heavily escorted wagon train continues north on the Nashville Pike.

  Bragg steps to the window, studies the night. It is foggy and much can be imagined on such a night. Dawn will find the Yankees retreating, the supposed reinforcements melted away like mist. He returns to his bed without issuing orders.

  The Yankee brigades—there are two—belong to colonels John C. Starkweather and Moses B. Walker of Thomas’s corps. Starkweather’s men, marching from Jefferson where they had their brush with Wheeler the day before the battle, come in closed up, wary. Walker’s brigade is equally alert, its skirmishers flushing two ambushes and chasing off Wheeler’s horsemen before they can do any harm. The Rebel troopers seem confused, wearied, hardly the same men of a day or two before.

  Since leaving the line of wounded waiting for amputations, Private James Ellis has hidden in a dark alley. At first light, he picks up a bucket and strides confidently past a pair of sentries toward the pump at the end of the street. “What regiment?” one of the sentries calls. But his tone is not challenging but conversational.

  “Fourth Arkansas,” Ellis shouts over his shoulder, keeps going.

  Private Eben Hannaford gives a single choking cough and wakes with a start. His pain is extraordinary but his lungs fill and deflate as easily as if he had woken in perfect health. He waits for the gasping to return, but his lungs continue to work untroubled. My God, he thinks, I’m going to live. I’m going home.

  First Sergeant William J. MacMurray, 20th Tennessee, leaves his picket line to check on the young Yankee regular he left by the fire in the ravine. The youngster has passed over, his limbs stiff, his eyes frosted with rime. MacMurray returns to his line. He counts twenty-two dead Yankees within fifty feet of his tree.

  Not long after dawn, the parents of Captain Drury Spurlock start home from Murfreesboro with his body. Mr. Spurlock’s brother has a farm a few miles from town where they can stop to let the women clean and dress the body.

  Mrs. Spurlock turns in her seat to gaze at the covered body. “Did you look at him?”

  “Yes. He ain’t bad.”

  “His face? They said a bullet hit him in the face.”

  “His face is all right, mother. His mustache hides the wound.”

  For a quarter hour, they ride without speaking. “He’ll have bled a good deal on his uniform,” she says.

  “Yes.”

  “It will have to be cut off him.”

  “John will have a suit for him.”

  “I wish he could be buried in his uniform.”

  There are many things Mr. Spurlock could say about uniforms and armies. But after consideration, he only says, “Yes, I suppose he would have liked that.”

  Ahead, a lone soldier struggles along the road, a crudely bandaged arm cradled in a sling against his stomach. “Whoa there,” Mr. Spurlock says to his mule, pulls up beside the man. “Need a ride, son?”

  Private James Ellis turns on them a face pale but triumphant. “Thank you, neighbor. I wouldn’t mind. I’m told they’re coaling and watering the locomotives a couple of miles down the line. I’ll take the cars from there. Goin’ home to get fixed up.” He sees the blanket-wrapped corpse of Drury Spurlock in the back of the wagon, hesitates. “This’n be one of your own, I’m guessing.”

  “A son,” Mr. Spurlock says.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.” He touches his good hand to his slouch hat. “Ma’am.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Spurlock says. “Do you need a hand climbing in?”

  “No, sir. I’ll just perch here on the back.” Ellis manages to get himself seated, feet dangling over the end. Mr. Spurlock reaches out with his whip, flicks the mule expertly on the ear.

  Bob, the nigger groom, climbs down from the wagon, stretches his back. Old man Foster glares at him. “Where you been, Bob? Believe I told you to do something.”

  “Weren’t none of the boys needed bringin’ home, boss. All alive, all kickin’. Saw ’em myself. And believe me, they’s lucky, cause I saw a lot that weren’t.”

  Foster sits down hard on the porch step. “I was sure at least one or two… .”

  After waiting a moment, Bob says. “Well, if it’s all right with you, boss, I’ll unhitch these mules and go get some breakfast. Didn’t have much since I left.” Except the best damned ham and whiskey I ever tasted, he thinks. Delivered by a pretty hand, too.

  “I’ll unhitch ’em, Bob. You go find your breakfast. And thank you for going, Bob. I didn’t have the courage.”

  Bob hesitates. “Just don’t stop prayin’, boss. I ’spect there’s a lot of fightin’ yet to come.”

  Private Dickie Krall falls in with the rest of the 1st Louisiana Regular Infantry, dresses ranks. “You know,” one of the privates drawls. “When I get through this war, I’m gonna get me a couple a pups and name ’em Fall In and Close Up. Then when they’re growed up enuf to answer to their names, I’m gonna shoot ’em both. And that’ll put an end sure to Fall In and Close Up.”

  The other men chuckle, hands busy from long practice, checking canteens, bayonets, cartridge boxes, cap pouches, and muskets.

  Swaying on the back of the Spurlocks’ wagon, James Ellis has nearly fallen asleep when he hears a train whistle ahead. He turns, sees a dozen box cars waiting behind a chuffing locomotive, the whole shrouded in steam and morning mist.

  I’m going to live, Ellis thinks. Gonna get home, by God.

  CHAPTER 10

  New Year’s Day

  Thursday, January 1, 1863

  Along Stones River, Tennessee

  Hazen has withdrawn from the Round Forest in the night, falling back to a new line of breastworks behind McFadden’s Lane. Rosecrans has likewise drawn in other exposed elements so that the army holds a compact semicircle. Bragg’s army has remained in about the same alignment as the previous evening, with all but Kentucky Brigade west of the river.

  THE EARLY LIGHT turns the scattered hills west of Stones River into islands afloat on an ocean of mist. The sensation is unnerving, as if the world had reverted in the night to some earlier age where a scylla might rise to snatch a man or horse from the shore or where gorgons, brass-clawed and snake-browed, might sweep down with fell intent on wings of gold. Or so it seems to Lieutenant Ambrose Bierce as he stares into the mist, trying to distinguish the details of reality.

  He is not alone in the task. Staff officers from various commands ride to the top of the hill behind Hazen’s line, lift field glasses to study the mist, and then gallop off to report that they can see nothing of the Rebels. Thomas and his staff take position on the crest. The general rests both hands on the saddle pommel to ease his back, puffs on a cigar. Crittenden and his larger staff clatter to the top, set up nearby, orderlies hastily building a fire to brew coffee. Crittenden trots his mount to Thomas’s side, calling out a cheery “Good morning, George” that must cost him dearly considering his foul hangover.

  Thomas turns a cool gaze on him. “Good morning, General. Slept well, I trust?”

  “Excellently. My boys are brewing coffee. Would you care for a cup?”

  “I’ve had mine, thank you.” Thomas turns back to watching the mist.

  Crittenden does not recognize the dismissal. “So, did you sleep well, General?”

  “Passably in what time there was.”

  Crittenden gestures toward the fog. “So, what do you think we’ll see once the mist clears?”<
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  Thomas removes his cigar, studies the chewed end. “I think, General, we will see something between thirty and forty thousand of the finest infantry in the world advancing with the intent of destroying this army. I am confident that my line will hold against them. I hope you and General McCook are similarly prepared.”

  Crittenden hesitates. “Well, I can’t speak for General McCook, but I think my line is in good condition. I suppose there are some things I could look to.”

  “I understand General Rosecrans sent Tom Wood and Van Cleve back to Nashville. Who commands their divisions?”

  “Hascall has taken Wood’s. Sam Beatty has Van Cleve’s.”

  Thomas nods. “Good men. Depend on them.”

  The audience—for audience it has become—is over. “Good day, then, General. Good luck.”

  Thomas nods.

  Stones River smokes with the cold. Coming down the bank at McFadden’s Ford, the skirmishers of the 38th Indiana break through glass-thin ice, let out involuntary yelps and curses as the water floods over the tops of their brogans. They wade across, holding Springfields and cartridge boxes aloft, scramble up the opposite shore. So far they haven’t taken a shot or a casualty. They push ahead, bayonets leveled, expecting any moment to come face to face with the Johnnies who must certainly be there.

  The rest of the regiment crosses quickly, followed by the 8th and 21st Kentucky Union Volunteers. Some of the Kentucky boys would stop to take off their shoes, but Colonel Samuel Price, the brigade commander, yells at them to keep going. It’s a hard order, means the men will have to fight all day in wet shoes, but speed is necessary now.

  General Sam Beatty watches from the low bluff west of the ford. Fifteen years as a county sheriff have given him an understanding of human nature that any number of philosophers might envy. Most of his staff officers are surprised by the absence of Rebel fire, but Beatty isn’t. Few soldiers at this hour of a cold morning are going to be dutiful about standing picket. No, the Rebs will have gathered back from the river, huddling around small fires to brew coffee. They have, after all, been the victors in the battle so far and must be thinking that they damned well deserve a hot cup of field coffee. If his own men would just stifle their yelping and cursing, they might catch the Rebs totally unawares. But that, too, is against human nature and, hence, beyond Beatty’s control. He cuts a chaw from his plug, works it meditatively between strong teeth.

  At the river, one of the Kentucky boys shouts, “Hey, Gen’rl, this water’d freeze the tits off a sow pig. Cain’t the fuckin’ Pioneers build us a bridge?” The question gets a good laugh. Beatty allows himself a smile.

  A sudden flurry of skirmish fire crackles in the fog, followed by a solid volley and a hurrah as the 38th Indiana drives the surprised Johnnies. A few minutes later, a staff officer dashes across the ford, splashing the infantry and getting roundly cursed. “We’ve driven them, General. We have full control of the high ground.”

  “Excellent. Tell Colonel Price to hold his position. I’ll come up there in a few minutes.” The staff officer salutes, gallops off. Beatty turns to his adjutant. “Tell Colonels Fyffe and Grider that their boys can stop long enough to take off their brogans before crossing.” He touches spurs to his horse, trots toward the ford.

  The Confederate pickets interrupted at their coffee belong to Brigadier General John Pegram’s brigade of Wheeler’s cavalry. The skirmishers of the 38th Indiana come at them out of the fog, looking seven feet tall and of an altogether non-hominid species. Better men than Pegram’s troopers have fled for less cause. By the time Pegram can rally them a mile to the rear, the low ridge southeast of the ford is crawling with an industrious brigade of Yankee infantry felling trees for a breastwork.

  Pegram is humiliated. He rides back to explain to Breckinridge, who is still responsible for the Confederate right, why he has yielded the ford without inflicting a single casualty.

  Major General John Cabell Breckinridge feels he has lived a providential life. How else to explain so many accomplishments for a man just past forty? But listening to Pegram, Breckinridge has the horrifying feeling that Providence has deserted him. Only yesterday he’d spent hours resisting Bragg’s orders on the false impression that the Yankees were across the river in force to his front. Now it has actually happened, and Pegram is again to blame. When the man is finally done reciting his excuses, Breckinridge fixes him with a long, bitter stare. “I think, General, that you should report this matter directly and immediately to General Bragg.”

  “John, I wish—”

  “Please pay a bit more attention to military formality, General. If you please.”

  Pegram stares at the man he has considered his friend, colleague, and—in matters of tactics—his pupil. He straightens, assuming the position of attention. “As you wish, General. Should I tell General Bragg anything for you?”

  “I will attend to any messages from this command. You need not act as a courier on my behalf.”

  When Pegram is gone, Breckinridge slumps. Damn the man. Just what did he think he was supposed to be doing at the ford? Now the Yankees are across and without a price paid. He takes a deep breath, turns to his chief of staff. “Tell General Hanson of the developments. He is to hold Wayne’s Hill to the last extremity. As soon as General Bragg gives me permission, I will send reinforcements to his support.”

  As the fog lifts, the Confederate pickets on Wayne’s Hill can make out a heavy column of Yankee infantry crossing the ford a mile to the north. The sergeant of the guard sends Johnny Green to inform General Hanson, but Hanson and his chief of staff are already gazing through field glasses at the ford. Hanson lowers his glasses to his large stomach. “Goddamn it! What the hell was Pegram doing up there? Give me two companies, and I’d hold the Yankees for half a day and turn the river red.”

  “West Pointer, sir,” the chief of staff replies.

  Hanson snorts. “Damn the lot of them! Lee and two or three others excepted, they’re all drones, imbeciles, or charlatans!” He glares at Green. “I suppose you’ve come to tell me that the Yankees are crossing the river?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  For a moment, it seems that Hanson will say something sarcastic. Instead, he sighs. “Thank you, son. We observed the same, but I appreciate your vigilance. Don’t worry overmuch. We’ve got a good position here. We can hold until General Breckinridge brings us help.”

  Braxton Bragg does not believe the reports of a threat to the army’s right. It is a trick, another of Rosecrans’s nefarious strategems. The Yankees are withdrawing, trying to cover their trains with a show of aggressiveness. Soon they will be in headlong retreat, and then Bragg will pounce.

  When Pegram comes to report the Yankee capture of McFadden’s Ford, Bragg gives the young man only a mild reproof. The Yankees should have been made to pay for their prize, but the loss of the ford is no great matter. Rosecrans is only securing his flank while trying to make Bragg uneasy about his, but the move is without real significance.

  Pegram leaves Bragg’s presence immensely relieved and with a wholly revised opinion of his chief’s judgment and charity. He will redeem himself by harassing the Yankees without letup. And he will never trust John Breckinridge again. By God, no. The next time the man speaks to him as he did this morning, he will offer to resolve differences on the field of honor. By Christ, he will.

  For hours Bragg waits. Breckinridge sends repeated pleas for a shift of some of his brigades back across Stones River to support Hanson’s position on Wayne’s Hill. Finally, Bragg has to admit that the Yankees may be holding position after all. He sends a message to Hardee: General, please probe the enemy line to determine what strength he has remaining in position.

  Hardee reads the message, muses a few moments, and then writes a brief note to Cleburne: Patrick, unless I am sorely mistaken, our Yankee brethren are strengthening their position and have no intention of withdrawing. The commanding general directs that we probe their line. Do so cautiously, taking care not to br
ing on a general engagement. He underlines the concluding phrase and hands the message to an aide.

  Pat Cleburne’s latest plowhorse has proved more spirited than its appearance warrants. Cleburne wishes he could ride a mule, but knows that no officer could possibly demean himself so far and maintain his soldiers’ respect. Not in this army, at least.

  The horse’s behavior makes Cleburne irritable, the prating of his chief of staff about personal safety even more so. So much so, in fact, that he kicks the horse into an awkward canter, leaving his astounded staff behind. By the time they catch up, Cleburne has detoured into a field and dismounted to inspect an overturned cannon in full view of a dozen surprised Yankee pickets. Horrified, the chief of staff yells, “Wait here!” to the staff, and dashes to the gun. The Yankee pickets are blazing away, their minié balls whicking around Cleburne, who is intent on his study of the gun. “General, come back with me!” the chief of staff shouts. “This place is much too dangerous for you.”

  “This is an interesting piece. Have it salvaged. I’d like to put it back in service.”

  “When we can, General. But I must insist, I must implore you to come away from here!”

  Cleburne glances darkly at him and then at the Yankee pickets, as if they, too, were no more than another irritation. But he mounts and follows, though not in any hurry; he has had his one canter for the day.

  Watching the two officers coming under the cover of the trees, Dr. John M. Johnson, the division medical officer, turns to another member of Cleburne’s staff. “I’m reminded of the goat that tried to knock the locomotive off the track. You could admire his spunk and still have a very low opinion of his judgment.”

  Cleburne welcomes Hardee’s instruction to probe the Yankee line. He orders St. John Liddell’s brigade forward, but Liddell runs into heavy artillery fire before he can sufficiently develop the strength and disposition of the Yankee infantry. Cleburne sends S.A.M. Wood’s brigade to cover Liddell’s flank, but Liddell is already falling back and Wood has to give way precipitously, losing a hundred prisoners to a quick Yankee thrust. The loss is needless, and Cleburne resolves to censure Wood in his battle report.