Bright Starry Banner

by Alden R. Carter

Rosecrans rides his line. He has risen early, much refreshed from two hours’ sleep before the fire in the rough cabin that remains his headquarters despite its vulnerability to Rebel artillery. His mood is further improved by what he sees along his line. The soldiers are dirty, wet, hungry, but resolute to a man. They cheer him, wave their hats. He responds grinning, joshing with them. The men like him, recall over and over his disregard for danger during the fighting on Wednesday. Rosecrans’s friendship with Garesché is well known; the colonel himself remembered fondly for his great kindness. “Don’t worry, General,” one soldier shouts. “We’ll pay back the Rebs for the colonel.”

  Rosecrans smiles sadly. “No, boys. Fight the Rebs for your own sakes and the sake of your country. Colonel Garesché is in paradise and beyond worrying about earthly matters.”

  The onset of Bishop Polk’s bombardment startles Rosecrans, nearly sends him dashing to the point of attack. But he is aware that his frenetic movements on Wednesday, though encouraging to the men, have been criticized by some of the officers. In truth, he’d given too many orders, muddled the chain of command, become so excited at times that Garesché had been needed to interpret his stammerings. He must be calmer today, less impulsive.

  As the Federal guns force Polk’s batteries to withdraw, Rosecrans joins Thomas on the slope behind the Chicago Board of Trade Battery. Whitebearded Captain Jim Stokes is walking, head down, back to his guns. Rosecrans looks after him. “Jim looks in poor fettle.”

  Thomas removes his cigar. “An accident with the guns. They fired into a friendly battery. Killed a dozen horses, wounded a few men. Unfortunate.”

  Rosecrans nods. “Well, have it looked into when we have the leisure. Most times these things are best forgotten. Misfortunes of war.”

  Thomas resumes smoking. After a moment, he asks, “Have you been to the left? I suspect Bragg may test us there.”

  “I have the same feeling. We don’t exactly have a position that Professor Mahan would approve, but it will hold. Our right and center are strong now, and Bragg must know it. That leaves only our left. I told Crittenden to send Cruft’s brigade to the ford to reinforce Van Cleve’s division. Sam Beatty has command of it now.”

  “I think you might consider assigning him permanently to the command. Van Cleve is an old man, might do better commanding a post.”

  “I’m afraid I have less say in such matters than I would like. We’ll see. Could you spare Negley if I needed him on the left?”

  Thomas ponders this. “Yes, take him now. He has only two brigades, but they’re good ones.”

  They talk on, smoking in the drizzle and watching the cannons exchange desultory fire.

  Waiting below on the Nashville Pike with the main part of Rosecrans’s staff, Father Treacy sees a terrible thing. The Rebel guns on Wayne’s Hill aim a solid shot down the pike every few minutes to harass formations trying to use it. The twelve-pound balls scatter chunks from the macadam surface, bounce down the road in long, lazy arcs. The balls are small, barely more than four and a half inches in diameter, hardly deserving the name cannonball if one thinks only of the massive projectiles of siege and naval cannons. It is this almost harmless appearance that fools a youngster recently arrived with the brigade of Colonel John Starkweather. Laughing, the boy dashes onto the pike, makes to catch one of the solid shot as if it were a grounder hit to a fielder in the newly popular game of base-ball. The shot explodes his hands and forearms, punches through the boy’s body at the sternum, and bounces on down the pike, leaving the boy disjointed as an unstrung puppet.

  “Jesus Christ, would you look at that?” a young staff officer breathes.

  Treacy sighs, gets off his horse, goes to administer last rites to the boy, though he is certainly, emphatically killed.

  Breckinridge rides south to retrieve Preston’s brigade, which is still west of the river, supporting Polk’s center. He explains Bragg’s plan to his friend, concluding formally, as if for the record: “General Preston, this attack is made against my judgment and by the peremptory orders of General Bragg. Of course, we all must do our duty and fight the best we can. But if it should result in disaster and I be among the slain, I want you to do justice to my memory and tell people that I believed this attack to be very unwise and tried to prevent it.”

  Preston nods, also formal, for the moment seems to call for it. “If I survive and you do not, I will take that message to the president.”

  “Thank you,” Breckinridge says, starts for Wayne’s Hill and Kentucky Brigade.

  “I’ll kill the son of a bitch!” Hanson roars. He unbuckles his sword belt, shoves sword, scabbard, and belt at Breckinridge. “General, I herewith resign. I am going to headquarters to challenge General Bragg to a duel.”

  “Put your sword back on, General. He will not fight you, only put you under arrest.”

  “Like hell he will! If he won’t fight me like a man, I’ll shoot him like a dog!”

  Breckinridge leads the raging Hanson out of easy earshot of the officers and common soldiers. “General Hanson, you must not do this thing. I need you to command this brigade. We will do our best, carry that ridge if we can. But even if we die to the very last man and fail in the attempt, no one will be able to say that this division and particularly Kentucky Brigade didn’t do its utmost.”

  “General, I can’t—”

  “No, let me finish. I cannot permit you to go to headquarters to challenge General Bragg to a duel. If you insist on resigning, I will put you under arrest myself. To do less would be to condone mutiny. And once we start having mutiny among us, this army is doomed and our cause is doomed.”

  Hanson stands fuming, refusing to meet Breckinridge’s eyes. At last he rebuckles the sword around his thick waist. “Very well, General. I will get my brigade ready.”

  “Thank you, General. God watch over you.”

  Corporal Johnny Green of the 9th Kentucky does not know any man who considers himself a hero. Yet the men of 9th Kentucky protest vehemently when word is passed that the regiment will remain on Wayne’s Hill in support of Cobb’s battery. Colonel Hunt carries their complaints to General Hanson.

  “Do you know, Colonel, that half your men or more could die in this illomened attack?” Hanson asks.

  “I know it, General. But it is a matter of honor with them. They don’t want to be members of the only regiment not to fight in this battle.”

  “You did fight. You had your scrap the night the Yankees waded the river and charged this hill.”

  “General, that was barely a skirmish.”

  “A little more than a skirmish, if I recall. But, all right, Colonel. You may select four companies by lot. Send them forward with the Second Kentucky.”

  “I will lead them myself, General.”

  For a moment, Hanson considers telling Hunt he must stay behind. But he nods. “Very well. Good luck.”

  Breckinridge and Colonel Buckner, his chief of staff, discuss the order of battle. Hanson’s brigade will lead on the left, Pillow’s on the right. Colonel Randall Gibson of the 13th–20th Louisiana, now commanding Adams’s brigade, will follow Hanson with two regiments, leaving his other two in reserve. Preston’s brigade will follow Pillow’s line. To the right of Pillow, Wharton and Pegram’s dismounted troopers will extend the line to overlap the Union left. In all, 4,500 infantry and 2,000 cavalry will storm the Yankee positions.

  Breckinridge has been assigned thirty-two guns to support the attack. But here the preparations become fouled. After sending Colonel Buckner to write the orders coordinating the attack, Breckinridge explains to Robertson that he wants the captain’s ten guns to go forward between the two waves of infantry.

  Robertson demurs. “I have specific orders from General Bragg to keep my guns well back until you occupy the ridge.”

  Breckinridge looks confused. “But we are making this attack to secure you a position for your guns.”

  “I understand that, and once you have it, I will bring my batteries forward.”

>   “But, damn it, man! I’ll need the support of your fire to help drive the Yankees off the ridge.”

  “I’m sorry, General, I was told to keep my guns at a safe distance and to conserve my ammunition.”

  “Captain, I am in command here. I order you to deploy your batteries between the infantry lines.”

  “And I, General, must respectfully refuse on the grounds that I am obeying the directions of high authority. You must appeal to General Bragg if you wish me to deploy as you suggest.”

  They wrangle, the argument becoming heated. Breckinridge revises his order, asking Robertson to go forward immediately behind the second wave. Again, Robertson demurs. Finally, Breckinridge throws up his hands. “Then come forward when I send for you.”

  “I will come forward when you have taken the objective, General.”

  Breckinridge turns away defeated, for there is no budge in Robertson and little hope that Bragg will intervene. He directs Colonel Buckner to send the division’s three batteries forward in rear of the second line and then steps apart to rage in private.

  Shortly before 3:00 P.M., Bragg rides to Polk’s headquarters behind the Confederate center. The Bishop is in a good mood, having enjoyed a heavy lunch and an afternoon doze in the shelter of his rain fly with a quilt wrapped about him by a member of his devoted staff. On seeing Bragg, he frees himself from the quilt but does not rise. “Good afternoon, General. Forgive me for not rising, but the damp seems to have exacerbated the gout in my foot.”

  Bragg dismounts, comes forward. “That’s quite all right, Bishop, though in a few minutes I think you will want to be on horseback.”

  Polk frowns. “Why? Are we expecting an attack?”

  “No, we are preparing to make one. I am sending Breckinridge to take the high ground this side of the ford.”

  “I hadn’t heard. I discussed the Yankee incursion with Generals Hardee and Breckinridge this morning, but I didn’t know any decision had been made to drive them back across the river.”

  “It was my decision, General. I need no councils of war to make elementary tactical decisions. Yankee possession of that ground threatens any advance by our center. If General Rosecrans continues to hold position tonight, I intend to renew the attack on his center tomorrow. When your line goes forward, Captain Robertson’s guns on that ridge will enfilade his line.”

  “The Robertson who commands a battery in Withers’s division?”

  “Yes. I ordered him to take his battery and a battery from Cleburne to support Breckinridge.”

  “I did not know that either.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. In your place, I would look to the efficiency of my staff. They were informed.”

  For a long moment, Polk ponders. “From my understanding of the ground, I don’t think this attack is necessary. I would rather have Breckinridge’s division deployed as part of my attack tomorrow than see it cut up taking that ridge today.”

  “I disagree, Bishop. The attack has been ordered and will go forward promptly at four o’clock. I will give the signal myself. In the meantime, please deploy your artillery to support Breckinridge’s left.”

  Polk looks at his pocket watch, sees that it is already past 3:00 P.M. He considers arguing further, but there is little time to get ready and Bragg seems unmovable. “Yes, General, I will see to it immediately.” He rises, the swollen foot sharply painful, limps toward his staff. The dybbuk wolf is silent within him, sated for once, leaving Bishop Leonidas Polk a heavy, gimpy old man, trying desperately to remember all that he’d learned so long ago about the proper siting of artillery.

  Since midmorning Hardee has expected Bragg to summon him for a discussion of tactics. He knows that Bragg intends some advance on the right. A Captain Robertson had presented himself at Cleburne’s headquarters with an order detaching a battery to Breckinridge’s support. Cleburne had been miffed at receiving an order outside the normal chain of command, refused to comply without Hardee’s consent. Robertson arrives at Hardee’s headquarters much out of temper. He presents Hardee with the order from Bragg. “I must say that General Cleburne was most uncooperative. I think you might instruct him on the courtesy and cooperation expected of an officer in an American army.”

  Hardee, only three years past commandant of cadets at West Point, remembers Robertson as a youngster with no particular talent but eager to please. My, haven’t we put on airs, Hardee thinks. “General Cleburne makes no particular pretense of being a gentleman, Captain. He’s a fighting man, perhaps the best in this army. He’s also a stickler for protocol, and this order should have come through me.”

  “I’m sorry, General. I didn’t mean to criticize General Cleburne. I simply meant to suggest—”

  “Yes, yes.” Hardee waves a hand. “But you’re in a hurry.”

  “I’m sure that a copy of the order was sent to you, General. It’s probably just late in arriving.”

  “No doubt,” Hardee says dryly, endorses the order detaching Semple’s battery.

  Hardee waits through noon and on into the afternoon. He inspects his lines in the company of Cleburne, happy to see the breastworks nearly complete. St. John Liddell approaches, again opines that they can reach the pike, cut the Union line of retreat. “No, General Liddell,” Hardee replies. “We could have on Wednesday afternoon if we’d had a fresh brigade or two, but the chance is past now.”

  Liddell grumbles. “If the president hadn’t sent Stevenson’s division to Pemberton at Vicksburg, we’d be marching for the Ohio right now.”

  Hardee glances at Cleburne. They have discussed the same possibility, but it is quite another thing to hear the argument from Liddell, who is considered friendly to Bragg and Davis both. Hardee decides not to comment, redirects the discussion to the completion of the breastworks. It is getting late, and Bragg must have abandoned any thought of attacking on the right today. Tonight he will probably summon Hardee and Polk to discuss what can be done if Rosecrans continues to hold position. Hardee wonders what he should say.

  Brigadier General Gideon Pillow ignores Colonel Buckner’s protests, stomps up the rise to where Breckinridge is staring sourly at the broken ground his division must cross to engage the Yankee line. “Breckinridge, did you send orders to the cavalry telling them to extend my line?”

  Breckinridge gives Pillow a withering look that has no effect on the man. “Yes, General, of course.”

  “Well, they’re not there. My skirmishers are already pulling down fences, my infantry is in line ready to go forward, and the goddamn cavalry is nowhere to be seen!”

  Breckinridge feels his stomach lurch. “Thank you for informing me, General. There is no doubt some slight delay. I’ll check on it. Now, you’d better return to your brigade.”

  “See that you do more than check on it. Otherwise I’m flanked on my right the second I step out. Flanked and buggered!” He stomps off.

  Breckinridge beckons Buckner. “Andy, did you send the order of battle to Wharton and Pegram?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Better send it again. Something’s gone wrong if they’re not in position by now.” He glances at his watch. Christ, only twenty minutes to go, and he’s spent the better part of an hour reviewing his grievances against Bragg. He calls for his horse. Dear God, he prays, protect my boys. Please don’t take too heavily of them.

  Corporal Billy Erb, Company C, 19th Ohio Volunteers, is famed throughout his brigade for never missing a meal. His messmates, all senior sergeants, look the other way when Erb disappears for long periods, allowing him to keep his stripes despite his disregard for all duties beyond keeping the mess pot full. But in the last day, even Erb’s formidable skills have failed. He takes this as an insult to his professional pride. With only a cracker and a cup of weak coffee on his stomach, he goes scavenging. And, because he is also phenomenally lucky, he strikes victual gold.

  Beyond the northern extremity of Grose’s line, Erb ducks when a Rebel shell from Wayne’s Hill explodes in the yard of an abandoned shanty
. It is a poor place and no doubt already well investigated, but Erb’s sharp ears detect an unexpected cackling in the aftermath of the explosion. He creeps forward to peek through a crack in the shanty wall. And sure as shit, there she is: a fat laying hen just settling back on her nest. Erb enters, lets the hen eye him long enough to lose interest, and then whisks her expertly off the nest. He tucks her head in his armpit and wraps an arm firmly around her body. After a half dozen squawks and thwarted flaps, she grows still.

  Erb scoops up the nine eggs in the nest, lodging them carefully in his voluminous haversack. He hesitates with the last in his hand. Nine divided by four leaves an extra left over. It should by all rights go to him, but dealing with sergeants—hungry or otherwise—is never easy. He cracks the egg, lets it run into his upturned mouth, the yolk plopping satisfyingly on the tongue. He sucks it down, eyes closed, licks his lips. God, that was good. He’s tempted to eat another, but then he’ll be confronted with an even more complicated mathematical conundrum. Besides, there is the matter of reputation, and eight eggs are a more impressive haul than seven, six, five, or four.

  Returning to camp, Erb keeps the chicken hidden beneath his overcoat. No one stops him. He has a businesslike air, corporal’s stripes, and his fine leather haversack is easily mistaken for a dispatch pouch. Only when he crosses into the camp of the Union 9th Kentucky does he grasp the chicken by the legs and swing her from under his coat. The hen squawks at the indignity, keeps squawking, as Erb dogtrots through the camp. Kentucks shout: “Drop that chicken!”; “Hey, son, five dollars silver, ten scrip for that hen!”; “Thief, thief! He stole our chicken!”; “Come here, soldier. That’s an order!” Grinning, Erb crosses the regimental boundary, trots into the safety of C Company’s camp.

  One of the sergeants takes charge of killing, plucking, and cleaning the hen, a second goes to commandeer a pot and tripod, and the third gets the fire built up. Erb rests in his glory, putting off questions on the origin of the chicken until he can tell the story over supper. Men drift in from other messes, ask forlornly if any more chickens are to be had. “Sorry, ain’t none but this one, boys,” Erb says. “Why, hell, don’t you think I’d’ve brought more if they’d been available? Yessir. I’d’ve brought ’nough to feed the entire company. But there weren’t but this one and she’s going to this mess. The rest of you boys can inhale the aroma of chicken stew. Should be some sustenance in that.”