“At the same time, we will take away from Lincoln the crutch of emancipation. So much of his political support comes from abolitionism, and all of his support in Europe derives from it. Without slavery, Lincoln might not survive the next election. Without victories, he might not survive the next election. With negro soldiers, we hit him on both points. And I know the British, General Jackson. If we emancipate the negro ourselves, it revives the possibility of recognition from the British crown.”
Jackson had listened silently, sitting at perfect attention, betraying no sign of emotion. He considered Cleburne for a short time.
Jackson said “You believe things are as bad as that?”
Cleburne nodded. “Yes. I absolutely believe it. This time, now, is the crisis of the war, sir. I fear only that our leaders may not treat it as such, and when they do take decisive action, it will be too late to achieve useful purpose.”
Jackson thought it over for a while longer, finally saying “Your proposal has much to it on the grounds of military merit. I do not see our future as darkly as you, but I see the merit in it. Although I believe we are in the rights and will ultimately prevail through the blessings of Providence, I must confess I would gladly welcome the addition of even a single division of soldiers to this army, even if they must be Negroes.”
Cleburne brightened, asking “Then you agree? You will endorse my memorandum?”
Jackson responded with a question. “Have you ever been to Virginia, general?”
“No, sir, I have not,” Cleburne responded.
“It’s not like here, or from what I am told, like South Carolina or Mississippi. Many of our negroes in the Old Dominion are artisans, house servants, or hired out as laborers. Virginia doesn’t have these plantations, with their many hundreds of farm hands toiling from sun-up to sundown each and every day, like the Israelites in the Books of Genesis and Exodus. Many of the older folks will tell you they thought slavery would wither away, and many more disdain the institution, or at least its inseparable and morally degrading aspects. General Lee does, as do I.”
“Even so,” Jackson continued “Virginia had Nat Turner. And John Brown. My home of Lexington has few slaves, General Cleburne, and some free negroes. Even there, your proposal to arm the negro would meet with little enthusiasm and much hostility. I know this. I had a church school for them in Lexington, to teach the negro to read the Bible, and even with something so small and benign, there were whispers among my neighbors that I was breaking the law, and that teaching a negro to read the would make him uppity, would come to no right.”
Cleburne said patiently “Not all Southrons see it that way. Many of my colonels and brigadiers have signed this memorandum, and I know Generals Hardee and Cheatham agree with me in principle.”
Jackson nodded “Yes, yes, that may be so. But many others will not. If you had presented this to all the lieutenant and major generals of this army, as you had intended, you would have found that out. Half would be outraged, maybe more. I imagine one of them might have tried provoking you into a duel.”
Cleburne’s mood darkened. “Such a man would be welcome to try.”
Jackson ignored that and continued. “Furthermore, I believe the very same purpose that animates our nation and wills us to victory will see your intentions defeated. Our war is about liberty, not slavery, but part of that liberty is the freedom to live in this society that Providence willed for us, and that society includes slavery. If you put this proposal before the government, you will turn every man determined to keep his high place in life and his property against you.”
Cleburne stiffened, saying “If that is the price I must pay to ensure we win this war, I will pay it gladly. You will not submit my proposal then?”
“I did not say that,” Jackson snapped irritably. Relaxing, he said “If you wish, I will forward it to the War Department, but with no comment. I cannot endorse it, but nor will I condemn it.”
Cleburne thought that was fair, and said so. Jackson bade him good night and dismissed him.
Once he was gone, Jackson muttered to himself “I’ll send it, but in the strictest confidentiality. Not to the War Department, but directly to the President.”
This had to be kept from becoming more widely known, Jackson thought. Cleburne is an excellent officer, one I can’t allow to go out and ruin himself.
When Jackson first came west, he found that Cleburne’s Division was maintaining standards of drill and camp hygiene that were, if anything, higher than his own. It took much to impress Jackson, but Cleburne had managed it.
Even so, Jackson disagreed with Cleburne on one important point: the negroes would not make good soldiers. Some might, but not enough to make much difference.
If I could find 10,000 negroes who could be trained as soldiers, Jackson thought, I would not give up until I had them. I would resign if I could not get them. But there aren’t that 10,000 darkie fighting men, nothing like it, not in the whole Confederacy.
March 14
Late evening
Headquarters, Hardee’s Corps, Army of Tennessee, CSA
Huff House
Dalton
Cheatham was greeted by one of Hardee’s aides at the front door, and shown into the parlor to warm himself by the fireplace. He was the first of Hardee’s supper guests to arrive, and helped himself to the decanter and three-fingers of Kentucky bourbon before plopping himself into a rocking chair.
He asked the aide, who was on his way out of the parlor, “So who all is coming tonight?”
The aide replied in a clipped tone “Generals Cleburne and Hindman, sir.”
That settled it, Cheatham thought as he sipped his bourbon and watched the aide go. Those few members of the “down with Bragg” faction still with the army would be present. Old Reliable has decided to give Stonewall Jackson a dose of the same medicine as old Bragg.
He took a swallow of the sweet, spicy liquid, and felt warmer almost at once. Well, it won’t wash, he thought. It won’t wash. Not with me. Not this time.
Cheatham had guessed what Hardee was about as soon as he received the invitation for supper. Old Reliable was dissatisfied, and looking to make some trouble for the commanding general when President Davis came to visit in a few days.
Hardee had been incensed when Jackson had canceled his furlough plan. Mind you, Cheatham thought, Old Jack went ahead with all furloughs already on the docket, and he gave Hardee leave in February to go marry that girl in Mississippi. A filly half his age, the randy old goat.
Yet Cheatham reckoned what upset fussy old Bill Hardee the most was that Jackson never consulted him. Stonewall Jackson never consulted with anyone in the army about anything, as near as Cheatham could tell. He wanted facts and obedience, not opinions and jawboning.
As the Tennessean had heard Hardee say many times over the years, he was a former commandant of West Point, the man who had written the textbook upon which this war was being fought. Cheatham had lately heard Hardee add that he had been ahead of Jackson on the lieutenant generals’ list, just for good measure. God forbid a man fail to ask William J. Hardee what he thought on military matters, the pompous old donkey.
Cheatham had already made his mind up that he would have none of it, not this time. Oh, he disliked Jackson, not so much as Bragg, but disliked him all the same. The endless flow of work and criticism from army headquarters had left more than a few officers disgruntled in its wake, Cheatham included. Every division commander in the army had been verbally censured by Old Jack by now, all except for Cleburne and Stewart’s successor Clayton, that is. Even Hood had gotten an earful, shoddy administrator that Hood was.
But Jackson wasn’t Bragg. For one thing, Cheatham thought, if I had ever extended the olive branch to Bragg, he would likely have snatched it up and broken it over his spindly knee. But that wasn’t all that separated Jackson from Bragg, abrasive as they both were. It took Cheatham a while to put his finger on why the discontented were reluctant to storm into Jackson’s office, cuss th
e man, and nail their resignations to Old Jack’s desk with an Arkansas toothpick, but then he went to Meridian.
Watching the Bishop’s scrotum shrivel up in Mississippi made him see the contrast, clear as day. Jackson wasn’t going to take any horseshit, and everyone knew it, just by looking at him. Stonewall Jackson was a lot like Andrew Jackson that way. Both those men were winners because they stopped at nothing to get what they wanted, and destroyed whoever got in their way.
Give Jackson cause, and he’d drum you right out of the army. If he didn’t get his way with Richmond, he would post his resignation. Hardee might think otherwise, but Cheatham believed there wasn’t a man in the Army of Tennessee Davis wouldn’t cashier to keep Jackson, and the country would cheer Davis for doing it. He was certain of it, absolutely certain.
Cheatham had just polished off his bourbon when Cleburne and Hindman arrived. No, he thought. I have no love for Old Jack, but only a damned, blinkered fool would get in that man’s way.
He rose to shake hands with his newly arrived colleagues. They were the most contrasting pair he knew of, and they were a pair, close friends before the war. Dark, fit, coldly severe Patrick Cleburne and short, foppish, prissy, volatile Thomas Hindman. Cheatham treated himself to another bourbon. He didn’t offer the bottle to his fellow generals, as he knew both of them were temperance men.
A short while later, Hardee appeared. A white- and grey-haired man of 49, resplendent in his immaculate dress uniform, Hardee looked the part of the storybook Southern general. After greeting his guests, he ushered them to the dining table.
Just because I’m not in for Hardee’s intentions doesn’t mean I can’t have myself a little fun, thought Cheatham. He looked forward to the coming conversation with relish.
The first course was a fine, well-aged Georgia ham. With several slices on his plate and a half-full tumbler of bourbon, Cheatham asked, eyes twinkling, “How do you reckon they are getting on together, old bastard Bragg and Jeff Davis?” referring to Bragg’s appointment as Davis’s chief military adviser.
“Bragg was always an excellent administrator,” Hardee said smoothly “but never a leader of men, nor a competent strategist. Sitting behind a desk will bring out the best in Bragg, I’m sure.”
“Davis takes fine care of his cronies, fine care” Hindman declared, a hint of malice in his tone. “Bragg loses all of Tennessee, and he gets promoted to a place in the executive office. Crippled Hood can barely ride a horse, and he gets an army corps. All the while, deserving, capable officers are left to whither on the vine, or else left to rot in the wilderness. Jackson’s cut from the same cloth, promoting his favorite, Stewart.”
He was referring to himself, Cleburne knew. Hindman had been the acting corps commander until Hood came along. Seeing Stewart promoted over his head, able or no, left him doubly aggrieved.
“Stewart,” Cleburne said quietly “runs a very tight ship.”
“Yes!” Hindman raised his voice. “And that’s why Jackson loves him. They both have the souls of petty, tyrannical little men.”
Enjoying himself immensely, Cheatham weighed in with a jab at Hindman. “Now see here, Hindman, old fellow, you can hardly say our Stonewall plays favorites. He brought Old Pegleg out of Virginia with him, you are quite right about that, and right about General Hood’s sad, shattered state. Feller needs to be strapped to his horse just to ride. But old Stonewall stood Hood up against it over how he ran his corps, though, now didn’t he?”
Hindman shot back “That just proves my point. The man is a petty tyrant. Even a Yankee wouldn’t lord it over a proper gentleman so.”
“Is Hood a proper gentleman?” Hardee asked sarcastically. That brought laughter, from all save Cleburne.
The house servants, all slaves, entered with the main course: a quarter of boiled mutton, served with cornbread and dishes of winter greens, small potatoes and pickled vegetables.
As the food was served, Hardee interjected “I thought General Jackson was perhaps too severe in his choices this winter. Canceling the furloughs was bad for morale. And ordering training marches in the dead of winter was foolhardy, very foolhardy, especially in view of the fact that many of the men lack proper shoes.”
Cleburne replied “I found Jackson’s general orders on training, discipline and camp management far from tyrannical. For the most part, my division already worked on such lines. As for winter marches, I’ve always felt that exercise is better for a man’s health than keeping idle and indoors.”
Both while he spoke and after, Cleburne avoided eye contact with Hardee. Usually one to handle difficulties head on, his choice of sides in this issue left him feeling guilty enough to shrink from a direct confrontation. Cleburne might have learned soldiering from the British, but he learned how to be an officer and general from Hardee. Like Cheatham, Cleburne knew what Hardee was about in inviting them all to dinner, and despite Hardee being his mentor, he wanted no part of it. Unlike Cheatham, the Irishman’s motivation was respect, because while Jackson was undeniably difficult to get along with, he was undeniably a soldier of accomplishment.
Hardee stared at Cleburne for just a few seconds after the Irishman finished speaking, before returning to his meal, saying nothing. He realized that Cleburne had flown the nest, right there, at that very moment. Jeff Davis had once called Cleburne the “Stonewall Jackson of the West.” Now Cleburne had thrown in his lot with the original article.
For the rest of the meal, Cleburne and Hardee said little, and nothing at all to each other, while Cheatham enjoyed arguing with Hindman. Coffee, real Yankee coffee, was served. After each man had drunk his cup, Hardee called the evening to an end. Later that night, Cheatham went to bed warm and satisfied; Cleburne melancholic; Hardee bitterly disappointed; and Hindman frustrated and annoyed.
March 17
Army of Tennessee, CSA
Below Taylor’s Ridge
Dalton
Davis sat atop the wooden platform, quite happy with his decision to accept General Jackson’s invitation to come to Georgia for a grand review of the Army of Tennessee. Although the air had a cold, damp quality that played merry hell with his rheumatism, the parade and its fife and drum music gave him such a warm glow that his stiff, aching bones seemed a world away. The weariness of his stop in Atlanta, pressed as he was there by complaints from Governor Joe Brown and the other Georgia grandees, was completely forgotten.
Many units of the army were on duty, mostly facing the northern aggressors from their perch on Rocky Face Ridge, but every division was represented here. Hardee’s Corps had just marched by, and now came Stewart’s Corps. Henry Clayton, newly promoted to major general and leading Stewart’s old division, saluted the President with his sword. Davis returned the salute. Behind him marched serried ranks of Louisianans, Georgians and Alabamans. Next were the soldiers of Carter Stevenson, who Davis knew slightly from the Old Army and the Mexican War. Davis put out of his mind that Stevenson and his men had surrendered at Vicksburg, in favor of the thought that this division truly represented the breadth of the nation, with men from Tennessee, North Carolina, Virginia, Georgia and Alabama.
Davis glanced at Jackson, seated next to him. How he envied him. If Davis had his druthers, this is what he would be doing: leading the South’s western army against the hated, lowborn invaders. Jackson looked even more like a leader of men than at any of their previous meetings, with a fine, new uniform and a glittering sword, which he knew were gifts from Generals Lee and Stuart.
Though his heart swelled with pride over the army before him, Davis still noticed the deficiencies. Unlike their commanding general in his new, natty attire, these tatterdemalion legions could never be described as regulation, as the only uniform features of the troops were their broad-rimmed felt hats and the gum blankets slung over their shoulders. The men were clothed in butternut, grey, faded brown, soiled white and much else in between. Many still lacked shoes. They carried all manner of arms, but at least they were all armed. The same could barel
y be said of the artillery. Half the cannon that clattered by were puny six pounders, and the horses pulling them looked thin and ragged.
We have never enjoyed the material riches of the Yankee, Davis thought, but with these men, we will whip him all the same. We Southrons are the superior breed. We whupped the Britisher twice and the Mexican once, we and not the Northron, who are a race of mere pasty mechanics and weakling shop clerks.
The appearance of blue flags with silver moons heralded the arrival of Cleburne’s Division, the only division in the Confederate Army allowed a battle flag all its own, the forefront of Hood’s Corps. The Arkansans, Alabamans, Tennesseans, Texans and Mississippians of this division were the neatest marchers by far, the best at close-order drill. Behind them were the looser ranks of Cheatham’s hard-brawling Tennesseans.
Thinking of Cleburne, Davis folded his arms across his chest. Jackson did the right thing in sending him that proposal to arm the slaves in confidence, he thought. As far as Davis knew, only Jackson, himself and Cleburne knew anything about it. The matter was incendiary, terrifically incendiary, the sort of thing only a foreigner or a damned fool would propose. Cleburne was no fool, but he was certainly not really a Southron either.
The band began playing “Stonewall Jackson’s Way,” producing a deafening cacophony of wild cheering from the ranks, the likes of which had never even been approached in Davis’s experience. He noticed with some amusement that Jackson had turned bright red, and it was only with some reluctance that the man took off his hat and waved at his troops. By the time the din had subsided, Hood’s Corps had passed, and Walker’s cavalry rode in.
Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) Page 11