Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) (15 page)

“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 barely 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.

With the review over and the bulk of the Army of the Tennessee drawn up on the plain, Davis went to the podium to deliver the expected speech. Many in the army were too far away to hear him, but the speech had already been printed, and would be distributed around the camps by suppertime.

All gave the President their attention as he struck his points: that the Southern states had the inalienable right to secede from the Union; that the Yankees were responsible for this war and all its hardships, for it was they who invaded Southern homes, burned Southern crops and insulted Southern women; that the Confederacy wished only to go its own way and to be left in peace; that it was they, and not the Northron, who were the true heirs of the hallowed Revolution; that the war was being fought to secure the rights of that Revolution, not slavery; that the North had an immeasurably more difficult task, to subdue a free people and occupy a vast country; and that if the Southron only stood firm in defiance, the war would most certainly be won.

Jackson studied Davis closely, for this was the first time he had ever heard the President speak. In the past, he had assumed Davis was just another politician, and considered most politicians a gang of charlatans, parasites, scoundrels and harlots, attracted by a profession that gave great rewards to men who were willing to say or do anything, and say or do it loudly. There were exceptions, of course, such as Congressman Alexander Boetler and Virginia Governor John Letcher, or the past, great presidents like Washington, Jefferson and Madison. Yet these were few, and for much of the war Jackson had not counted Davis among them.

That began to change after taking this command. Following Lee’s advice, Jackson scrupulously kept Davis informed of everything he did, flooding the wire with reports. Whenever time permitted, such as with his dearly desired promotion of Stewart, he asked for Davis’s opinion or presented him with options. And Jackson came to see that Davis was an honorable man who returned respect with respect, loyalty with loyalty, even when it cost him, as it undoubtedly had in Jackson’s clashes with the Commissary Department and Joe Brown.

Jackson had heard many such speeches as the one Davis delivered, almost always coming from men who could be serving in the field and weren’t; who had served, but left in a huff over some matter of rank and status; men who held their pride, lands and slaves dearer than their liberty. Davis was clearly not one of them. You only had to listen to the man to know he believed every single word, Jackson thought. Here was a man who would never surrender, never submit, never give in. Never.

Davis reached his peroration, and the Army of the Tennessee cheered him. Jackson clapped loudly, sprang to his feet and extended his hand to Davis. “Thank you, Mr. President. Thank you.”

Seeing Old Jack and the President shaking hands only caused the troops to cheer louder. Visibly taken aback, Davis stammered “You’re welcome, General. You are most welcome.”

Riding back to Jackson’s headquarters tent village, Davis thought he had much to be pleased with in Jackson. His reaction to Sherman’s raid of a month ago was a model for how Davis had always wanted things handled in the West: prompt action combined with due deference to Richmond. If shaking the military administration of Georgia to the roots had caused Davis no end of political headaches, he at least felt consoled in the results produced. Even Lee’s army in faraway Virginia was eating a little better because of it.

Davis was so pleased that he made a point of saying so when they reached Jackson’s headquarters. “I commend you on the state of your army, General Jackson. To these old eyes, no army has exhibited such high morale since Caesar’s Gallic legions. You have worked wonders here. The nation will have cause to thank you for it all soon, of that I am sure, as I thank you now.”

Jackson said softly “You are welcome, Mr. President, but thanks for my part are unnecessary. Thanks should be paid to the Almighty. Any gratitude after that goes to the men themselves, and the staff I have been so greatly blessed with.”

Davis dismounted, declaring “Well said, sir. Well said.”

Jackson dismounted, and upon entering his tent, he offered the President hot lime water. “My staff was able to procure some honey, and the limes from the coastal regions. I fear no lemons were available.”

Davis nodded his assent. “Of course,” he said, thinking lime water was a strange idea, never mind hot lime water, but he was too polite to refuse.

Jackson poured Davis and himself a cup, and the two men sat down.

“Mr. President, now that we are face to face, allow me to express my sincere apologies on rejecting the offensive plan submitted to me by yourself and General Bragg,” Jackson began. “But my study of the circumstances of this army, the enemy strength and the topography of this country led me to conclude it was not feasible.”

Davis nodded. “Yes. Your memorandum was quite specific, and your subsequent reports buttressed your case quite clearly.”

Davis and Bragg had proposed that Jackson, reinforced by a division from Polk’s force in Alabama and a division from Beauregard in the Carolinas, join Longstreet’s Corps in East Tennessee and with a combined army of over 70,000, invade Middle Tennessee and perhaps even Kentucky. Jackson had demurred, insisting that East Tennessee was a desert for an army, he could not live off the land there, and in winter it lacked even the sparsest vegetation for his animals. According to a report filed later by Jackson’s quartermaster, Harman, the army would need an additional 900 wagons and 3,000 mules to carry all the necessary supplies for the effort. Even then, the necessity of having to take such a ponderous wagon train over the mountain roads would prevent the rapid movements necessary for success.

There had been two features of Jackson’s rejection of the plan that had mollified Davis. First was the disclaimer that Jackson would see to it the wagons were built and the plan attempted anyway, but only if the 3,000 mules could be procured, hinting that he could find those necessary mules from the state of Georgia, were he given a free hand to requisition them. The other was that Jackson insisted that Lee would have need of Longstreet’s Corps before long, so it should not factor into any offensive planning for the West. Davis could not recall even Robert E. Lee refusing the offer of a large body of reinforcements for the sake of a different department.

Davis might have been less mollified if he had known Jackson did not want Longstreet because he feared Old Peter’s jealousy and resentment might make him impossible to work with. Jackson had kept that to himself, however.

“So, General Jackson, I take it you invited me out here to present a plan of your own devising? The plan you promised in December?”

Jackson nodded. “Yes, yes. If you will recall my reports on the Federal strength, you know that George Thomas has an army of three corps in and about Chattanooga; James B. McPherson has a strong corps in northeastern Alabama; and John Schofield has a corps, mostly of green recruits, in Knoxville. In aggregate, this force must number at least 110,000 strong, much more than double my own strength, but at this moment it is spread out over a distance of some 200 miles. It is my intention to take advantage of that dispersion by misdirecting the enemy, rapidly concentrate against one part of his host, smash it before they can launch their own offensive, and defeat them in detail.”

“That was part of the plan laid by General Bragg and myself, to march against Knoxville.”

Jackson nodded. “I recognize that, sir. As you know, we lack the transportation to move directly on East Tennessee, but my greatest concern is not the need to carry every biscuit and bale of hay. I am convinced that even were the transportation available, Schofield would retreat beyond our grasp before we could trap him. Celerity in those mountains, in this weather, and with a long wagon train is all but impossible, and without celerity we cannot achieve surprise. Without surprise, the endeavor must certainly fail.”