Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) (22 page)

The ranks hurrahed lustily. Colonel Tillman pulled out of the column, came alongside his regiment, and called out “Three cheers for Maney and Old Frank Cheatham, men! Tennessee volunteers, one and all!”

The regiment cheered again. Fletcher smirked. Tillman had been kissing Maney’s backside ever since the 41
^st
Tennessee Infantry had been assigned to his brigade.

The moment passed, and Fletcher went back to smoking his cigar, and to his gloomy, worried thoughts. Going back to Tennessee meant picking a fight, sure as sunshine. Battle was waiting for them somewhere up north. A bloody, pointless homecoming, now that it was so obviously all for nothing. The war was lost, any fool ought to see it now, and it was the wrong damned war to start with.

The Fletchers were Whigs who had been for John Bell and Union in 1860, just as most Tennesseans had been for preserving the Union in some way or another. Fletcher had never believed in secession over the election of Lincoln, not in the war, and especially not Tennessee’s place in any of it. Governor Isham Harris had dragged them all into the Confederacy under a shroud of dubiousness and illegality, and because of it the Yankees now owned almost every molehill and dunghill in the state.

It wasn’t secession per se Fletcher opposed. In theory, he believed the states were sovereign and retained the right to depart from the Union. Nor was it slavery. He wasn’t some black-tongued abolitionist. Fletcher owned some three dozen slaves, or did before Lincoln’s emancipation. In his view, the South could have easily defended slavery from within the old Constitution, and gone on doing so for decades to come. Fletcher had volunteered for the army solely to repel what he regarded as an illegal invasion of his state by the Federal government.

Fletcher had tried to explain his cooperationist views once, in the Ohio prison his regiment was confined to after the surrender of Fort Donelson. As a lawyer, he felt that if you lost the argument, there were all kinds of ways you continued the fight. What you did not do was burn down the courthouse, tar and feather the judge, and run him out of the county.

But that’s what the South did. They lost an election, so they burned the old Constitution, and ran the old Union out of town.

Fletcher had badly misjudged his audience. Men who were moderates before the war were hardened, bitterly intolerant secessionists now. The memory of that prison mess conversation made him feel foolish and bitter. His words were received with dismay and icy stares by the other officers, and one captain even accused him of defeatism and disloyalty.

He felt lucky to have avoided a challenge to fight that day. Not that he feared dueling, but he knew that even if he won, the consequences would blacken his name. He kept his sentiments to himself after that. In this war over our rights and liberty, he thought sardonically, a man wasn’t free to speak his mind without fear of being called out and shot for it.

As the regiment marched past the band, it began playing “Bonnie Blue Flag.” Fletcher chose that moment to hock up and spit.

No, as far as he was concerned the war was over, but for the fuss and the dying. All he wanted now was to go home with some dignity and take as many of his men back as he could, in particular his precious volunteers.

2:30 p.m.

Loring’s Division, Polk’s Corps, CSA

South of Wildcat Ridge

West of Lawrenceburg

The guide stopped his horse. “I reckon here’s as far as we get, General, not without being seen.”

Loring motioned for his chief aide while telling his staff “The rest of you men stay here. I want to have a look for myself.”

He cared very little for what he saw. The guide’s assessment was sound. The division could advance no farther without being observed, and it still had a mile of difficult ground to negotiate before reaching the foot of that hill. The prominence, Wildcat Ridge, was a strong position, held by a battery of artillery and what looked like at least a thousand men.

Loring said to his aide “I dislike this entire business. By the time we get up there, the Federals will have had plenty of time to sound the alarm. And it’s a strong position, mighty strong. I will need most of my division to carry it. This is a fool’s errand, a bloody fool’s errand.”

The aide agreed diplomatically. “It’s quite a hill, sir, and I believe you are correct about the enemy’s strength. What are your orders?”

Silently cursing Jackson, Loring thought about that. It was bad enough that crackbrained fool had gotten him exiled to the west, to thankless tasks, while the great Stonewall Jackson stole all the chances to achieve real glory where real glory was being won. No, it was even worse. Having stolen that glory, Jackson now came west himself, and by all appearances was determined to ruin him still further with persecution and bloody, forlorn assignments like this one.

Loring wrote out a message and said “Send to General Polk. With my compliments. I have arrived at the hill, as ordered by General Jackson, but find it reinforced, and therefore request confirmation of Jackson’s orders to attack.”

Taking the proffered message, the aide spurred his horse and galloped away. Loring returned to his division, and issued orders for the men to fall out where they stood, fill their canteens, and cook rations.

3:30 p.m.

Headquarters, Polk’s Corps, CSA

Redding Ridge

South of Lawrenceburg

Loring’s aide didn’t dawdle, but he didn’t hurry either, and took more than an hour to make his way to Redding Ridge and find Polk’s headquarters, located in a small log cabin at the end of a track off the main road. He found General Polk there, sitting in a camp chair and under a shady tree, reading a newspaper.

Polk, whose feathers were already ruffled by the detachment of Loring, an action taken with neither his counsel nor consent, set his paper aside and read Loring’s message. He instantly recognized Loring’s intention: to thwart Jackson’s orders by dragging things out. Polk found himself nodding with approval over that intent, both out of pique and because he had made up his mind that he could win no glory here, so he had best save his men for another day, a day where accolades could be won.

Loring played an old game, Polk thought, the old game with John C. Pemberton and Braxton Bragg. Oh, but this Jackson is not Bragg. Dear Jeff Davis will spare me the wrath of Jackson, but no one else. I cannot be seen opposing him openly.

Polk went to his improvised desk inside the cabin, and wrote out a message:

May 4, half past 3 o’clock

Headquarters

Andrew Jackson’s Road, Lawrenceburg

William W. Loring, Major General of Infantry, CSA

My dearest general,

I regret to learn of your concerns regarding the hill beyond our left, and of the Federal strength upon it. I cannot offer you the confirmation you request, but I promise to approach the general commanding with your concerns. Continue making your preparations, and instructions will reach you shortly.

Sincerely and respectfully,

Lieutenant General L. Polk

Commander, Army of Mississippi, CSA

Polk gave the message to the waiting aide. “Take this back to General Loring, and give him my blessings, my son.”

He then returned to his shade tree and his newspaper. Twenty minutes later, Polk finally got up, called for his horse, and rode off to where he knew Jackson would be on Redding Ridge, where he was instructing A.P. Stewart as to where to place his corps. Polk handed Loring’s message over as he related its contents to his fellow generals.

Overhearing what Polk said, Sandie and James Power Smith cast knowing glances at each other, like they both had the same thought. Loring, that Scared Turkey, was chirping again.

Jackson was aghast. “What does he mean by this? Even if the enemy is a thousand strong, Loring has them outnumbered almost six to one!”

“From the message,” Polk said soothingly “I can only assume that General Loring’s intention is to prepare for the ordered attack, while inquiring as to whether it should continue under changed circumstances. That is surely within a division commander’s prerogative.”

“That man’s orders were not discretionary,” Jackson snapped. He called for writing materials, and scribbled out a brief note from the saddle, which he gave to Captain Smith.

Jackson ordered “Take that to Loring. He is to attack at once, no more delays, with whatever he has ready. See what is going on over there, and report back to me. Be quick about it.”

Smith tore off, riding hard. After he left, Polk took his leave and returned to his headquarters.

Once they were alone, Stewart, a man with handsome, sharp features and haunting eyes, leaned forward and said quietly “Tom, perhaps you ought to go there yourself. Loring sounds unsteady. If you wish that attack made promptly, you might as need to push it on with your own hands.”

Jackson considered this advice briefly and discarded it, saying nothing. His place was with the larger portion of the army, and that was on Redding Ridge. Loring had his orders and he would obey, as a God-fearing soldier ought to. If he did not, he would reap the whirlwind for it.

Stewart said nothing more, and returned to the business of supervising his deployment. He was not in the practice of arguing with his superiors, nor was it his custom to volunteer in maligning a fellow officer, however justified that maligning might be.

5:15 p.m.

Loring’s Division, Polk’s Corps, CSA

South of Wildcat Ridge

West of Lawrenceburg

Loring was sitting on a fallen tree trunk, surrounded by his staff. When Smith rode up to him, he dismounted from his foaming, mud-spattered horse and delivered his message. Loring’s expression darkened as he read it:

May 4, half past four o’clock

W. W. Loring, Major Gen’l of Infantry, CSA

Your original orders stand, and in the first instance were not open to interpretation. Attack at once.

T. J. Jackson

Gen’l, CSA

Loring pulled out his pocket watch. Quarter past five, he thought. There are only two hours of good daylight left, and it would take almost all of it, if I were I to deploy my entire division...

He ordered his staff “Gentlemen, we have our orders. I will lead General Adams’s brigade forward and place his men myself. You see to Featherston and Scott coming up on Adams’s left. Quarles will form our reserve.”

“General Loring, begging your pardon, sir” Smith said with alarm. “General Jackson’s orders call for you to attack immediately, not to deploy three-quarters of your division first. If you do the latter, you won’t be in action until nightfall, and General Jackson wants you engaged as soon as possible.”

“My written orders say ‘attack at once,’ but nothing about advancing my brigades in a ridiculous, piecemeal style.”

“I was there, sir. The commanding general’s intent...”

Chest puffed out like a strutting turkey, Loring snapped “Captain, I am not in the habit of allowing junior officers to lecture me about the interpretation of my orders!”

Smith suppressed a smirk. “Yessir. My apologies, sir.”

“Wait here. I’ll have a message for you to carry back to Jackson shortly.”

Loring sat down, laid a saddle bag across his lap, and began scribbling his message. He folded it up and handed it to Smith. “Take that back to your general, and be quick about it.”

Smith rode back to Redding Ridge quick as he could, driving his horse to utter exhaustion. Even so, it was 6 o’clock by the time he found Jackson’s headquarters tent, pitched next to A.P. Stewart’s headquarters, behind the Confederate right-center.

Handing Jackson the message, Smith said “General Loring intends to deploy three brigades into line of battle before attacking, sir.”

Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “Captain Smith, do you mean to tell me that Loring had not already deployed his men? He is only about that now?”

Smith nodded. Jackson exploded, his voice filled with hill country twang. “What has that man been doing all afternoon?”

He opened the message and read it, then carefully folded the message back up, went into his tent and put it away. He then strode over to Stewart’s tent, accompanied by Smith and Sandie Pendleton.

After Stewart dismissed his staff, Jackson ordered “Sandie, arrest Loring on charges of disobedience and dereliction. He is to report to Florence to await specification of charges and trial by court martial.”

Jackson’s words shocked Stewart, but Sandie and Smith appeared unmoved, as if they had been expecting it for some time now. Jackson had ordered the arrest of generals in the past, including even A.P. Hill, and for far less. Loring, the old Scared Turkey, had ambled his way right up to the chopping block.

Sandie asked “What if Loring protests?”

Jackson’s mouth curled, and he said spitefully “I want that man off my field. If he refuses his orders, put him in irons.”

Turning to Stewart, Jackson said “General Stewart, I require you to go to Loring’s front. Determine if that hill can be carried successfully before nightfall. If so, order Loring’s replacement...”

“Featherston is the senior brigadier, sir,” Sandie interjected.

“... order General Featherston to make the attack. If not, recall the division. I give you full discretion.”

Now it was Sandie and Smith’s turn to look surprised. Old Jack rarely gave discretionary orders, and never about combat. Yet here he was, sending Stewart out with just that very thing.

Stewart spoke quietly. “Loring’s Division is from Polk’s Corps. General Polk is...”

Jackson cut him off. “General Polk is not here. I need this done as quickly as possible. And...” Jackson paused for a moment “... I know your judgment is sound. About your business, all of you.”

As the trio left the tent, Smith asked Sandie with a grin “Would you care for some company?”

“No, he would not!” Stewart snapped. Mounting his horse, he glared at the youthful pair of staff officers, both more than twenty years his junior. “This is not some theatrical for your amusement, Captain Smith, and you would do well to remember that.”