Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) (23 page)

They left for the circuitous ride out to Wildcat Ridge. The sky was darkening as they neared Loring’s front, and Stewart had already decided that the attack would probably need to be called off.

Sandie presented himself to Loring, saluted, and said flatly “General Loring, you are under arrest. You are to report to Florence immediately, and there await formal specification of charges.”

“What? The blizzards you say?” Loring sputtered. Adopting a military pose, he sneered back at Sandie “General Jackson does not have the authority to relieve a general of division, Colonel Pendleton. But if either you or he were professional soldiers, you would know that.”

Stewart quietly asked one of Loring’s stunned aides where Featherston might be found. Finding the scene unpleasant, he went off on his own to collect the division’s new acting commander and inspect Federal position.

Sandie smiled mockingly. “I may not have your eighteen years of military service to my credit, sir, but I understand plain English well enough. You are not relieved. You are arrested. If you wish to add to the charges at your court martial by refusing to leave this field, I must tell you now I have the authority to have you put in restraints and carried off. General Jackson’s orders. Sir.”

Loring paled. His lips trembled with a mixture of fear and rage. A long, quiet moment passed. Then Loring turned, walked away, and mounted his horse.

Looking down at Sandie, Loring said icily “Colonel, I shall send a formal demand for the specification of charges in the morning. And the War Department shall hear of this outrage!”

Sandie said nothing, but felt relieved. He had intended more diplomacy, lost his temper, and regretted his words as soon as he uttered them. While Sandie didn’t think Scared Turkey had the moral courage or the wits to force upon Old Jack the outrageous blunder of clapping a Confederate major general in irons, like some uppity negro, he wasn’t absolutely certain. You never could tell what a vain, angry bird like Loring might do.

Yet Jackson never joked about such things. Sandie knew he had meant every word, and had Loring gone to confront him or refused to leave the field, he would have trussed Loring up and locked him away.

8 p.m.

Headquarters, Army of the Tennessee, USA

Oak Ridge

South of Lawrenceburg

McPherson had taken a tavern between Lawrenceburg and Oak Ridge as his headquarters, just off the Military Road and overlooking White Oak Hollow. The tavern was a two-room affair, built as a pair of log cabins with a corridor between them, and then sheathed in clapboard, so it was more rustic than its outward appearance might have suggested.

Exhausted, McPherson sagged in his rocking chair. He had spent most of the day in the saddle, personally inspecting every aspect of the Army of the Tennessee’s deployment. He trusted most of his officers, but knew even the best men made mistakes or misunderstood their orders, and just as he knew things had a way of going askew if given half a chance.

Dodge and Logan were both there, along with most of the Army of the Tennessee’s division commanders. From the XVI Corps came tall, skinny James Veatch, a Hoosier lawyer turned solid soldier, as well as Thomas Sweeney, a salty old regular, and widely regarded as the fieriest, most combative, and hardest swearing Irishman in an army that had a hefty share of such characters.

Logan had brought three of his division commanders with him: William Harrow, a Lincoln crony and hard drinker; professional and reliable Morgan Smith; and Peter Osterhaus, a German émigré and product of the Prussian officer corps. The XV Corps’ remaining division, under John Smith, was far to the rear, having started its march from Decatur and the south bank of the Tennessee River, and not expected to arrive until well after midnight.

McPherson listened as each division commander gave a report on his position and status. Veatch, Sweeney, Harrow and Smith were posted on Oak Ridge, a line of 10 brigades covering a frontage of just under three miles. Veatch was tied into Shoal Creek, and deployed on the thickly forested, hilly and broken ground on the right. Sweeney was next, astride the Military Road. Harrow and Smith followed, facing thinly wooded bottom country and extending down to where the ridge met the plains.

Yates’s Sharpshooters had since returned from Wildcat Ridge, replaced by a brigade from Harrow’s Division and 12 guns, including the army’s sole battery of 20-pounder Parrot rifled cannon. Osterhaus’s troops were hidden in White Oak Hollow, shrouded by the thick woods and the surrounding hills. Minty’s cavalry was now on the extreme left, covering the Pulaski Road. The army’s wagon train, only recently arrived, was parked in the town.

After Osterhaus finished, McPherson stood up. “Gentlemen, today while we’ve been busy entrenching, the enemy advanced pickets to within 200 yards of our line. I have two orders for the morning. Sweeney, Veatch, Harrow and Smith are to throw out a skirmish line just before dawn, drive the enemy pickets, take prisoners for questioning, and provide protection for my second order. That is to send out work details, fell trees and construct abatis.”

“What about John Smith’s division?” Logan asked.

“I want them to bivouac in Lawrenceburg. From there, they can guard the trains, quickly reinforce either Wildcat Ridge or Minty on the Pulaski Road, and if need be, they aren’t two miles from the front line.”

“And the left, sir?” Logan continued. “They’ve got a hell of an artillery platform in Haynie Hill. If they try to get around my flank...”

“They can’t approach you unobserved,” McPherson said. “If they try to turn your flank, there will be plenty of time, and you have Osterhaus close by.”

Some smaller details were discussed, and the meeting broke up. As they walked back to their horses, Dodge had a word with his commanders.

“Sweeney, you’ve got the Western Sharpshooters. Veatch, you have Yates’s Sharpshooters. Both those regiments are armed with Henry rifles. When you push out your skirmishers, I want them front and center. Those repeaters are hungry, so give each man a double issue of ammunition. Burn those Rebs back. Drown them with lead.”

10 p.m.

Hood’s Corps, Army of Tennessee, CSA

North of the Military Road and Loretto Road Junction

Six Miles South of Redding Ridge

Hood rode into his headquarters camp with the relief of a sick man finally at the end of a wearisome day. He returned the greetings of Cheatham and Cleburne, both sitting on a fallen tree trunk and waiting for him, and then rode around to the other side of his tent to endure the day’s last ordeal.

Sagging in the saddle, Hood waited for his orderlies to loosen the straps that held him in place. They then gently pushed his cork leg over the saddle, and gingerly lowered him to the ground. While one man helped him stand, another brought his crutches. Hood shooed the orderlies back, and straightened out his uniform coat with his one good hand. Making an effort to put some spring into his step, he loped forward on his crutches.

Hood found his camp chair already set out. “Evening gentlemen” he said, carefully positioning himself and settling down. “I trust you did not wait for me before pitching in.”

Cleburne chuckled. “Sam, I had to hold Frank here back from eating the last of your bean soup and cornbread.”

Cheatham shrugged. “Ain’t my fault I was born with God-given, red-blooded, healthy appetites.” He stepped up and proffered a small bottle. “Sam, before your supper, would you care for some? It’s the last of my family’s own special spirits. Brought it out for this grand occasion, of being back here in Tennessee.”

Hood extended his tin cup. “Mighty thankful, Frank.” He then waved away the offer of food, too tired and sore to eat.

“What did Old Jack have to say?” Cleburne asked. Even the corps’ lowest drummer boy knew the Yankees were waiting for them in Lawrenceburg, and the camps burned with talk about what the next day held for them all.

Hood grunted. He resented having to ride all the way to army headquarters to receive humdrum orders that could have easily been sent by courier. If he wasn’t shattered before making the twelve-mile round-trip, he certainly was now.

“Reveille at the usual time, make sure the men fill their canteens, get a good breakfast and 60 rounds of ammunition, and march them up to the front at the regulation pace. The usual thing about driving stragglers like cattle.”

Cheatham smirked. “Serving in this army makes a man into an old woman, reading tea leaves all God damned day.” He paused for a time, then continued. “You know about Loring, I reckon?”

Hood replied “Ever hear of Richard Brooke Garnett? No? Well, Garnett had the Stonewall Brigade after Jackson, and one day found himself outnumbered, out of ammunition, and attacked on three sides. He retreated, and if I can say so, did a damn fine job of it to get out of a fix like that. But he did it without orders, and Old Jack didn’t care for it, not one little bit. He charged Garnett with dereliction, accused him of cowardice. A court martial was started, but never finished. Garnett died at Gettysburg.”

No one spoke for a while after that. Hood finally said “It was much worse for Garnett, because he had the Stonewall Brigade, you see. Old Jack used to be very touchy about his old brigade.”

Cheatham said nothing. He had sized up Stonewall Jackson as one tough, mean bastard early on, and was determined not to cross him if it could be helped. If Loring couldn’t see that, he was a plain fool, and would eventually reap a fool’s reward. Jeff Davis might save Loring yet, Cheatham thought, but only by sending him to the Trans-Mississippi, to exile in Kirby Smithdom. Or bringing him to Richmond and putting him behind a desk, like Davis had done with Bragg.

Deciding to change the subject, Cheatham asked “What do you think’s waiting for us, up Old Hickory’s road?”

Hood flinched from a spasm in his back. Shifting in his chair, he said “I know exactly who is waiting for us up tomorrow. Mac’s waiting for us.”

Seeing that confused them, Hood continued. “McPherson. I went to West Point with him. He graduated first in our class. I know that might not mean much for you two, but Mac was as much a protégé of Robert E. Lee as I was. More even.”

“So he’s one to be wary of?” Cleburne asked.

Hood stared into the fire, sad eyes growing sadder. “Hands down, money on the barrel, James Birdseye McPherson is the best man in their army. He won’t run, he won’t make mistakes, and he will make things very hard on us tomorrow.”

May 5

Shortly after midnight

Headquarters, Army of Tennessee, CSA

Redding Ridge

“I failed in my duty after Romney,” Jackson said quietly. “That much is perfectly clear now. Loring was insubordinate three years ago, and has been insubordinate ever since. I should have pressed the case against that man more forcefully then, made sure he was cashiered. Instead, I took the easier path. I allowed the War Department to sweep the ugly thing under the rug. They sent Loring here. We had a chance to win easily here today, Loring’s sins ruined it, and at the bottom it’s all because I relaxed in my duty, and let him off the hook.”

Stewart replied “I doubt you will get your court martial, you know. Some generals have done as bad or worse, and nothing ever came of it. Sometimes Richmond prefers to shove them farther from sight, instead of getting rid of them. So, they go to some less important, less visible place. Maybe they do better, maybe they do more harm. Gideon Pillow comes to mind, in that respect. He’s now a conscription officer, I’m told. Loring has friends in Florida, and I think cashiering him might be an expense Richmond wants to avoid.”

Jackson soured. His western Virginia twang crept into his speech. “I won’t let them. Not this time. He must be punished, and the failure to punish corrected. We cannot have a dutiful, disciplined army if we do not have dutiful, disciplined officers.”

Stewart nodded, but said nothing.

“This business with Loring is, in miniature, the story of our country in this war. It is as I told you before. When I think on this war, with its half-victories, its quarrelsome generals, squabbling and ineffectual politicians, the cost in blood and treasure, and all of its lost opportunities... I cannot help but think God’s purpose is to correct our ways. That we will win and have our own country, but only after we have become a better people, only after we earn it.”

“And I’ve told you before, Tom. Providence wills all momentous events, but I would be careful about thinking the will of the Divine can be so discerned. We cannot look back upon even the events of antiquity and read His will with any certainty.”

Jackson shrugged. “Yes, yes. But Providence has a purpose. There is no harm in wondering at it, I suppose, only in presuming upon it. A man must endeavor to always be humble before God.”

Stewart smiled. They had discussed theology many times before, and he imaged Jackson was much like the Crusader of old. The more costly the task, the more it called for devotion.

Jackson stood up. “Well, Pete, I don’t want to keep you any longer.”

Stewart rose. “Do you have any orders for tomorrow?”

“No, no. Expect written battle orders shortly, but not yet.”

Stewart saluted and left. Jackson took to his knees and prayed for a time. Then he sat down and thought things over. He didn’t bother with his map. Every detail was already fixed in his mind, as he had studied every square yard of ground through the day.

I have 46,000 of all arms, Jackson thought, while the enemy cannot have above 35,000. If he is still there tomorrow, it’s because McPherson does not yet know he is outnumbered. My obfuscation won’t last long, perhaps not past tomorrow morning. I must strike him now, despite this mediocre ground, while I still have the advantage, else he falls back to Huntsville or Nashville. I cannot allow the enemy to gain the safety of their fortresses. If that happens, all will be for naught. If my strategy is to bear any fruit, I must strike McPherson here and now.

Jackson’s conclusion was to attack, but to attack where, and in what manner? A wide flanking movement, out between Lawrenceburg and Pulaski, would take too long. A shorter movement to flank and assail the enemy’s left would surely be observed, would reveal the size of his army, and could be easily countered. Worse, success would only push the enemy back on Lawrenceburg and the Military Road, leaving open their line of retreat. Finally, the enemy would surely expect an attack of some kind on their left. General Polk had been urging just such a maneuver all day.