Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) (10 page)

“General Jackson, sir,” Hood grinned. “Congratulations on your promotion! No man in our Confederacy deserves the honor more.”

Jackson nodded and replied tersely “Yes, yes, thank you. Sam, we won’t have long here before we are disturbed, so I must be brief. How are you coming along? Do you believe you will recover and return to duty?”

Hood’s voice took on a more serious tone. “Yessir, I will. Don’t mind this litter, sir. You know how it is. I am healing. Nature is taking her sweet time, but I am healing. The boys from my old Texas Brigade bought me a cork leg, and as soon as my stump quits being so tender, I’ll be up and around.”

“Good, good” replied Jackson. “I’ve had words with the President. As soon as you are mended, you are to be made Lieutenant General and posted to Georgia, serving under me and leading an army corps.”

“General Jackson,” Hood replied enthusiastically, “if you will permit me, that would be the crowning honor of my service in this war.” He also thought the promotion might help his suit with the fickle Sally Preston, as it would make him the youngest of the Confederacy’s top generals. Truly a man with prospects, fame, and a bright future.

Jackson nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hood’s orderlies approach, bearing Hood’s litter. “Now Sam, later I shall need to call on you. You have some experience with the western army, and I should very much like to hear what you have to say about it.”

Hood agreed, and then asked “General Jackson, do you remember a couple of years ago, when you asked me if I thought I’d survive the war?”

Jackson took on a grim countenance. “You said you expected to be badly shattered.”

“And you said you would die before then. Well, it looks like we were only two-thirds right, wouldn’t you say?” Hood said, dark, bitter humor in his voice, just before seeing a group of well-wishers coming up behind Jackson.

“No,” Jackson replied flatly, as the man at the front of the group came up and asked to shake his hand. Ignoring him, Jackson met Hood’s eyes, and said “This war is not yet finished with us.”

Jackson said his goodbyes to Hood, and drew the group of gawking well-wishers to the front of the church with him for just a few minutes of idle chatter. He loathed it, but doing so gave the broken Hood some privacy for the unpleasant business of being placed onto his litter.

Finally free to go outside, Jackson joined his family to see off the newlyweds. As he watched the Pendletons depart by carriage for the train to their honeymoon with Sandie’s family in Lexington, Virginia, he was gladdened the War Department had forced him to stay in Richmond for consultations until the day after Christmas, to have this precious time with his wife and daughter. For whatever time he had, he felt grateful, despite also feeling it was not nearly enough.

February 13, 1864

Dawn

Sherman’s Quarters, Army of the Tennessee, USA

Decatur Crossroads, Mississippi

Sherman awoke, blinking his eyes, pressing sleep from of his mind. That was shooting, he thought. Pistol shots.

By the time Sherman had his trousers on, he heard the telltale thump of a shotgun, fired from some distance away. Now he knew. Not a single man in a blue uniform on this side of the Mississippi carried a shotgun. Whatever was going on out there, it meant Rebels, most likely cavalry.

Sherman was pulling on his shoes by the time one of his aides burst into the bedroom of the rough-hewn, two-room cabin where he had spent the night. The aide, a fresh-faced young major, paused at the sight of William Tecumseh Sherman, almost fully dressed.

Sherman asked calmly “Report, Major Audenried? What the devil is going on out there?”

Saluting, Audenried said “Sir, Confederate cavalry are attacking a column of wagons at the crossroads. That train has an escort and is putting up a fight, trying to get the hell out of here, quick as they can.”

Sherman ran his fingers through his red hair, stood up, and reached for his pistol belt. “What is the enemy strength? And what are the troops I had posted to guard that crossroads doing?”

“I believe the enemy strength is one regiment of cavalry, sir. It’s quite a scrap out there, and I cannot make a precise count, but I have seen only the one stand of Confederate colors. I’m certain of that. As for the infantry you placed on guard, they seem to have gone, sir.”

Sherman looked the major straight in the eye. “Gone? What on Earth do you mean, gone?”

The major nodded. “Just that, sir. They must have left during the night. I don’t know why. I must say, General, we’re in a top rail fix here.”

“Let’s go have a look, then,” Sherman said, brushing past the man.

He spared a moment to thank the cabin’s owner, Mrs. Elder, a middle-aged war widow who at that moment was seeking shelter in the nook formed by the cabin’s thick log walls and stone chimney. Sherman then stepped outside.

Yes, the major’s report seemed accurate enough, Sherman thought. Reb cavalry playing merry hell with a column of wagons on the road, about 200 yards away. The men detailed to guard the crossroads nowhere to be seen. The Rebs hadn’t noticed the wagons by the cabin yet, but when they did, all that was on hand were a scant handful of aides, cooks, orderlies and teamsters.

His eyes still fixed on the fight taking place on the road, Sherman ordered “Major Audenried, take my horse. It’s the fastest we have here by a wide margin. Take it and ride east until you find some support. That absent infantry regiment can’t have gone far, and are probably on their way back right now, what with all the shooting. Go find them and get them back here, quick as you can.”

Audenried snapped off a “Yessir” and a salute, and sprinted for Sherman’s horse. Sherman called out to every man wearing a blue uniform around the cabin, ordered them to arm themselves and join him in the stout log corn crib that lay on a low rise a few dozen yards behind the cabin.

He continued to study the fight on the road for a minute, then walked to the corn crib at a measured pace. The troops assigned to guard those wagons were a damn sight better led than the regiment I put on the crossroads, he thought. They were fighting back hard, keeping the wagons moving, not making it easy for the raiders. Those infernal bandits had captured only just a few wagons thus far.

“Bully!” Sherman exclaimed. Then he turned his attention to the men in the corn crib. A couple of junior staff officers were the closest he had to real fighting men. A cook. A groom. A couple of teamsters. One of the latter had already pissed himself. Every man was armed, but this amounted only to revolvers and a pair of musketoons.

They needed bucking up, Sherman thought. “Don’t worry, boys,” he told them. “The wagon guards are putting up a capital fight. Those Reb dogs have their hands so full, I’ll give odds on a month’s wages they never come up here for a look.” Sherman smacked the log walls. “And if they do, this corn crib is as stout as a blockhouse.”

“Don’t you worry, General Billy, sir,” said the cook, priming his musketoon with some difficulty. “If them fellas come up here, all they’ll get is a face full a lead for their troubles.”

Sherman noted the cook was missing a couple of fingers off his right hand. That figures, he thought. A lot of fellows like him are maimed veterans, men who can’t march or load a musket properly, but can perform other duties well enough.

“Where are you from?” Sherman asked.

The cook replied “Iowa, sir.”

“An Iowa man is worth any three of these Mississippi bastards, up to and including old Jeff Davis,” Sherman said back.

The Iowan grinned “I reckon I might be worth only two nowadays, General Billy.”

Grinning, Sherman went back to watching the road. He thoroughly enjoyed in the informality of his western troops. They could never pass inspection in the paper collar, prim and proper east, something Sherman knew all too well from his experiences there early in the war. Even the eastern Rebs were often better turned out for a parade than his westerners, but his men could out-march and out-fight any outfit on Earth. As far as Sherman was concerned, you could take that fact to the bank and trade it on for gold.

Several minutes passed. A troop of Rebels rode off the road and into the fields separating the Willoughby farm from the crossroads and studied the wagons parked around it for a time. Then the firing from down the road picked up very rapidly. Within minutes, the grey cavalry absconded, along with a handful of wagons, trotting through the crossroads and off to the north. Skirmishers in blue were soon fanning out across the fields.

Sherman stepped out of the corn crib first. Turning to his aides, he said “Alright, gentlemen. Back to business. Get things organized. We push on to Meridian today.”

February 13

Late afternoon

Headquarters, Army of Mississippi, CSA

Demopolis, Alabama

Leonidas Polk stepped up onto the rail platform, straightened out his pristine uniform coat, clasped his hands behind his back, and waited for the train rumbling its way up the line to come to a stop. An honor guard, splendidly turned out with bayonets glistening in the winter sun, and bearing the battle flags of the Army of Mississippi, fell into line behind him. Just off the platform, a band began playing “God Save the South.”

Polk looked serene as he waited, assuming a pose that was the product of almost 40 years as a man of the cloth. He was 57, portly, and sported a beard meant to cover a double chin and make himself look more like a soldier and less like a priest. The ploy was only half-successful.

Polk had been to West Point a very long time ago, but had left the army shortly after graduation to pursue what he thought would be an easier route to power and influence, and that route led through the Episcopal clergy. He had been right, because whereas by the early 1840s Polk had risen to the Bishopric of Louisiana and considerable wealth as a planter, many of his fellow cadets were still lowly lieutenants. Appointed a general by his old comrade, Jefferson Davis, Polk had served extensively in the West, and was now the commander of the Department of Alabama and Mississippi, a semi-independent post under Stonewall Jackson.

The train slowed, practically crawling up to the station, and then screeched and rattled to a halt, showing every sign of three years of wartime neglect. After a short wait, Major General Benjamin F. Cheatham stepped off the train.

“Frank!” Polk cried, stepping forward to shake hands with the burly Tennessean.

Grinning, Cheatham took Polk’s hand, gave it a firm shake, slapped him on the shoulder, and rejoined “Bishop. Good to see you again.”

Like Polk, Frank Cheatham came from one of Tennessee’s foremost families. He was a planter and horse breeder, had dabbled in politics, and he had the puffy features, pot belly and worn eyes of a hard drinker in middle age. A volunteer officer in the Mexican War, Cheatham ended it as a full colonel. The two men had served together since the earliest days of the current war.

Drawing back, Polk said “Frank, words simply cannot describe how happy I am to see you. And relieved, sir, relieved. With your mighty division of Tennesseans here, we shall smite Sherman and his heathens so terribly, they shall scurry all the way back to Vicksburg and never dare venture out again!”

The platform was starting to crowd with detraining soldiers. Polk dismissed the honor guard, and the two men went into the railway office for some privacy, sat down on plain wooden chairs, and talked.

Cheatham started. “Bishop, Stonewall hurried my boys onto the trains and sent us here before I’d heard even the first rumor that Sherman had left Vicksburg, and that’s all I’ve heard ever since. Rumors. Everything from a little cavalry raid to Sherman leading 60,000 veterans right across Mississippi and Alabama, out to take Atlanta from the rear!”

You did indeed get here quickly, Polk thought. He had not even had a chance to submit a request for reinforcements to Jackson before he received word that reinforcements were already on the way. Part of the reason why was that Polk took his time in composing not one, but two requests, one for Jackson and one for Jefferson Davis, the latter to be sent out of channels. Polk had guessed wrongly that Jackson would be just like Bragg or Joe Johnston, and refuse to send him anything.

Of course, just one division wasn’t enough, not for Polk, who thought he needed at least three. But he was pleasantly surprised by Cheatham’s prompt dispatch nonetheless.

Polk said soothingly “Sherman has a strong host, but not that strong. He is advancing in two columns, each with one army corps, under McPherson and Hurlbut. The reports lead me to the conclusion he has about 25 to 30,000 infantry. That is still more than I have.”

“What do you have?” Cheatham asked.

“The divisions of Loring and French. Plus cavalry,” Polk replied.

Doing the math in his head, Cheatham nodded. He had brought more than 6,000 battle-hardened Tennesseans with him. Polk probably had over 10,000 infantry of his own, give or take. Almost as much horse, all told, but that was spread all around the region.

Cheatham fished out his pipe from inside his coat. Pushing tobacco into the bowl, he asked “What do you intend?”

“Sherman will turn south soon, and press for Mobile. My spies in Vicksburg tell me as much, their navy is prowling around Mobile’s waters, like the wolves that they are, and the Yankee newspapers report Mobile as his objective too. His corps were at Decatur and Newton this morning. When he turns south, and he must turn south soon, we will follow him, and smite at his rear.” Polk smacked a clenched fist into the palm of his hand for emphasis.

“Yep, I see,” Cheatham agreed. They might get a chance to hit one of the two Yankee corps, attack only part of their army, and whip them, just like they did at Perryville.

Polk pulled on his beard thoughtfully. “If I may be so bold, Frank, but pray tell, do you have an opinion of your new commanding general?”

“Old Jack?” Cheatham chortled, then continued matter-of-factly, “I do believe, Bishop, he is your commanding general too.”