Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) (11 page)

Polk smiled blandly, but said nothing.

The question caused Cheatham to recall his first real encounter with Jackson. Old Jack had ordered the army to hold big winter training marches, something that caused quite a lot of grumbling. On his first such march, Cheatham’s guide had failed him, the division got lost, and then they stumbled into a wagon train. He was sorting the mess out when Jackson appeared, and then proceeded to upbraid him in public.

Cheatham managed to hold his temper in check, but he had suffered enough abuse under Braxton Bragg already, so he icily told Jackson that his resignation would be on his desk the next morning. He had finished the march and retired to his quarters to pen his resignation letter, when he was interrupted by two of his fellow generals, Patrick Cleburne and A.P. Stewart, together with Jackson’s chief of staff, Sandie Pendleton.

They prevailed upon him to reconsider, go to Jackson, and patch things up now that tempers had cooled. Cheatham thought it was a waste of time, but went anyway, and was surprised to find Jackson amenable.

After reflecting so, Cheatham said “Well, he is a bigger bastard than even Bragg, if you can believe that. Trains the men, drives them. Officers. Harder than ever before. Works his generals like dogs too. We drill and march every day. Every day excepting Sunday, Bishop. Jackson is very religious. No work on the Sabbath, and always encouraging the men to attend services.”

Polk brightened at that, but Cheatham didn’t notice. Puffing on his pipe, he went on. “He dressed down a few brigadiers in public over the state of their latrines. Shoots deserters too. Even caught a colonel drunk on duty on Rocky Face Ridge, our defensive line north of Dalton. Cashiered the man, even though there weren’t no fighting going on at the time. I suppose it was his own damn fault, poor sumbitch, but still seems a might bit harsh in this old fellow’s eyes.”

Polk sighed. Drinking was the curse of their army, a curse that extended to Old Frank himself. “That is sad to hear. Very discouraging. I had such fine hopes for the man.”

“Well, it ain’t all bad. I’ll say this much for Stonewall Jackson. He is a stone bastard, but he gets his way. Let me tell you a story. Old Jack sent his chief of staff and his commissary man, Pendleton and Hawks, down to Atlanta. The first thing they found was that the War Department’s commissary office in Atlanta was selling meat meant both for our army and Lee’s army out the back door, if you catch my meaning, and making a pretty little fortune. Well, Jackson arrested the scoundrels, Davis sacked them, Jackson’s people tightened a few other things up, and we started getting more and better food up in Dalton. Word has it some friends of Governor Joe Brown were involved, but nothing ever came of that.”

Cheatham started laughing. “Old Jack also found and requisitioned a few thousand pairs of shoes away from one of Brown’s militia warehouses while he was at it.”

“Brown must have had conniption” Polk said, surprised. Brown was a populist, and as fierce a States Righter as they came, constantly at odds with Richmond. He ran Georgia as if it were his own little republic.

Shrugging, Cheatham continued “He was very upset. Jackson made an enemy of Brown, not that I think he cared. But the Atlanta papers made merry hell over the commissary scandal, so old Brown had to sweep the whole thing under the rug.”

Polk changed the subject, telling Cheatham where he wanted his men to camp, and Cheatham stepped outside to pass the orders along to his staff. The two men then chatted for a while longer, but Polk, having what he wanted, turned his thoughts elsewhere. He looked past the conversation, past even dealing with Sherman, and onto what he hoped defeating Sherman might bring. Polk began to muse on succeeding Jefferson Davis, on becoming the Confederacy’s second President.

Before the war, Polk had been satisfied with his place as a wealthy landowner and prominent clergymen, enjoying his wide influence, lording it over his slaves and preaching down to the flock. Yet becoming a general gave him an appetite for more. He had become accustomed to autocratic command, to real power, and now he wanted more of it. He had made the transition from bishop to general, so why not from general to president?

Already an influential and popular figure in the region, Polk had formed close, valuable connections during the war, connections with men just like Frank Cheatham. More to the point, he was a highly placed crony of Jefferson Davis, something that would matter when Davis’s supporters began casting about for a successor. They would need a successor too, because without one they could never retain office, and the choice of the Davis party would be the man who would surely win. Not only would Davis’s stature become unassailable after the war was won, but Davis’s enemies were a fractious lot, united only in opposition and a mutual fondness for squabbling. None of those men would put his ambitions on hold for the sake of one of the others. They would quarrel and fall out amongst themselves, because quarreling was all most of them were good for in the first place.

Who else was more suitable than Polk? From what he understood, Lee had no interest in politics. Bragg was a cretin, as unelectable as he was inept at leading an army. Judah was a Jew. As far as Polk could see, he would be the only real choice, which meant the highest office in the land was his for the taking in 1867.

Only one thing was missing. As illustrious as Polk thought his war record was most of it had been spent in the background, saving the country from the failures of Braxton Bragg. Polk had never won a victory to call his own, but he felt that if he could win one, however small, it would cement his reputation. Do that, and the presidency would surely be his.

Polk dreamed big. Building a permanent presidential mansion in Richmond; lavish state dinners; fashioning a political dynasty like Jefferson’s or Andrew Jackson’s; perhaps even a little war all his own, such as seizing Cuba from Spain. If I can spank Sherman’s bottom, Polk thought, the rest will fall into my lap like a ripe apple.

February 15

Midday

Sherman’s Headquarters in the Field, Army of the Tennessee, USA

Meridian, Mississippi

When Sherman rode into Meridian at about 3:30 on the afternoon of the 14th, he soon discovered that he had arrived too late. While many warehouses were still stuffed to the rafters with foodstuffs, arms, and ammunition, the repair shops, the arsenal, and the hospital had been emptied of their precious machinery, tools, and equipments. For the Confederacy, such things were precious, almost irreplaceable, and according to the boasting local citizens, the guts of the Confederate war industry in Meridian had been put on trains and shipped away. The last of it slipped out mere minutes before the head of Sherman’s column marched into town.

It was a blow to Sherman’s plans, but not a severe one. Meridian was a railroad junction town, and Sherman’s most important task was to smash that junction. That done, the Rebels would find it much harder to organize and supply any large scale foray to the Mississippi River, which in turn meant Sherman could reduce the size of his garrisons and send the freed-up troops to East Tennessee, where they would be needed for the spring campaign against Stonewall Jackson. To destroy Meridian’s machinery and supplies would have been even better, but that was secondary to tearing up the railroads.

Well, the townspeople aren’t gloating now, Sherman thought. His troops were busy pulling up the railroad’s tracks and ties, stacking and lighting the ties into bonfires, and using those fires to soften and bend the rails. They were also scouring the countryside and returning with herds of beeves, fat hams, sides of smoked bacon, baskets of sweet potatoes, sacks of corn meal and everything else the bounty of the Mississippi prairie could yield.

Sherman was satisfied that his main objective would be achieved, but the lost opportunity still rankled him. He paced back and forth on a now bare railroad embankment outside of town, shrouded in a haze of tobacco and bonfire smoke. Turning back towards Meridian again, he saw General McPherson ride up.

“Bill,” McPherson said, saluting. He was a fit man in his middle 30s, with well-fed features and bright, lively eyes, and cut quite a figure in the saddle.

Leaning over his horse, McPherson extended his hand for a shake. “Your people told me I would find you out here. Is it wise, sir? To be out here alone? I know there are plenty of the men about, but this is still hostile country.”

Sherman shook hands, and then took the cigar from his mouth. “Mac, I have a close call each and every campaign, and that scrape yesterday fills my quota for this one.”

“If you say so,” McPherson replied. “The scouts report all’s quiet to the east. From what I can gather, word is Bishop Polk thinks we might turn south and march on Mobile.”

Sherman nodded, replying “That’s what the newspapers say we are about.” He put the cigar back in his mouth and took several short, sharp pulls on it, billowing smoke. In Sherman’s mind, newspaper men were little better than traitors and spies, so it was only fitting to use them to dispense false and misleading information.

Cigar still clenched in his teeth, Sherman asked “But knowing the Bishop, he’s holed up in Demopolis, scared, and not sure what to do, despite Stonewall sending him Cheatham’s Division. What about from the north?”

McPherson said “No word from General Smith.”

That set Sherman back to pacing. When Sherman and McPherson set out from Vicksburg, General William Sooy Smith should have left Memphis at the head of more than 7,000 cavalry. It was one of several supporting movements Sherman had intended, meant to keep Bishop Polk from guessing what he was up to.

Unlike all the other diversions, however, Smith had been meant to meet him in Meridian. If Smith had gotten to Meridian on time, he would have caught at least the tail of the Rebel evacuation. Worse, without Smith it was too dangerous to press on and smash Polk’s headquarters at Demopolis.

Sherman turned back to McPherson and shouted “Dammit! Where the hell is Smith and what has he done with my cavalry?”

McPherson looked away for a moment, then looked back at Sherman and said “I think we know what happened, Bill, and I can explain it with just three words: Nathan Bedford Forrest.”

February 27

Late morning

Cheatham’s Division, CSA

Meridian

Frank Cheatham rode into Meridian ahead of his column, followed by only a modest escort and a few of his staff. He was unconcerned about his personal safety, as he knew the Yankees had pulled out of Meridian a week ago.

He had a good idea what to expect, for the devastation began many miles east of town. The railroad ties were now heaping piles of ash, with rails stacked haphazardly on top, each one warped into a shallow V-shape. Every bridge and trestle lay demolished.

Even so, actually seeing what was left of the Mississippi rail town filled him with rage. He could see every single building in Meridian that was not a private home had been razed to the ground.

Cheatham took his hat off and ran his fingers through his hair. More than a week ago, he and General French had said Sherman was clearly not going to Mobile, that Polk’s Army of Mississippi should march out and at least use the cavalry to put pressure on Sherman. Bishop Polk and that fool Loring insisted Sherman might still go to Mobile, and if he didn’t, Sherman would march on Demopolis next, so the best thing was to sit tight and receive the Yankees on ground of their own choosing.

The result, Cheatham thought, was that Sherman had camped in Meridian for five days, five full days, all the while freely ravaging the countryside, tearing up the railroad for miles in all directions, and thumbing his nose at them while they sat on their fat old asses back in Demopolis. Polk finally marched for Meridian only after Sherman had absconded, and then they went forward so slowly that Sherman was probably all the way to Vicksburg by now.

A haggard-looking old woman shuffled up to Cheatham. “General, have you any food? The Yankees stripped us bare, left us with not a crumb, the vandals. Nothing!”

Cheatham noted her good clothes and realized this woman came from some substance. A proud woman, one who hasn’t eaten in days. He told an aide to rustle up a few pounds of cornmeal and some bacon for the lady.

Cheatham nudged his horse forward and continued to survey what was left of the little Southern town. He saw the smoldering remains of warehouses and workshops. Even the post office was a charred ruin. A couple of houses were gone as well, probably burnt by spreading fires rather than by design.

Disgusted, Cheatham took a hefty pull from his whiskey flask, drowning the bitter taste in his mouth. The Yankees who did all of this were getting clean away, he thought, and there was no explaining it except that old Bishop Polk had just plain lost his nerve.

March 2

Early evening

Headquarters, Army of the Gulf, USA

New Orleans, Louisiana

Sherman stood on the deck of the steamer
Diana
, arms folded across his chest and wreathed in smoke, tapping his foot against the wooden planking so rapidly and loudly that it half-drowned out the churning of the paddlewheel. When the boat settled in alongside the jetty, he vaulted over the railing even before the boat could be lashed to the cleats. He strode off, leaving his aides scurrying behind him, and soon found the carriage that had been left waiting for his arrival.

Cigar still clenched in his teeth, Sherman snapped at his followers “Come on, come on. Let’s get on with it. Can’t keep General Banks waiting.” All of them hadn’t even sat down in the carriage when Sherman ordered the driver forward.

The carriage stopped in front of a fine house in the city, one of the few flying the Stars and Stripes from the front portico. Sherman dismounted, threw away his cigar butt, strode up to the open door and presented himself to a waiting orderly, who showed him to the parlor. A few minutes later, Nathaniel Banks walked in.

Sherman drew himself to attention and saluted. Although both men were major generals of volunteers, Banks held almost a full year of seniority over him at that rank. Technically, Banks was senior even to Grant, although not for long, since rumor had it Lincoln soon intended to reward Grant with a promotion to the revived rank of lieutenant general.