Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) (13 page)

Cheers and hoots erupted from the rest of the company. The Grimes boys glumly replied “Yessir.”

“That isn’t all. Tomorrow you boys are making up for the firewood you didn’t cut yesterday, same drill. You meet your quota, even if you go hungry. And one other thing. You shirk this, and I am to buck and gag you. That comes straight from the Colonel. Dismissed.”

The boys limped back to their places at the fire. Hope you fellas eat hardy this morning, Fletcher thought. You’ll surely need it.

Fletcher made his way back to the officer’s mess, musing on how he sometimes he wished he had never recruited the Grimes boys in the first place. They were almost more trouble than they were worth. Almost.

Robert Littleberry Fletcher, Jr. was a Marshall County man, his grandfather one of the county’s first settlers. His father had been one of the men to lead the push for a new county, and when the Marshall County was carved out of the surrounding counties in 1836, it was the old man’s proudest achievement.

Fletcher, Sr.’s other great ambition had been for his son to make his way in state politics, establish the Fletchers a proper, leading family in that corner of Tennessee. Fletcher, Jr. had trained as a lawyer, was good at it, and had made a fine practice which supplemented the earnings from the family land holdings and mill. Yet he had never gotten much traction in running for local office or the state legislature. Even so, Old Man Fletcher and his son were popular men in the region, so when the war came, Fletcher, Jr. was able to raise his own company of Marshall and Lincoln County men. The Grimes boys were among the latter.

Nathan was a skinny, underfed boy just barely 18 in the autumn of 1861, and Willie was just as thin and obviously underage. Life must have been terrible for them before the war, because both had somehow managed to fill out and grow up on army rations. Now the elder brother was a strong, compact young man with a worn face and weather-beaten look, and only his scraggly whiskers betrayed his youth. Willie was still skinny, but had grown tall and gangly.

Fletcher knew of their father, Nate Grimes, Sr., but only on account of his unsavory reputation. From what Fletcher had heard, Mrs. Grimes died giving birth to Willie, and after that Nate became a drunk, got into debt, and ended up a tenant on his own land. It made Grimes, Sr. a cruel, embittered man. The boys had volunteered into the company to get away from him.

Knowing that was part of the reason Fletcher tolerated their shirking, because he had never seen a lazier fellow than Nathan in his life. Another cause was that they were outstanding foragers. Fletcher had never seen anyone better than those boys at trapping a hare, stealing some local farmer’s chicken, or finding a hidden quarter-cask of whiskey. He figured those skills were learned growing up under old Nate, what with the boys fending for themselves some of the time. Finally, while Willie was basically a good soldier, and Nathan was the real ne’er do well, it was also Nathan who was the fighter.

Fletcher arrived at the officer’s mess and poured himself another cup of spruce tea, shaking his head. It never quite sat right with him that the laziest, most incorrigible man in his company had also always been its bravest. When a fight got started, Nathan was always up front. He never hollered or made a fuss about it. He just coolly and quietly went forward.

Getting the company moving was easy because of Nathan, Fletcher thought. As soon as I screw my courage up and step out, Nathan’s right behind. Sometimes, that boy steps off even before I do.

Fletcher asked for his breakfast, sipped on his tea, and chuckled. After the Battle of Raymond, Colonel Tillman tried to recruit Nathan into the color guard, but the boy scoffed, saying the honor was “a waste of a fine musket man and the cheapest ticket there was to a pine box.” Despite that rebuff, Nathan could have been a sergeant by now, were he not such a no account hard case off the battlefield.

March 5

Late evening

Headquarters, Army of Tennessee, CSA

Dalton

Sandie Pendleton proffered a bottle and asked “May I offer you fine fellows some brandy on this occasion?”

That brought grins all around. Sandie looked at his comrades as he poured each of them a cup: Captain James Power Smith, Jackson’s chief aide-de-camp; Lieutenant Colonel John Harman, the chief quartermaster; Hunter McGuire, medical director. Wells Hawks was missing, away in Atlanta attending to commissary business. Together they had gone from running a tiny force in the Shenandoah Valley to running the country’s second largest field army. Sandie was at least as proud of his colleagues as he was of himself.

Sandie raised his own cup and said “Gentlemen, to our third corps commander. To Lieutenant General Alexander Peter Stewart!”

The others raised their cups, and they all clanked them together to a low chorus of “Here, here.” Each took a precious sip, and then sat down on camp chairs and stools, enjoying the warming effect of the liquor.

After Smith took a swallow from his cup, Harman leaned forward and said “Damn it all if I’m not surprised at you, Jimmy, with that brandy. Preacher’s son and all.”

Sandie smiled affably. Harman was the oldest of them at almost 40, but he loved ribbing people.

McGuire, a well-appointed man with a thick moustache and big, intense eyes, waved Harman off. “As his doctor, I told Captain Smith here that a modest intake of medicinal spirits is essential to a man living in this climate, to keep out the chill.” Even though McGuire was only in his late 20s, he was the next oldest man in the tent.

McGuire continued. “Sandie, I know this must be a relief to you, getting the War Department to clear Stewart’s promotion and your reorganization of the army.”

Sandie said quietly “It was Old Jack’s idea. The President approved it. I only drew up the papers.”

But it was a relief for him, and he hoped maybe things would go a little more easily in the Army of Tennessee. If Old Jack was planning a campaign against the Union’s armies, Sandie was already in the field, involved in a three-front struggle on the General’s behalf over matters of organization, supply and training with Georgia Governor Joe Brown, the War Department in Richmond, and their own General William H. Hardee. Worse, Sandie felt he was winning the paper conflict only about half the time.

Hardee was the army’s senior corps commander, and had been acting as head of the army before Jackson arrived. As a former West Point commandant and the author of the standard textbook on infantry tactics, Hardee enjoyed quite a reputation in the western army, and they called him “Old Reliable.”

Yet Sandie and his people thought of Hardee as reliable only for pedantry and obstructionism. General Hardee objected to most everything that came out of army headquarters, replying to orders with long letters and reports, each of which was polite and proper, but each also lecturing at length on military protocol, regulations, training or tactics, and resoundingly negative in tone, outlook and intent.

That was where promoting A.P. Stewart came in. Jackson had wanted the Army of Tennessee reorganized from two into three corps. The reasons given to President Davis were three smaller corps would be more mobile and more flexible than the previous two corps arrangement, and that the freshly promoted John Bell Hood was untried in his new position. Jackson wanted to spread his eggs into more baskets.

The unstated reason was to reduce Hardee’s contrary influence by shrinking the size of his corps and transferring some of the army’s best divisions away from him. Davis was convinced of the plan, but for a time it looked like they wouldn’t get Stewart, or “Old Straight” as everybody called him, for the new command.

Smith interrupted Sandie’s wandering thoughts. “If ever there was a man better suited to Old Jack’s way of doing things than Stewart, I reckon I have neither seen nor heard of him.”

“Yeap,” Harman replied. “Not Old Baldy, not Allegheny Johnson, not poor old departed Winder neither. Certainly not fucking Old Jube or His God Damned Highness, Little Powell.”

Sandie said “Old Straight is a blessing. Our Jackson would call it Providence, I’m sure, were he given to saying such things about people.”

The others nodded. Old Jack was notoriously stingy when it came to compliments.

Sandie understood why so much of Jackson’s favor fell upon Stewart. The two men had first met at West Point, when Stewart was a young artillery instructor and Jackson was a cadet, and this was important since Jackson went on to become a gunner. They hadn’t seen each other for many years, but the two had separately become remarkably similar men. Both left the army to become professors, and both were devout Presbyterians.

As everyone in army headquarters knew, the latter characteristic was especially important to Jackson, but so were Stewart’s qualities as a general. Old Straight had certainly earned his nickname, Sandie thought, as he was always thoroughly prepared, and most important of all, he did what he was told with nary a word of complaint.

Sandie continued, saying softly “I think Jackson decided upon two things after the first week here, if not sooner. He wanted to be rid of Hardee, and he wanted Stewart’s elevation. Well, we got the latter.”

The four men passed the bottle for another round, and continued to talk shop for a time, until they were interrupted by an orderly.

“Colonel Pendleton, sir. General Cleburne is here to see you.”

What’s he doing here? Sandie thought. “Well, gentleman, I can’t keep the General waiting. You fellows have a good night.” Sandie saw them out, offered a salute and welcomed Cleburne in, then motioned the General to a seat and offered him the last of his brandy, which Cleburne politely refused.

“What can I do for you, General?”

The man standing before him was widely regarded as the best division commander in the Army of Tennessee, and unlike Hardee, Cleburne deserved his reputation. He was an Irishman and doctor’s son, who had been in the British military for a time, before immigrating to Arkansas in his early 20s. A lean man in his mid-30s now, Cleburne’s prominent cheekbones and charming smile had a way of distracting one from his cold, dark eyes.

“Colonel,” Cleburne said, his accent giving his words a musical lilt “General Hardee made a request on my behalf to convene a meeting of this army’s high command, so as to discuss a proposal I wish to make on a matter of national military policy. A matter, I believe, of the highest importance. That was refused. I then made a written request of my own, which was also refused. I have come to press my case in person.”

So that was it. Sandie had been worried that Cleburne might have come to complain about Stewart’s elevation, since he was Stewart’s senior in rank by several months.

“Yes, I remember,” Sandie said. “I told General Hardee when he came to see me that the commanding general is not in the habit of holding councils of war for any purpose other than issuing orders, and was opposed to convening any formal council such as you requested on that basis. I further told Hardee, you are free to discuss any proposal informally and with whomsoever you choose, and Jackson would be pleased to meet with you to discuss any matter formally and privately. I also indicated both to him and to you that you are free to submit any proposal to General Jackson, who will then send it to the War Department if found proper. But given his views and preferred arrangements, those are your options. May I be frank, sir?”

Cleburne nodded.

“I’ve been with General Jackson from almost the very beginning. He isn’t given to committees and all that fuss and jawboning. If it’s as important a matter as you say, he will want to hear it. If you want it sent to Richmond, he’ll likely do it without prejudice. He just doesn’t want to bother with that in front of nine other generals, each wanting their own say. Respectfully, sir, if you want every general in the army to chew the matter over, you ought to do that on your own hook, and you can if you wish. I said as much to Hardee. Did not the General relate that?”

“He did,” Cleburne said. Actually, Hardee had related so little of it and colored it so negatively as to make the response from army headquarters sound like a flat refusal. It all sounded much more reasonable, here and now, and straight from the source.

Cleburne slapped his hands together. “Very well, Colonel. I wish to discuss my proposal with General Jackson. May I have an appointment?”

“Monday evening? After the day’s duties?”

Cleburne agreed. “6’o clock Monday, then.”

March 7

Early evening

Headquarters, Army of Tennessee, CSA

Dalton

Cleburne arrived at army headquarters a little before the appointed time, and marveled again at how Stonewall Jackson, despite the harsh winter climate of the north Georgia mountains, was living in a tent. A wall tent with an iron stove, but a tent all the same. And not just him. His entire headquarters was operating out of tents!

Generals typically appropriated the local houses for their quarters, regardless of season. In winter, colonels often had cabins built for them by slave laborers, and junior officers shared similar cabins between them. Only the rankers lived in anything like tents, and even then it was usually a log and mud walled structure, with the canvas tent serving as a roof. Cleburne thought nothing of it, since it was common practice and in keeping with what he had come to expect from his own time as a ranker in the British 41
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Foot, where men of rank and standing lived accordingly. When he first saw Jackson and staff living and working in tents, he thought it eccentric to say the least.

Then Cleburne observed its effect on the men. The entire rank and file was rife with discontent when Jackson cancelled Hardee’s generous furlough plan shortly after his arrival, but when they heard Jackson was living in a tent, just like the rest of them, the grumbling quieted. When more food started coming in, with more blankets and more shoes right behind, the ill-will dissipated and they forgot all about it. The Irishman soon followed the example, and moved his quarters to out of doors too, from a nice, comfortable house and into something more like what his field officers were using.