Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) (14 page)

Cleburne was admitted, and found Jackson busy at work at his camp desk, back turned to the tent door.

Jackson said “Sit down, General. Please. I will be with you shortly.” Upon reaching a good stopping point, Jackson stood, picking up his chair with his one arm. He turned it around and sat down again. “You have a proposal for the War Department?”

“Yes, sir. I would be grateful if you would forward this letter. It has been signed by several other senior officers of this army, and perhaps you might wish to endorse it as well.” Cleburne reached into a leather case and withdrew a memorandum of some two dozen pages.

Jackson spoke softly. “Would you describe the contents for me?”

“Of course, sir. If it is not too punctilious, may I begin by stating my view on the state of our war effort?”

Jackson nodded his assent, so Cleburne continued. “In a word, our position is dreadful. For three years we have fought hard and fought well, but at a human cost unimaginable when we began. Many of our best men are now maimed or dead, and we have lost a third of our territory in the bargain. I reckon what we have lost, spent or seen ruined in this war exceeds in value the sum of all the world’s treasure.”

“I believe this has taken its toll on our people, General Jackson, and on our soldiers. On the surface, spirits remain good around our campfires and hearths, but underneath I suspect most see our defeat as eventual and inevitable, and are weary of sacrifice and slaughter to no useful gain.”

Jackson interjected “I do not think so many are convinced of our ‘inevitable defeat,’ as you say, although I concede that events have shaken the faith of many of our people. But please continue.”

“Yes, sir. I propose to bolster our war efforts and strike several blows at those of the Yankee with one action: emancipate the slaves.”

Cleburne waited for a response to what he knew would be a controversial statement. Jackson blinked, but said nothing, so he continued. “I first must say I believe the negro, above all else, wishes to be free, with his family, and in the place he calls home. By freeing them all, he receives that, and far from being a liberator, the Yankee becomes an invader. The loyalty of most or nearly all of the once enslaved transfers from the Federals to ourselves with a pen stroke, and with that loyalty, we can raise tens of thousands of new soldiers before the start of the spring campaign. Perhaps hundreds of thousands before the end of this year.”

“At the same time, we will take away from Lincoln the crutch of emancipation. So much of his political support comes from abolitionism, and all of his support in Europe derives from it. Without slavery, Lincoln might not survive the next election. Without victories, he might not survive the next election. With negro soldiers, we hit him on both points. And I know the British, General Jackson. If we emancipate the negro ourselves, it revives the possibility of recognition from the British crown.”

Jackson had listened silently, sitting at perfect attention, betraying no sign of emotion. He considered Cleburne for a short time.

Jackson said “You believe things are as bad as that?”

Cleburne nodded. “Yes. I absolutely believe it. This time, now, is the crisis of the war, sir. I fear only that our leaders may not treat it as such, and when they do take decisive action, it will be too late to achieve useful purpose.”

Jackson thought it over for a while longer, finally saying “Your proposal has much to it on the grounds of military merit. I do not see our future as darkly as you, but I see the merit in it. Although I believe we are in the rights and will ultimately prevail through the blessings of Providence, I must confess I would gladly welcome the addition of even a single division of soldiers to this army, even if they must be Negroes.”

Cleburne brightened, asking “Then you agree? You will endorse my memorandum?”

Jackson responded with a question. “Have you ever been to Virginia, general?”

“No, sir, I have not,” Cleburne responded.

“It’s not like here, or from what I am told, like South Carolina or Mississippi. Many of our negroes in the Old Dominion are artisans, house servants, or hired out as laborers. Virginia doesn’t have these plantations, with their many hundreds of farm hands toiling from sun-up to sundown each and every day, like the Israelites in the Books of Genesis and Exodus. Many of the older folks will tell you they thought slavery would wither away, and many more disdain the institution, or at least its inseparable and morally degrading aspects. General Lee does, as do I.”

“Even so,” Jackson continued “Virginia had Nat Turner. And John Brown. My home of Lexington has few slaves, General Cleburne, and some free negroes. Even there, your proposal to arm the negro would meet with little enthusiasm and much hostility. I know this. I had a church school for them in Lexington, to teach the negro to read the Bible, and even with something so small and benign, there were whispers among my neighbors that I was breaking the law, and that teaching a negro to read the would make him uppity, would come to no right.”

Cleburne said patiently “Not all Southrons see it that way. Many of my colonels and brigadiers have signed this memorandum, and I know Generals Hardee and Cheatham agree with me in principle.”

Jackson nodded “Yes, yes, that may be so. But many others will not. If you had presented this to all the lieutenant and major generals of this army, as you had intended, you would have found that out. Half would be outraged, maybe more. I imagine one of them might have tried provoking you into a duel.”

Cleburne’s mood darkened. “Such a man would be welcome to try.”

Jackson ignored that and continued. “Furthermore, I believe the very same purpose that animates our nation and wills us to victory will see your intentions defeated. Our war is about liberty, not slavery, but part of that liberty is the freedom to live in this society that Providence willed for us, and that society includes slavery. If you put this proposal before the government, you will turn every man determined to keep his high place in life and his property against you.”

Cleburne stiffened, saying “If that is the price I must pay to ensure we win this war, I will pay it gladly. You will not submit my proposal then?”

“I did not say that,” Jackson snapped irritably. Relaxing, he said “If you wish, I will forward it to the War Department, but with no comment. I cannot endorse it, but nor will I condemn it.”

Cleburne thought that was fair, and said so. Jackson bade him good night and dismissed him.

Once he was gone, Jackson muttered to himself “I’ll send it, but in the strictest confidentiality. Not to the War Department, but directly to the President.”

This had to be kept from becoming more widely known, Jackson thought. Cleburne is an excellent officer, one I can’t allow to go out and ruin himself.

When Jackson first came west, he found that Cleburne’s Division was maintaining standards of drill and camp hygiene that were, if anything, higher than his own. It took much to impress Jackson, but Cleburne had managed it.

Even so, Jackson disagreed with Cleburne on one important point: the negroes would not make good soldiers. Some might, but not enough to make much difference.

If I could find 10,000 negroes who could be trained as soldiers, Jackson thought, I would not give up until I had them. I would resign if I could not get them. But there aren’t that 10,000 darkie fighting men, nothing like it, not in the whole Confederacy.

March 14

Late evening

Headquarters, Hardee’s Corps, Army of Tennessee, CSA

Huff House

Dalton

Cheatham was greeted by one of Hardee’s aides at the front door, and shown into the parlor to warm himself by the fireplace. He was the first of Hardee’s supper guests to arrive, and helped himself to the decanter and three-fingers of Kentucky bourbon before plopping himself into a rocking chair.

He asked the aide, who was on his way out of the parlor, “So who all is coming tonight?”

The aide replied in a clipped tone “Generals Cleburne and Hindman, sir.”

That settled it, Cheatham thought as he sipped his bourbon and watched the aide go. Those few members of the “down with Bragg” faction still with the army would be present. Old Reliable has decided to give Stonewall Jackson a dose of the same medicine as old Bragg.

He took a swallow of the sweet, spicy liquid, and felt warmer almost at once. Well, it won’t wash, he thought. It won’t wash. Not with me. Not this time.

Cheatham had guessed what Hardee was about as soon as he received the invitation for supper. Old Reliable was dissatisfied, and looking to make some trouble for the commanding general when President Davis came to visit in a few days.

Hardee had been incensed when Jackson had canceled his furlough plan. Mind you, Cheatham thought, Old Jack went ahead with all furloughs already on the docket, and he gave Hardee leave in February to go marry that girl in Mississippi. A filly half his age, the randy old goat.

Yet Cheatham reckoned what upset fussy old Bill Hardee the most was that Jackson never consulted him. Stonewall Jackson never consulted with anyone in the army about anything, as near as Cheatham could tell. He wanted facts and obedience, not opinions and jawboning.

As the Tennessean had heard Hardee say many times over the years, he was a former commandant of West Point, the man who had written the textbook upon which this war was being fought. Cheatham had lately heard Hardee add that he had been ahead of Jackson on the lieutenant generals’ list, just for good measure. God forbid a man fail to ask William J. Hardee what he thought on military matters, the pompous old donkey.

Cheatham had already made his mind up that he would have none of it, not this time. Oh, he disliked Jackson, not so much as Bragg, but disliked him all the same. The endless flow of work and criticism from army headquarters had left more than a few officers disgruntled in its wake, Cheatham included. Every division commander in the army had been verbally censured by Old Jack by now, all except for Cleburne and Stewart’s successor Clayton, that is. Even Hood had gotten an earful, shoddy administrator that Hood was.

But Jackson wasn’t Bragg. For one thing, Cheatham thought, if I had ever extended the olive branch to Bragg, he would likely have snatched it up and broken it over his spindly knee. But that wasn’t all that separated Jackson from Bragg, abrasive as they both were. It took Cheatham a while to put his finger on why the discontented were reluctant to storm into Jackson’s office, cuss the man, and nail their resignations to Old Jack’s desk with an Arkansas toothpick, but then he went to Meridian.

Watching the Bishop’s scrotum shrivel up in Mississippi made him see the contrast, clear as day. Jackson wasn’t going to take any horseshit, and everyone knew it, just by looking at him. Stonewall Jackson was a lot like Andrew Jackson that way. Both those men were winners because they stopped at nothing to get what they wanted, and destroyed whoever got in their way.

Give Jackson cause, and he’d drum you right out of the army. If he didn’t get his way with Richmond, he would post his resignation. Hardee might think otherwise, but Cheatham believed there wasn’t a man in the Army of Tennessee Davis wouldn’t cashier to keep Jackson, and the country would cheer Davis for doing it. He was certain of it, absolutely certain.

Cheatham had just polished off his bourbon when Cleburne and Hindman arrived. No, he thought. I have no love for Old Jack, but only a damned, blinkered fool would get in that man’s way.

He rose to shake hands with his newly arrived colleagues. They were the most contrasting pair he knew of, and they were a pair, close friends before the war. Dark, fit, coldly severe Patrick Cleburne and short, foppish, prissy, volatile Thomas Hindman. Cheatham treated himself to another bourbon. He didn’t offer the bottle to his fellow generals, as he knew both of them were temperance men.

A short while later, Hardee appeared. A white- and grey-haired man of 49, resplendent in his immaculate dress uniform, Hardee looked the part of the storybook Southern general. After greeting his guests, he ushered them to the dining table.

Just because I’m not in for Hardee’s intentions doesn’t mean I can’t have myself a little fun, thought Cheatham. He looked forward to the coming conversation with relish.

The first course was a fine, well-aged Georgia ham. With several slices on his plate and a half-full tumbler of bourbon, Cheatham asked, eyes twinkling, “How do you reckon they are getting on together, old bastard Bragg and Jeff Davis?” referring to Bragg’s appointment as Davis’s chief military adviser.

“Bragg was always an excellent administrator,” Hardee said smoothly “but never a leader of men, nor a competent strategist. Sitting behind a desk will bring out the best in Bragg, I’m sure.”

“Davis takes fine care of his cronies, fine care” Hindman declared, a hint of malice in his tone. “Bragg loses all of Tennessee, and he gets promoted to a place in the executive office. Crippled Hood can barely ride a horse, and he gets an army corps. All the while, deserving, capable officers are left to whither on the vine, or else left to rot in the wilderness. Jackson’s cut from the same cloth, promoting his favorite, Stewart.”

He was referring to himself, Cleburne knew. Hindman had been the acting corps commander until Hood came along. Seeing Stewart promoted over his head, able or no, left him doubly aggrieved.

“Stewart,” Cleburne said quietly “runs a very tight ship.”

“Yes!” Hindman raised his voice. “And that’s why Jackson loves him. They both have the souls of petty, tyrannical little men.”

Enjoying himself immensely, Cheatham weighed in with a jab at Hindman. “Now see here, Hindman, old fellow, you can hardly say our Stonewall plays favorites. He brought Old Pegleg out of Virginia with him, you are quite right about that, and right about General Hood’s sad, shattered state. Feller needs to be strapped to his horse just to ride. But old Stonewall stood Hood up against it over how he ran his corps, though, now didn’t he?”

Hindman shot back “That just proves my point. The man is a petty tyrant. Even a Yankee wouldn’t lord it over a proper gentleman so.”