Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) (20 page)

“What do you want from the XV Corps?”

McPherson pointed to the map pinned to Logan’s wall. “Minty is on his way to Decatur now, and has tomorrow to refit his new command. Then I want him out patrolling an arc, running along Mt. Hope, Basham’s Gap, and Day’s Gap. But, after what happened to them at Holly Grove, I want you to send an infantry division to support them.”

Logan agreed. “Done.”

May 1

Noon

Army of Tennessee, CSA

Tuscumbia

Jackson stood on a high bluff overlooking the south bank of the Tennessee River. It was the Sabbath, most of his men were resting, and, he hoped, enjoying Sunday services. His engineers, however, were hard at work putting the finishing touches on the pontoon bridge. Red Jackson’s cavalry and Polk would begin crossing before dawn tomorrow.

He was confident that the enemy knew his position, but not his true strength. Forrest defeated the enemy’s reckless foray at Holly Grove, and was now holding their cavalry back about 25 miles to the east. The Yankees still slumbered in Chattanooga and Knoxville, leaving Hardee in peace. His presence with the army remained a relative secret, as did the presence of Hood’s Corps. It was camped half a dozen miles south of town, and Jackson had thrown a curtain of provosts around Hood’s camp, keeping soldiers in and civilians out.

The army had advanced at a moderate pace until now, collecting supplies as it went, applying an especially heavy hand to places like Winston County, which harbored a strongly disloyal and Unionist sentiment. Once across the river, Jackson intended to move more quickly, forcing a foot race for Nashville, so he could come over and catch McPherson strung out on the march.

“Gen.. um, Colonel Milner?” Polk called, interrupting Jackson’s reverie.

Jackson turned away from the river. “Mmmm. Yes?”

Polk bore a basket. “Well, sir, I had heard that you bear a considerable appetite for fruits. These came through my supply chain, and I thought of you.”

Jackson took the basket and removed the covering cloth. “Fresh strawberries!” he cried joyfully. “Why, General Polk, I cannot thank you enough!”

Putting on his serene, clerical smile, Polk mused on how easy it was to please some people. He hadn’t given up his grievances, not at all, but he had realized that one didn’t deal with a man like Stonewall Jackson in the same way as one might a Braxton Bragg. Oh no. More subtlety was called for here.

And Jackson makes it so easy, Polk thought. Like so many Southrons, the man has a predilection for religious figures.

That brought Polk to his next chore. “There is something else. I have been approached by John Hood, about his being baptized and brought into the flock. I know you are not of the Episcopal Church, and Hood struck me as hesitant... one might say a might bit shy about inviting you, but I was hoping you would join us and attend the service this very evening.”

“Of course. I would be delighted. Delighted and honored, sir, delighted and honored.”

Bully, Polk thought. Two birds in my clutch, all with the same shot.

Later that night, Jackson, Polk and a small escort rode to Hood’s camp. John Bell Hood was baptized that night in a barn, by lantern light and using a horse bucket as a baptismal font. Unable to kneel due to his wooden leg, Hood bowed his head, and insisted upon standing rather than sitting for the ceremony.

May 2

Morning

41
^st
Tennessee, Maney’s Brigade, CSA

Outskirts of Tuscumbia

Sitting at a mess fire, Nathan Grimes remarked “I’ll bet any fellow a month’s wages them orders to drill this morning came from Old Jack. Hood ain’t that fussy about such things. Cheatham and Maney neither. Old Jack, though, he ain’t one to miss a chance to sweat us. Won’t give us a morning off, no sir, no how.”

“You ought not be gambling,” Willie said quietly. “Ain’t right, ain’t that what the good book says?”

Nathan rolled his eyes. He hadn’t even been serious, but Willie had caught the revival in the winter camps, and ever since it had been all the Bible this and the Lord that, drinking ain’t no good and gambling’s a sin, and always trying to drag him off to church on Stonewall’s Sabbath day.

“Willie, ain’t too many pleasures allowed a common soldier. I reckon how a private in this man’s army spends his pay, that’s his own business. His right. Ain’t that what we fighting for? Our rights? No preacher, no officer, no sheriff, and no Yankee from Washington ought come by and tell a man how to spend his time or his money. Let alone come by and put some damn darkie above a white man.” That brought some low, throaty chuckling and “here, here’s” from the other men around the fire.

Nathan muttered “Anyhow, ain’t like we’uns get paid so much.”

Fletcher walked over to the mess and squatted by the fire, saying “At ease, men. At ease,” knowing no one would stand to attention anyway. His company could tell when he meant fuss and business, and when he did not.

One of the men proffered a tin cup. “Captain, care for some yaupon coffee? Last of the Selma issue.”

Fletcher shook his head, chuckling. “Fellas, yaupon gives me the Tennessee Trot worse than corn meal with the cob ground in.” That produced a round of knowing grins and laughter.

He looked to the Grimes brothers. “Nathan, Willie, there is a story going about that you both had words with Stonewall. I’d like to hear it myself, from the source.”

Nathan looked to Willie. It was more Willie’s story than his.

“Well, Captain, you recollect how Nathan and me, you sent us trapping? We come back out of them old Indian woods, and were fixing to walk back to White Hall camp, when we was stopped by some officers. One was the shabbiest colonel you ever saw, with one arm and a big beard. He wanted to see our pass, and I wouldn’t give it to him, on account our orders not to, which he liked very much. Sent us on our way.”

Nathan spoke up. “Weren’t ‘til later that we knew who that colonel was. Almost dark and all.”

Fletcher nodded. “Well, thank you.” He got up and left. It was clear the men believed it, and the Grimes Brothers weren’t much for tall tales, whatever their other failings might be. It was an open secret that Jackson was with the army, but word didn’t get around until after Selma.

After breakfast, Fletcher and the other officers drilled the regiment, some odd 260 men. The boys would obviously have preferred to spend the morning at leisure, knowing the orders for later that day were marching orders. Spirits were high, even so.

They ought to be, Fletcher thought. My company isn’t 75 miles from home.

The regiment struck its camp, and at the appointed time marched for the road, taking its place with Maney’s Brigade. This, in turn, took its place with Cheatham’s Division, and it with Hood’s Corps. They had been on the road for less than an hour when the column came to a halt. The men stood in their ranks for half an hour, marched forward a short distance, and then halted again. Finally, the order came to fall out. The march was stalled.

Farther up the road, Jackson rode with a few staff officers into Tuscumbia. As he passed the men of Stewart’s Corp, the boys grinned and silently waved their hats. They were flattered that Old Jack had chosen to travel with them, and enjoyed playing into his game.

Arriving at the road junction just before the Tennessee River, Jackson found Loring’s Division tied up with the wagon train of French’s Division, coming from opposite directions and both insisting on the right of way. Loring was there, in the thick of it, arguing with a major.

Approaching the squabbling pair, Jackson yelled “What happens here? What is the meaning of this?”

Loring was a balding, middle-aged man with dull, black eyes. Like Jackson, he wore his left sleeve empty, having lost that arm in the Mexican War.

He shouted “How dare you! Of all the impertinent... Jackson? By God, Jackson? What the devil are you doing here?”

“I asked you the same question,” Jackson snapped. “Report! Without the blasphemy, and with your salute, General.”

Astride his horse behind Jackson, Sandie smiled, enjoying Loring’s discomfiture. Leave it to the Scared Turkey, he thought, to remain ignorant of what every man jack of the army already knew.

Flustered, Loring saluted. “I am on the march, General Jackson. Under orders and on schedule. This jack-n-ape refuses to yield the road. He is behind schedule and refuses to turn it over, that which is mine by rights. What is more, he refused a direct order from his superior officer, me, to do just that. I demand his arrest!”

Jackson ignored Loring and looked to the major. “You are French’s quartermaster? What have you to say? Out with it!”

The major saluted smartly. “Yessir, that’s right. We were delayed this morning on account of a bridge over yonder, needing repair. Got that done quick as we could, got here an hour behind schedule. Marching orders say delays don’t change a thing, when we get here, we go. So I reckoned I should keep my wagons rolling. General Loring here insisted, and when I wouldn’t give him the road, he seized the road and stopped the wagons.”

Sandie nodded. He knew what the marching orders called for. He and Harman had written them. But where is Polk, he wondered? Should not Polk be sorting this mess out?

“General Loring,” Jackson snarled, “this man is correct. You are in the wrong. Worse, you have compounded this delay by almost an hour. I will not tolerate any further deviation from orders, is that understood?”

“But..” Loring sputtered.

Jackson shouted him down. “Do you understand?!”

Loring assented sourly. “Yessir.”

Jackson barked orders for Loring’s men to clear the road, which were smartly obeyed. He then quietly told Sandie “Send to French today. Admonish him about that bridge. He had almost two full days to send an engineer to inspect it.”

“One of those days was the Sabbath” Sandie replied.

“Yes, and I was building a bridge. French could have been at least inspecting one.”

May 2

Early afternoon

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

South of the Tennessee Line

McPherson and his immediate staff had just made their planned stop when the first courier of the day galloped up. Already almost twenty miles from Huntsville, his desire was not so much for the luxury of a hot meal, but to allow couriers from Huntsville, such as this one, to catch up with him. The muddy rider handed his dispatch to one of McPherson’s aides, who brought it to the General.

Reading its contents, McPherson exclaimed “Capital! Capital!”

McPherson heard cheers of “Black Jack! Black Jack!” and looked up. Logan was pounding down the road at the gallop. Not bothering to dismount, he slowed his mount and walked him over to McPherson.

“Mac,” he said, tipping his hat. “So, we’re certain it’s Tuscumbia?”

“Indeed I am. It’s the logical place. With the shoals there, the Rebels can protect their pontoon bridge from the Navy’s gunboats. If they want to run their supply line through there, the pillars from the old bridge are still standing. Those can be turned to a more permanent span easily enough.”

“What is more,” McPherson said, waving the dispatch, “Minty says he poked his head into Anderson this morning, about 15 miles west of Athens. There was no sign of the Rebels there. My guess is that they have yet to cross the river. Why, I do believe we’ve stolen a march on them!”

Logan understood. Dodge’s XVI Corps started from Athens this morning. His own corps was about as far along. Without the need to cross a major river, that put their army a full day’s march ahead of Polk’s, and to Grant’s veterans a full day of hard marching meant at least 25 miles.

McPherson had planned his first campaign as an army commander carefully and cautiously, weighing all the variables. He had elected not to intercept Polk’s Army of Mississippi in central Alabama, because of the dense forest that lay between him and Jasper. That was no place to have an army. Instead, he preferred to catch Polk in open ground and without a river to his back, and that meant meeting the Bishop somewhere in southern Tennessee.

“What does Sherman have to say about it?” Logan asked.

“He approves. I imagine he will be pleased when I tell him I think we’ve bagged a march on the Johnnies.”

Sherman had been clucking like a mother hen, burning the wire with messages. Even so, Sherman had limited himself entirely to asking questions, and offered no advice or instruction unless McPherson asked for it. It was quite a contrast to the prodding from pedantic old Halleck back at the War Department, who had been prodding him to attack Polk for weeks.

Sherman’s largely hands off approach pleased McPherson, because against his expectations, he found he needed no reassurance or support from headquarters. Far from being an extra burden, he found the challenge and responsibility of an independent command exhilarating. Sherman just needs more to do, McPherson thought. Bill always became fidgety when he wasn’t kept busy.

Logan said “Well, the boys are a little tender in the feet after spending the winter in camp, but they are making time. I reckon I’ll make Pulaski tomorrow.”

McPherson nodded. “Good. You take care, John.”

May 2

After dark

Army of Tennessee, CSA

Florence

Jackson required most of the day to put the bulk of his army across the Tennessee River, as the bottleneck of the single span reduced progress to a trickle. Left behind to screen the army from prying eyes, Forrest’s cavalry crossed the river the next day.

Before dawn on Tuesday morning, May 3
^rd
, Red Jackson’s cavalry rode north and east, spreading out through Anderson and up to the Tennessee line. Stewart’s Corps followed, taking the Loretto Road through Masonville, Green Hill, and ultimately Lexington. Polk and Hood used Andrew Jackson’s Military Road, screened by a brigade detached from Forrest. By the end of the day, both infantry columns were astride the Tennessee line.

May 4