Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) (33 page)

Stewart sighed and chuckled as he handed the message to an aide. Starkweather’s bravado would pay dividends for him. There would be no assault, no siege, he thought. At sunrise, Starkweather would find his enemies all long gone. Yet this charade was not for nothing. At least now the Yankees might be scared enough to stay in their little bolt hole for a time, and not trouble my wagon train.

8:00 pm

The Atheneum

Headquarters, Army of the Tennessee, USA

Columbia, Tennessee

“Your supper, sir.”

McPherson looked up from his papers to the bacon sandwich and pot of coffee placed before him.

“Thank you,” he said, pouring a cup of coffee and sipping on it while resuming his work.

Confederate cavalry had found them not long after sun-up, and dogged them every step of the way. Minty did a fine job of holding them back, but he had shot off most of his ammunition by the time the running cavalry skirmish reached Mt. Pleasant. As soon as his lead division, John Smith’s, crossed Bigby Creek on the outskirts of Columbia, he ordered that division to deploy in defensive positions behind the creek.

The rest of the Army of the Tennessee marched by, through Columbia, and across the Duck River. Then he withdrew Minty’s cavalry behind Smith, and the pursuing butternuts found a rude surprise waiting for them: a full division of infantry backed by four batteries of artillery, all spoiling for a fight.

Minty’s tired troopers were now guarding the nearer fords of the Duck River, such as Davis’s Ford about four miles east. In an hour or two, he would pull John Smith’s command and Columbia’s resident garrison back across the Duck, and then demolish the bridges. In the meantime, McPherson had the next day’s marching orders to draw up.

McPherson was chewing the last bite of his sandwich when a dusty Colonel Minty came in. McPherson immediately jumped to his feet and offered his hand. “Colonel Minty, that was outstanding work today. Well done, well done! I am recommending you to Sherman for a star and permanent division command.”

Minty grinned, cheeks turning red. “Thank you, sir. Ahm, it was all in a day’s work.”

“What complete rot. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a solid cavalryman in this army? The Rebs seem to pluck them from trees, but in our army, fellows like you are a rare quantity.”

Minty’s posture became visibly more erect, his rising pride dulling the fatigue of spending all of that day and the last in the saddle.

McPherson continued “Now, I have something I need you to do, and I wanted you to hear it directly from me. We resume the march at 3 a.m. tomorrow. At 2 a.m., I want you to dispatch the Saber Brigade to Franklin. I hate to deprive the rear guard of them, but I don’t think Jackson and Forrest will lay snugly in their beds tonight. I wouldn’t be surprised if they aren’t crossing a more distant ford somewhere. Franklin has some old earthworks that were thrown up there about two years ago. I don’t want any Reb cavalry getting there and blocking our line of retreat. You get there first.”

“That might be a tall order, if Forrest swings around and rides hard on us. What can I expect in terms of support?” Minty asked.

“I’m sending the Columbia garrison up behind you by forced march. I can’t very well leave them here. It’s several hundred strong. They are fresh, the only fresh troops I have at this point. I expect they will be there by mid-morning. It will have to do. The rest of us should be there by mid-afternoon.”

“Yessir. Well, if there is nothing else, I need to see to my men.” The two generals exchanged salutes, and Minty left.

McPherson picked up his coffee cup. The men are tired, very tired, he thought, and will have trouble keeping up even a normal marching pace. But Jackson would need to repair the bridges to use them, couldn’t use the nearer fords until Minty’s troopers retreated, and using the farther fords entailed a detour of several miles out and several miles back.

“I’ll get us out of this yet,” he said to himself. “I swear before almighty God I will.”

May 7

6:30 a.m.

Army of Tennessee, CSA

Columbia, Tennessee

“Gentlemen, forward!” Polk shouted. He rode past the fife and drum band he had ordered to the outskirts of Columbia, and led a party of mounted attendants, staff officers and escorts into the town. Nattily attired in spotless, well-brushed uniforms adorned with sparkling spurs, buttons and swords, and wearing polished leather boots, Polk’s assembled headquarters made quite an impression on the residents of Columbia, who hurried from their homes to welcome the troops. Behind them marched the infantry and artillery of his corps, or the Army of Mississippi, as he still insisted on calling it.

Polk wore the smile of a man content with the world. Last night, he suggested that his troops move into Columbia in the morning, occupy the town, and repair the Duck River bridges. Jackson consented, gave the harder task of forcing the river’s fords to Cleburne, and assigned his own engineers to assist in the bridge work. All Polk had to do now was liberate the seat of Maury County, the home ground of the Polk clan.

Serving under Stonewall Jackson was proving to have some rewards, Polk thought. But then again, this prize would have been so much richer if I had plucked it myself, all on my own. And I certainly would have plucked it, had not Jackson stuck his nose into my business.

Minutes later, the procession arrived at a modest brick house built in the Federal style, the one-time Columbia home of his second cousin, James K. Polk, the 11
^th
President of the Old Union. Another band waited on the lawn, playing “Dixie” as General Polk came to a stop.

He knew Sarah, James Polk’s widow, was ensconced at the Polk mansion in Nashville. That suited him fine. She was obstinately neutral regarding the current war, and he would just as well not embarrass the dear lady by using this house as his headquarters today, with her unhappy and still in residence.

“Make this our headquarters for now,” Polk shouted “but do not get to comfortable gentlemen. As soon as the bridge is repaired, we will cross to the north bank of the Duck and continue our pursuit of the foe!”

As several of his officers dismounted, Polk said “Now, I’m going down to the river, to have a look at this bridge.”

Several miles away, Frank Cheatham rode among his troops, who were lying down in wait just out of sight of Davis Ford. Although still foggy-headed from his concussion, he was not about to allow men from his division to make a major attack without him.

He rode hatless among the troops of Maney’s Brigade, displaying his bandaged head. “Boys, two days ago I promised you Nashville. I know you are tired, and I know you are hungry. One more hard push, and we’ll cool our feet in the Cumberland and feast in the Athens of the South!”

Maney’s men cheered, and after a few more words of encouragement, Cheatham rode up to the top of the low hill where the command party stood. Dismounting clumsily, he joined Cleburne and Forrest, who were quietly chatting. Jackson stood apart, studying the ground through his field glasses. He didn’t like what he saw.

Davis Ford lay at the end of a peninsula, formed by a sharp bend in the Duck. The elevated north bank dominated the south, and although there was a hill in the center of that peninsula, the tight confines limited how many guns he could put on it to cover the attack. Worst of all, the ford emptied into a little notch. Hasty breastworks completely enclosed that notch, making it into a veritable murder hole.

Forrest had probed the ford the night before, and found it strongly defended by enemy troopers. Whoever goes in there is going to be massacred, Jackson thought. But we must pursue. The sacrifice must be made. God’s will.

Jackson nodded to the waiting artillerists. They had worked all night bringing up the guns through the throng of fleeing slaves, Unionists, and draft dodgers who clogged the back roads, and up onto line. Despite the confined space, dawn saw over 20 guns in place. The cannons fired in massed volleys at the Federal breastworks, filling that part of the Duck valley with smoke and producing such thunderous noise that windows shook in Columbia.

Nathan and Willie were lying down with the rest of their regiment, behind a line of trees in a freshly plowed field near the bellowing line of Confederate cannons. Nathan watched grimly as shot and shell tore up the small area right around the ford.

The guns stopped and the bugles sounded. Maney’s Brigade rose and advanced at the quick step, General Maney on foot and leading from the front. As fagged out as his men were, quick step and no faster was the most he felt he could ask of them.

His regiments fanned out, some to each side of the ford, protecting the flanks of the main attack. The 41
^st
Tennessee picked up the pace to a dead run, rapidly splashing across the gravel riverbed and the knee-deep water. Shots cracked out, and Willie felt a ball whiz past his cheek.

Upon reaching the other side, most of the men threw themselves down onto the sloping ground, behind trees and shrubs. The colonel and the colors kept moving forward though, and Nathan kept going too, passing everyone by. Behind him came Willie, and after getting back on their feet, Corporal Marks and Sergeant Halpern. The rest of the company followed, as if dragged along at the end of a tether, and behind them the regiment.

Nathan sprinted up the wooded slope, up onto the parapet, and over to the other side. It was only then that he realized he hadn’t been shot at, that the Yankee works were deserted. Panting, he could see Yankees through the trees, mounting on horses and riding away, and couldn’t have cared less. He plopped down just as the others started coming over the low dirt embankment.

Corporal Marks dropped his musket and bent over, huffing and puffing as he propped himself up, hands above his knees. Willie plopped down on the embankment. Halpern pulled his hat off, and wiped the sweat from his brow. The four men looked at each other, and started laughing.

On the other side of the Duck, Jackson watched with satisfaction. If the Yankee cavalry had held this ground, they could have delayed the pursuit all morning. Pulling out was a mistake. The hand of Providence was in it.

Now his plan could proceed. Cheatham and Forrest would cross here. Cleburne’s Division, now under Lucius Polk’s command, would cross by means of the western fords. Stewart’s Corps was somewhere to the east, probably about halfway to Lewisburg by now. The enemy was further north, but Stewart had a clear road, and had fed his men on captured supplies. God willing, Stewart would overtake the enemy today.

Jackson mounted his horse, pulling himself up with his good, increasingly strong right arm. He knew he should return to Columbia, to see those bridges for himself. Instead, he rode down to Huey’s Mill, down by the ford.

He went inside the empty mill house, and once inside, knelt in prayer, offering thanks for their progress so far, and the easy river crossing. Jackson did not mention catching the enemy in his prayers, for that was already written. A good Christian thanked his God often, but asked for little, or best still, nothing at all.

9:00 a.m.

Buford’s Cavalry Division, Army of Tennessee, CSA

Franklin, Tennessee

Buford’s two remaining cavalry brigades departed Lewisburg for Franklin before dawn, riding down the Lewisburg Pike. As the approached the Duck River that morning, the troopers could hear the muffled thunder of artillery firing to the west, from Columbia, and that distant rumbling lent the tired horsemen a spurt of energy. They rode on, reaching Hurt’s Crossroads around 9 o’clock, where Buford sent scouts probing out to the north and west while he rested his men.

Before 11 that morning, Buford knew that McPherson’s main body was passing through Spring Hill by way of the Columbia Pike, en route to Franklin. Forrest was dogging McPherson’s heels, but Stewart and his infantry were still about 10 miles behind.

Unknowingly following the example of his cousin, the northern cavalry general John Buford, Abe Buford elected to get in front of McPherson’s column. He took up a blocking position south of Franklin on the Columbia Pike, astride Winstead Hill and Breezy Hill. As some Billies were already present inside the old fortifications of Franklin, Buford also posted a screening force in his rear, on Privet Knob and facing the town.

There he stayed for two hours, stalling McPherson and repulsing repeated, mounting assaults on his position until the garrison in Franklin finally stirred, moving against his rear. Buford withdrew before he could be trapped between the blue pincers, falling back to the Lewisburg Pike and on south for five miles, to Goose Creek. It was there that he finally made contact with Stewart, riding ahead of his column with a strong escort.

Stewart’s blood was up, so he dispensed with pleasantries. “General Buford, your report, sir?”

As Stewart listened to Buford relate the details of his stand on the Columbia Pike, he regretted that Buford had not sent back for further instructions. He would have directed Buford to abandon any blocking effort in favor of seizing Hughes’s Ford, a crossing of the Harpeth River only a few miles east of Franklin. Keeping McPherson out of Franklin wasn’t half as important at this stage as securing a good river crossing and getting in front of him. Stewart knew if he could do that, he could bottle McPherson up in Franklin, and make his destruction inevitable.

So Stewart stopped Buford before he could finish his report. “Get your command turned around, General Buford, and go to Hughes’s Ford. It’s three miles right down this very pike. My infantry isn’t far behind, and you’ll have some support before nightfall.”

“What if the Yankees have the ford, sir?”

Stewart spoke sharply. “Attack them. We must have that crossing.”

Buford drove his exhausted men and horses as hard as they could bear, but arrived at Hughes’s Ford to find the Saber Brigade already there, still in the midst of deploying. Buford dismounted his men and led a charge, which was quickly and bloodily repulsed by a hail of bullets, Buford himself coming away wounded in his sword hand. Just before dark, the first of Stewart’s infantry brigades arrived, threw itself into one last charge, and that too was thrown back. During the night a truce was quietly arranged, allowing the southerners to drag their dead and wounded out of the shallow waters and off the banks of the Harpeth.