Authors: R.E. Thomas
The generals all grunted in agreement. No one asked what road they would take, for there was only one road open: the Military Road, leading to Nashville.
McPherson then said to his chief quartermaster “Your job is to see all the mules unharnessed from our wagon train. We’re taking the mules, but leaving the wagons. Organize a detail to thrust bags of food and ammunition at every platoon and gun crew that passes through the wagon park on its way out of town. Leave whatever we can’t carry.”
The quartermaster goggled. “Sir, you want me to abandon all those stores for the enemy to capture?”
“Yes, I do. If we burn the wagons, the Rebels will see the flames tonight or the smoke in the morning, and sure as the devil, they’ll attack when they see it. I wouldn’t put a night assault past Stonewall Jackson. And you can use those teamless wagons to block the road. Anything that buys us more time is worth it.”
McPherson now moved on to the retreat’s most unpleasant business. “I want the ambulances unharnessed as well. We are leaving the wounded behind.”
That brought outraged protests from all around. Sweeney cursed and swore, the army’s chief surgeon pleaded, and the other division commanders were aghast. Even Logan joined in. Only Peter Osterhaus remained quiet, a look of resignation on his face.
McPherson raised his hand, motioning for them to quiet down. “Make no mistake, gentlemen. Tomorrow we will be in a foot race, and the stakes are the survival of this army. The ambulances and wagons are impedimenta, and we need every advantage we can get. That is Stonewall Jackson over there, a man who made his bones training his infantry into ‘foot cavalry’.”
Logan asked “Can we at least bring along those less severely injured?”
McPherson shook his head. “You all know a column marches as fast as its slowest element. Jackson can afford to leave his wagons and wounded behind, with no fear of capture. He’ll move fast. We have to move faster.”
They can see I’m right, McPherson thought. It still leaves a bad taste in their mouth. Mine too. No one likes it. I need to buck them up.
With a wry smile, McPherson continued “Stonewall Jackson believes he is the hardest, fastest marcher in America. I aim to show him the error of that belief. I believe this army, our army, is the fleetest of foot that has ever gone to war, and tomorrow we’re going to prove it. We’re leaving the wagons, the ambulances and the wounded, but by sunset tomorrow, this army will straddle the Duck River.”
Logan said “Mac, you can’t be serious? Columbia is 40 miles away! The men will straggle by the thousand.”
“No, they won’t. They know as well as I do that straggling means capture, or worse, murder at the hands of some secessesh bushwhacker. Gentlemen, you have my orders. See to them. Dismissed.”
10:00 p.m.
Headquarters, Army of Tennessee, CSA
Behind Redding Ridge
Jackson had also called all his senior commanders together: Polk, Featherston, Cleburne, French, Maney, Clayton, Stevenson, and Forrest. Sandie Pendleton was in attendance, and also Frank Cheatham, although it was well understood that the latter wasn’t up to resuming his duties yet.
Jackson listened quietly as each man gave his report. In addition to Hood and Cheatham, three brigadiers and more than a dozen colonels were among the casualties. Against that was the capture of two dozen enemy cannon, and thousands of prisoners from the known destruction of Veatch’s Division, including General Veatch himself. More than that was not known yet.
Cleburne was the last called on to speak. Polk sat serenely, but inwardly he grew upset as he listened to the Irishman’s frank admission that he had gone to Featherston and openly usurped command over a division of Polk’s Corps. Heretofore, Featherston hadn’t known for sure that Cleburne lacked proper authority to give him any orders. Now Cleburne was openly admitting to deceiving him, and it left him fuming.
“General Jackson, this man lied to me and committed an illegal act! I demand...”
Jackson shouted back “Demand?! You demand?!”
As far as he was concerned, Cleburne’s destruction of Veatch’s Division was the only real accomplishment of the entire day. He was in no mood whatsoever for a spat over how that one bright spot came about.
Jackson sighed, letting go of his burning desire to pillory Featherston. An ugly display of temper now would serve no purpose.
Instead, he said “As the only major general fit for duty in Hood’s Corps, General Cleburne must assume acting command. That is final.”
“But,” Featherston sputtered.
“Final!” Jackson growled.
Featherston’s expression soured, but he held his tongue.
“Half an hour before dawn,” Jackson said “all infantry divisions are to advance skirmishers to probe the enemy lines. That is all. Dismissed.”
Polk spoke up. “General Jackson, as you have heard from every one of your commanders, there is hardly a morsel of food in this army. When can we expect the wagons to catch up?”
“Dismissed,” Jackson repeated flatly.
He watched as the generals filed out, waiting for Forrest to pass and seeking out his eyes. “General Forrest, a moment, please.”
Forrest stopped. He had just been musing on how his first, stormy meeting with Jackson had been in the early hours of this very same day. It felt like a week ago.
“General Jackson, I wish to apologize to you for my outburst this morning. There ain’t no excusing it, but...”
Jackson waved him off. “That matter is concluded. I wish to hear no more of it, but there is something else. I have heard that you personally shot men who were skulking behind the lines today. Is this true?”
Forrest nodded. “I shot at a man, sir, to put the scare in him. Just the one, he ain’t wounded, let alone killed, and he was running, not skulking.”
Jackson nodded. “I approve of your intentions, but under the law, even cowards are entitled to a fair trial. Arrest such people in the future, instead of shooting them.”
Forrest was slightly surprised by his commander’s punctiliousness. Whatever his other faults, Braxton Bragg had no such qualms. He would readily order the summary execution of a deserter or coward, if the circumstances called for it. It was one of the few things about Bragg that Forrest approved of.
“General Jackson,” Forrest replied, “I can’t obey your order, so if you insist, I’ll have call to resign. And I’ll tell you why. If that man had kept running, I would have shot him dead right where he was. I ain’t shooting at them yellow bastards for punishment. I’m shooting at them to put the scare in them and get them back onto the firing line. Ain’t no coward going to stand and fight just because I threaten them with arrest now and a shooting later.”
Jackson considered that for a moment. When one man started running, others always followed. “You have a point. Very well. Shoot as many skulkers as you deem proper. But shoot to wound them. I want to try them later, and if found guilty, stood before a firing squad.”
Forrest chuckled at that, saying “Yessir.” He saluted and left.
Only Jackson and Sandie remained. Alone at last, Sandie said softly “General, don’t you think the Federals will retreat during the night?”
Jackson grinned back at him. “If that is what I thought, Sandie, I dared not reveal it. But you are right, and that is why you are to prepare marching orders for the army tonight: Stewart, Polk, Cleburne and Forrest. If he is still in Lawrenceburg, I have a separate set of attack orders I want prepared too. Either way, you will have the paperwork ready for dispatch by dawn.”
Jackson continued, sketching out his various plans while Sandie quietly took notes on what he wanted, for both major contingencies. When that was done, Sandie asked “What about rations? General Polk was right. The ammunition wagons caught up with us this evening, so the cartridge boxes and caissons will be full in the morning, but most of the men emptied their haversacks today. The rations won’t be here until early tomorrow morning.”
Jackson replied flatly “If the enemy is still in Lawrenceburg tomorrow, we can distribute rations. If not, I won’t wait for them.” Better they starve now than have to storm the fortifications at Nashville later, he thought.
Sandie said nothing, and went about turning his notes into formal orders, while Jackson stole a couple of hours of sleep.
10:30 p.m.
Maney’s Brigade, Cheatham’s Division
Oak Ridge
Nathan drained the last of his pillaged flask, and then threw it away.
Willie muttered “You ought not to drink like that, not on an empty belly.”
“God dammit,” Nathan spat. “It’s because my belly’s empty that I’m drinking it all.”
Nathan slumped onto his back. It wasn’t just the exhaustion and the hunger. It was the awful taste in his mouth from biting open cartridges all day. He had only half a canteen of water left, there wasn’t a creek or spring anywhere near, and he knew better than to drink the rest before he knew when more might be coming.
Unlike the Yankees across the way, not a man in the regiment lit a campfire. No one had any food to cook, or anything to boil, and it was a pleasantly cool night. Willie laid out both their gum blankets, one on top of the other. Nathan crawled over and took his place, Willie lay down, the boys shook out their other blankets, and they went to sleep.
May 6
4:30 a.m.
Main Headquarters, Military Division of the Mississippi, USA
Richardson House
Chattanooga, Tennessee
Sherman awoke sharply, his mind clear. Audenried was there.
“There is an urgent message for you, sir. From General McPherson.”
Sherman rolled into a sitting position on the side of the bed. He snatched the paper from Audenried’s hand, and asked for more light. He read the message, then set it aside and sat quietly for a moment.
Finally, Sherman whispered “I’ll be damned.”
“Sir?” Audenried asked.
Sherman jumped up. “Major, go tell the duty officer to rouse the staff. Every man. There are plans to make and papers to draw up. Then you go yourself, straight to General Thomas’s headquarters. Get him out of bed and get his staff up as well. Tell Old Pap to come directly over here.”
Audenried left smartly. Alone now, Sherman dressed, repeating again and in a more regular tone of voice “I’ll be damned.”
Stonewall Jackson in Lawrence County, Sherman thought, with Polk, Hood and Stewart. That was at least six infantry divisions, maybe as many as eight, plus cavalry. Perhaps 50,000 men, maybe more. McPherson has a little over 30,000.
Emerging from his bedroom, Sherman went immediately to his gathering staff, every one of them bleary-eyed. He lit a cigar, waved the match out, and took several hard drags before sitting down and starting to write.
Sherman’s first set of orders were to the garrison commanders along the Nashville and Decatur railroad, now uncovered by McPherson’s defeat, calling for a consolidation in Pulaski, Athens, Huntsville, and Decatur, if practicable. Those towns had forts and large garrisons, and might be able to hold out if a major Rebel force came calling. The rest of the railroad was held by small detachments in log blockhouses, and Jackson or Forrest could gobble those men up at will.
Sherman blotted his ink, took the paper, and held it out. “Take that to the telegraph office. It takes priority.”
George H. Thomas walked in, the floorboards creaking under his bulk. A tall, erect man endowed early in life with a set of wide, powerful shoulders, which had come to be rivaled by his huge belly. Thomas had put on considerable weight over the last few years, and Sherman thought he now resembled nothing so much as a portly, aged bear.
Thomas grunted “Good morning,” and shook hands with Sherman.
“What do you think of this?” Sherman asked, giving Thomas the telegram from McPherson.
Thomas spent several minutes reading the message. Sherman tapped his foot against the floor, expending his nervous energy and impatience, but saying nothing.
Finally, Thomas asked flatly “So which corps are we leaving to garrison Chattanooga?”
Sherman grinned at Thomas’s implication that most of the army would go north. “None. I’m taking one of your corps, putting it on the Nashville and Chattanooga, and reforming the Army of the Tennessee in Nashville. A.J. Smith and the XVI Corps’ other two divisions are on the Mississippi River as we speak, so I’m sending them on to Louisville, and then to Nashville by the trains. That ought to give me sufficient force to break up Jackson.”
“You’re assuming McPherson will bring his army to Nashville intact,” Thomas said, quietly but firmly. “And isn’t it dangerous to send troops to Nashville by train with an enemy army running loose in Middle Tennessee?”
“Yes, I am,” Sherman replied confidently. “And as for Jackson in Middle Tennessee, I’m betting he will pursue Mac right up to the gates of Nashville. Even if he doesn’t, he is three or four days hard marching from the Nashville and Chattanooga line. I’ll have that corps moved from here to there by then.”
“Really?” Thomas asked, more audibly.
“I intend to leave the wagons, cannon and caissons for last. Men and animals go first. Nashville has an ample stock of surplus artillery, and hundreds of wagons under repair in the city’s workshops. I can replace those things quickly enough. I can’t replace the men as readily, and will have a damned hard time finding new horses and mules. We can move that much in three days, I’m certain of it.”
Sherman had thought through the transportation problems while waiting for Thomas, his mind clicking through the details like an arithmometer. While he hadn’t finished working through the details of his mental plan just yet, he had done enough to achieve certainty that he had sufficient time and wherewithal to move the essentials, and that anything that he had not deemed essential could be replaced in a matter of weeks.
Thomas folded his hands across his broad chest. “Which corps do you want?”
Sherman motioned at Thomas. “Schofield’s Army of the Ohio is still in Knoxville and too far away, as we need to start putting men in the cars now. I want you to get about making it happen immediately, so I’m sorry to say, it has to be a corps from your Army of the Cumberland, one that is on hand. I was going to leave the choice to...”