Читать книгу A Civil General - David Stinebeck - Страница 5

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I saw him for the first time on the last day of 1862, at Stone River, six months before Gettysburg in the East.

He had won the first Northern victory in the West at Mill Springs at the beginning of the year. But this was the first big battle in the Western campaign for Atlanta, and it was very big. Even with the fighting at Mill Springs and Perryville, the Union men who joined after Shiloh knew they had not really been in an all-out fight. They did not know what that meant; the battles in the Mexican War that some had seen were no bigger than Perryville.

We knew how large the two armies were that were facing each other in Tennessee, maybe fifty thousand men each. You would go see friends in other regiments and it would take hours to find them, passing through brigade after brigade. Of course, our generals always insisted that the Rebs had more men than we had, that they were defending their own slave territory in Tennessee, even if half the population still supported the Union. So we pictured how many men were out there and we could imagine what it might be like if they all flew at each other at once.

What we could never imagine was how completely out of control it would be when it finally happened, how totally subject to luck and chance the outcome would have been without General Thomas. Maybe that was his genius: nothing he did ever seemed to be a matter of chance.

At seven in the morning on December 31st, 1862, the cavalry regiment of Indiana boys I had organized in May approached Stone River on the edge of Murfreesboro, Tennessee. We were not yet part of the Army of the Cumberland. Rosecrans had asked for more cavalry assistance, since the Confederates were always running rings around our troops with Forrest’s and Morgan’s cavalry, and we were sent over from Carter’s forces at the Cumberland Gap. As we got closer to Murfreesboro, we found the entire corps we were attached to—Thomas’ corps—was moving forward like some giant machine with people as its working parts. As far as the eye could reach, both in front and behind, the road was packed with men. A dozen bands played martial airs, while the morning sun reflected off thousands of muskets and the air blew through hundreds of American flags. You would think we were all pushing, crowded, to some Fourth of July celebration at the next field over. It was cold, of course, but just the anticipation of something important happening made us warmer.

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My four hundred men were walking their horses until it would get so crowded that, to save space for the infantry, we would mount up and get a clear view of the grand size of the forces we were sending into this first big battle to control the roads and railways to Knoxville, Chattanooga, and Atlanta. The country before us was unexplored by our side, and every ear was open to catch the sound of the first gun. The conviction that a big battle was coming kept the men steady and in line. You could feel their nervousness.

As we passed the fine houses and well-improved farms in the area, there were few white people to be seen. The Negroes appeared to have entire possession. I cannot speak for my men, but it raised my spirits to see such people in charge of their master’s property.

A young and very pretty white girl stood in the doorway of one handsome farmhouse and waved the Union flag, a sympathizer perhaps or just trying to save her home. Cheer after cheer rose along the lines, officers saluted and soldiers waved their caps, and the band played both “Yankee Doodle” and “Dixie,” as if to show that it did not matter what we played, we were going to take the day. That girl won a thousand hearts, men who would fall in battle that day, dreaming of her and home.

We turned a bend and a number of our East Tennessee cavalry were engaged in firing the houses along the roadside that had been abandoned by their disloyal occupants. They informed us that our troops on the right had already been surprised this morning by the enemy and routed. In their anger the Tennessee boys were doing the only thing they could think of.

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Then we began to hear the rumble of the battle in the distance. Our pace imperceptibly quickened and we found ourselves trotting and veering down roads to the left, as if to stay ahead of the sounds moving in from the right.

As we approached the strife, the number of stragglers, refugees, and baggage wagons retreating in confusion so obstructed the road that we could barely make our way to the front, while the roar of artillery, the rattle of musketry, and the shouts of contending parties could be heard above the confusion around us— a scene calculated to try the nerves of veterans.

Then, less than a mile from the battleground, General Thomas appeared out of nowhere. One of his aides, Kellogg, was with him. Thomas stood straight in the saddle, his head slowly turning to take in the entire scene. I was no more than thirty feet from him on his right; he must have come up from behind. He always rode so quietly. He had not even seen me, I thought, but out of the blue he turned and said, “Colonel Swain, put your regiment in line of battle across the field on the left of this road, and I’ll put that Pennsylvania regiment of infantry on the right, and somehow, persuasion, reasoning, or threats, we’ll stop this stampede.”

And he was gone, to some other spot, directing some other regiments he already knew.

We did what he said. Veering again to the left, we made our way through fields of corn stubble and thickets of cedar bushes. Out of a line of thickets we arrived within sight of one of those grand and terrific struggles that characterized all the great battles of the war, where foes met in an almost hand-to-hand fight, with a determination to conquer amounting nearly to desperation. Across a large field, drawn up in a semi-circle, long lines of mounted troops stood opposed to each other, firing their carbines and revolvers with a rapidity that caused a constant roar, over which thundered and reverberated the frequent discharge of artillery.

Suddenly, however, the firing in a great measure ceased, and our cavalry, my regiment included, with a terrific shout charged upon the enemy lines but were met with a firm stand and withering fire, before which our line reeled and was compelled to retire, which they did, however, in good order. It was just a feint of sorts to slow down the enemy, and it only worked for a few minutes.

General Thomas had moved his mass of infantry and cavalry gradually to the left, and up a small rise that approached the railroad line from Nashville to Chattanooga. Stone River and the Nashville Pike came in there as well, so he could oversee all movements of all troops, Union and Confederate, and the natural barriers that might halt them. Stone River was not deep, you could ford it on foot, but it would slow up the troops who crossed it. By nine o’clock the battle was in full swing, and you could not tell how our side was doing. Fleeing soldiers from our right side, McCook’s division, were pouring into our lines, but they were meeting and joining new regiments, like mine, that were calm and ready, and placed just where General Thomas wanted us. So we somehow were not affected by the fear on their faces. It was as if they finished a race and were embraced by the officials who would tell them that it was all right, they tried.

The 14th Indiana, my regiment, was fighting on foot, firing over the heads of our on-rushing men when we thought we saw a gray uniform. With the tremendous smoke, though, it was hard to see clearly. You usually guessed how far behind the running blue uniforms the running gray uniforms would be. They still were not close, so we tried not to use up too much ammunition. Perhaps twenty thousand men, up and down a line in front of the pike and railroad, were facing the oncoming Rebs. This time it was Negley’s and Rousseau’s divisions, with the remnants of McCook’s corps, rushing through the line and reforming behind it as best they could. The Confederates had already pushed back McCook’s troops at least a mile. Sheridan’s men resisted the most, but even they gave way and tried to join the end of Negley’s division where the river bent north.

The river, shallow as it was, acted like a barrier in front of that end of the line, across which the Confederates would have to come, and the Pike, behind our lines, gave us the escape route we might need to get back to Nashville. As I rode around my men and positioned them at the far right to keep our troops from being outflanked, I could understand Thomas’ thinking. He was giving his soldiers the best chance they could have in the worst of circumstances. And he was everywhere along the line, paying particular attention to the placement of his batteries above and behind the infantry and cavalry. It was no surprise to me that he paid such attention to his cannons: his training at West Point was in artillery, and he had proved himself in the Mexican War.

But once he had placed those guns, he got down off Ashes, his majestic horse, and stood in the midst of the privates doing the fighting, directing and supervising them along with their own officers. Wherever the fighting was thickest that day, Negley and Rousseau saw him, all of us did. Coolly giving orders in his dress uniform, he even told his men to lie down to steady their aim, then refused to lie down himself. The shot, shell, and canister came thick as hail, hissing, exploding, and tearing up the ground around us. You had no way of knowing where the next shell was going to land. But Thomas continued to walk up and down the line, watching the approaching enemy. I heard him say, distinctly, when the men begged him to get down, “No, it is my time to stand guard now.”

Until that day, his men told me later, he was considered unnecessarily strict about the enforcement of orders, and was not especially liked. But on December 31, 1862, at Stone River, he captured an entire corps of men, his own, every one of whom would die for him from then on. It was a remarkable sight, because we were losing the battle after all. But that line he formed never broke as wave after wave of Hardee’s and Polk’s rebel troops poured across the field toward us, up the gradual incline from the river. Thomas just stood there in his new uniform with his newly minted brigadier general’s stars and gold braid. He wanted to make certain that every man in the corps knew he was in the forefront, sharing their danger, and the full-dress uniform was a reminder they could not miss. Most generals save those uniforms for dances and ceremonies; Thomas used it for his men.

The roar of guns sounded like the pounding of a thousand anvils. Even that cannot explain the noise, because anvils are familiar. The sound of a battle of this magnitude is like nothing else. It is not constant, every moment is not like the last. The explosions and gunfire may come in waves but they are not regular waves. When it is loudest, you can see enemy soldiers, coming across the cotton fields, stuffing the cotton they have picked on the run into their ears. Absolutely everything is unpredictable, and most of all who is going to be hit or killed with the next sounds. You throw all fate to the winds because it is the only thing to do. And there is no point in running—Old Thomas will disapprove.

We did not retreat because there did not seem to be anywhere to go. With the Nashville Pike not a hundred yards behind us, it might as well have been five miles. The cloud of noise and smoke and flying men enveloped everything; none of us thought there was any place else to be. And the cedar thickets that concealed most of our infantry made us feel even more enclosed.

Finally, after a five-minute lull in the fighting late in the afternoon, General Thomas ordered, of all things, a bayonet charge! He rode up and down the line getting the men ready, and it was clear that they would go forward out of those woods, as long as the general said it was the thing to do. The remainder of Hardee’s divisions, stalled in the middle of the long field down to the river, were completely startled by the charge and gave ground for a half mile to the base of the slope and their own cedar thickets.

We never regained our original positions from the morning. But we had the last word that day, and it proved to be prophetic. The Army of the Cumberland formed a new defensive line, still parallel with the railroad and pike, collected its wounded, and buried its heads in weariness behind breastworks thrown up in darkness.

That night there was a generals’ council at Rosecrans’ headquarters. We all heard that Thomas intensely disliked councils of war; he believed generals should be left to their own courage and ingenuity. All they needed to know was where everyone else was supposed to be. “Too much talking weakens the resolve of any army,” he said. I learned only later that most of the generals were counseling retreat since we had lost so much ground. Thomas, with an assist from Sheridan, was roused from a catnap and stated his case clearly: “This army does not retreat,” and that was the end of the meeting. He was forty-six but looked at least sixty that night, and no one, not even Rosecrans, was going to dispute his wisdom. The West Point Thomas was like a grandfather among the younger officers, so many of whom owed their rank to political appointments.

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Forty thousand of our men, many in their first battle, lie stretched beside their guns on the field. The night is cold and gloomy, but our spirits, unaccountably, are rising. We all glory in the stubbornness with which Rosecrans, with Thomas in charge, has clung to our position. Once my horse has been tethered and settled down with the rest of our animals, I take out my pocket Bible and turn quite by accident to the 91st Psalm: “I will say to the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress, my God: in Him will I trust. Surely He shall deliver thee from the share of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence…. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day;... A thousand shall fall by thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.” Countless campfires glimmer. A few scattered shots are heard, and an occasional mounted man gallops by. But our spirits are lifting, and I wrap myself in my blanket and lie down for the night.

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Neither army wanted to fight the next day, but we knew it would come; neither was content with the first day’s battle.

As I rode by an Ohio regiment in Rousseau’s division the next morning, a gallant colonel gathered his field of men together and addressed them in an unusual way. I thought afterwards that his strange, cruel speech was true to what was likely to happen, even if we won the battle the following day:

“Soldiers of the Third: The assault of the enemy on our fortifications will be made tomorrow morning. They will have twenty thousand men and forty cannon, more men and cannon than we have in this spot. They will cut us to pieces. Many of you will go into battle and never come back again. Marching into such an attack will be like marching to a butcher shop rather than to a battle.”

The colonel spoke for another ten minutes in this same vein, and I took him aside when he finished and suggested, respectfully, that he might be upsetting the men for the battle that was coming. He only replied, “What I said was true, and they should know the truth.”

Plutarch never included such a speech in his wars; his generals always spoke encouragingly and hopefully. But this colonel was his own person; maybe he wanted his men just to think of what was at stake. His men and I, as we listened, undoubtedly thought of what it would be like to die so young, so far from home. Of parents and family and sweethearts. Of things not said, and advice not heeded. Of the meaning of life itself, especially if, like I was, we were unsure of that meaning. Some soldiers, even before I moved away to my own men, kicked together the expiring fragments of their campfires, and when they raised their heads I could see how white their faces had become. Yes, the colonel revealed what we were fighting for and, for some of us, losing.

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The sun rises on January 2nd and the Rebel cannon shells immediately begin falling along the Pike, like the wooden balls on those new bowling alleys bouncing toward the pins, but destroying them in the process. We rouse quickly, stuff our mouths, and mount to take the position, again on the right, that Thomas has assigned to me even before the sun rose. As I swing my horse around, a soldier near me, walking deliberately to the rear for safety, is struck by one of the cannon balls and separates in two, both halves—torso and head in one spot, and legs still together in another—still trying to move in that same direction, as if it is important any more. Our own batteries, thank goodness, immediately open up and silence the cannon fire coming in. The lull lasts till early afternoon.

Then from the left, where Van Cleve’s regiment is located, comes the relentless sound of all guns, and all regiments, mounted or not, rush toward the center to bolster his men. The thunderous noise becomes more and more violent, the volleys of musketry growing into one prolonged and unceasing roll.

During the night, Van Cleve’s men have moved forward and occupied a hill that the Rebels think is still unoccupied and ready for them to take, giving them a perfect base from which to conduct their real attack. And Thomas has repositioned his cannon to fire on the fields below Van Cleve’s men, as if he knew the Confederates would want that hill. They ignored it two days before, but somehow Thomas knows they want it now. All tolled, fifty-eight guns decimate the half mile of space in front of our troops. And Negley’s and Rousseau’s divisions, on the defensive New Year’s Eve, now rush across the river on the offensive to support Van Cleve. My men are held back. The battle lasts only two hours. The Rebels withdraw completely.

Our hungry soldiers cut steaks from the flanks of dead horses, and around the campfires talk over the incidents of the day. This is the most cheerful they have been since my regiment arrived, and they even give us a snatch of song now and then. Officers come over from adjoining brigades, hoping to find a little whiskey, only to discover the canteens empty long since, as are the private flasks.

I ride over the battlefield. The bodies of Federals and Confederates are intermingled everywhere, old and young, for miles. Some are my own men, one third of whom are missing. I see Corporal Wright lying at the exit from the cedar thickets when we first glimpsed the enemy two days before; he has one foot off and has bled to death. Another lies with his hands clasped behind his head, as if he is dreaming of home, but he is dead, too. The Confederates have the very same expressions on their faces as the Union dead: wherever they have gone they are presenting themselves to God in the same way.

A young boy, dressed in a Confederate uniform, lies face upward, eyes closed; there is no sign of a wound, and he looks as if he might be sleeping. I get down from my horse, and moving his rifle away from him, jostle his leg. I cannot believe he does not wake up, and I keep trying for what seems like minutes. A mule with one of his legs blown off has obviously been standing on three legs all day long; where could his strength be coming from, waiting for who knows what? How many poor men moaned through the cold night in the thick woods after that first day’s battle, calling in vain for help, and finally dealing with God on their own.

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I find my men, back at camp, talking in hushed voices about comrades that have not returned. They assume they are dead, though some undoubtedly have fled. There are no laughs, not even the laughter of fear that comes with sorrow. A frivolous word would insult the slain. They have sought for a long time a grand battle, and have finally gotten one. They see it is like a storm through autumn leaves, and are amazed to discover that they are still attached to the tree.

I ask for volunteers to bring shovels to our position on the great battlefield. I have more volunteers than I have shovels. The men dig trenches for many bodies at once, most of which are stiff not from the cold but from rigor mortis. The only sound beside the shovels cracking the frozen dirt is the sobs from the volunteers, as they deposit their comrades in mass graves. The lines of General Wolfe at Quebec recur to me:

No useless coffin enclosed his breast;

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him,

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,

But left him alone with his glory.

As we are finishing, General Thomas rides into the middle of the field and stops. He looks at every soldier digging and, it seems, at every soldier being lowered in the ground. This time I am fifty yards away and cannot see his expression.

He does not move for ten minutes. Then he looks straight at me, salutes, and carefully, slowly, rides away.

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Twelve hours later he led his thirty thousand remaining soldiers into Murfreesboro. His commander, General Rosecrans, rode next to him, but we all knew that Thomas was the reason we had taken the town. He was the backbone that refused to break, that gave us the courage we had needed. As he approached the city limits, he passed a little tumbled-down frame schoolhouse. Over the door, in large letters, were the words CENTRAL ACADEMY. I heard that Thomas said, “If this is called an academy, what sort of things must their common schoolhouses be? Tennessee is a beautiful state. All it lacks is free schools and free men.”

The Negroes in the town may not have been free, but they poured out to greet us in great numbers, some of them in holiday attire. The women had flounces and the men had canes. One excited colored man told the truth about the two armies that had just tried to devastate each other: “You look like solgers. No wonder dat you wip de white trash ob de Southern army. Dey ced dey could wip two ob you, but I guess one ob you could wip two ob dem.”

The six thousand white residents were nearly gone. The public square was deserted except for a few businesses that the quartermaster had commandeered. The wide, rutted streets were quiet.

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A week after we had settled into the town on every square of grass and in every abandoned and stately home, I rode back over the battlefield. Trees were peppered with buckshot, and some even cut down at the trunk. Unexploded shells threatened to trip me, and haversacks, hats, shoes, and broken caissons littered the fields. The grass in town was filled with moving, human life; but the grass at the river was filled with stillness and silent objects of all kinds. On the mounds of mass graves like the ones my men had made, wooden sticks, a foot apart, stood for each body beneath. The mounds and sticks were everywhere: in the woods, meadows, cornfield, cotton fields.

I even stumbled over a mound and its handful of sticks in the deepest cedar thicket, where I had retreated to get away from the sight of the mounds in the open. On one of the sticks hung an old hat, still trying to protect the head of the soldier beneath. When spring comes the sticks will be gone and weeds will be up; by summer it will be impossible to find the shallower graves altogether.