Authors: R.E. Thomas
May 8
Army of Tennessee, CSA
Franklin, Tennessee
At daybreak, Jackson found McPherson’s Army of the Tennessee heavily dug in on the outskirts of Franklin. Weary Billies had worked through the night, extending and improving the town’s existing fortifications. Now all of Logan’s XV Corps was behind thick, log-reinforced embankments, fronted by a series of four-foot wide, three-foot deep ditches and rows of sharpened stakes.
To make matters worse, Jackson readily saw that any attacking force approaching the northern half of this fortress, by way of Carter’s Creek Pike, had to cross more than a mile of nearly open ground. An attack on the southern half could come up from behind the woods to within half a mile, but that end was further protected by dense hedges of thorny orange-osange, and covered by the rifled cannon jutting out of from the embrasures of Fort Granger, located on the north side of the Harpeth River and beyond his reach.
Jackson quickly concluded that any frontal assault on Franklin would be bloody and futile. Wherever it was made, the infantry would have to cross at least several hundred yards of open country under fire, go through or around two or three separate layers of barriers, and then storm the fortifications. Nor could he flank Franklin’s fortifications directly, since they were anchored snugly into a bend of the Harpeth.
Anticipating this eventuality the night before, Jackson had already dispatched Forrest and all his cavalry to find a crossing of the Harpeth, secure it, and gain the Federal rear. Forrest found that Minty had already posted his worn troopers at the nearer fords, and through the morning McPherson replaced these with detachments of infantry from Sweeney’s Division. Forrest did not find a suitable, unguarded crossing of the Harpeth until early afternoon, almost 15 road miles east of Franklin.
As soon as he received Forrest’s message about the discovery of an open ford on the Harpeth, Jackson put Stewart’s and Hood’s Corps, the latter now under Cleburne, into motion. Hungry and footsore, the Johnnies arrived at the ford only well after dark, and then spent all night trudging across the Harpeth.
McPherson used that day to rest his men, and to rebuild and improve Franklin’s standing railroad bridge and its demolished wagon bridge, all the while hoping that Jackson would be foolish enough to attack him. After dark, while Stewart and Cleburne were crossing the Harpeth downriver, McPherson quietly moved the XV Corps across the repaired bridges, ordered the bridges fired behind them, and marched for Nashville.
May 9
4:00 am
Headquarters, Army of the Tennessee, CSA
Harrison House off the Columbia Pike
Franklin
Jackson slept fitfully, propped up against a tree. He was exhausted, but both painfully hungry and terribly restless, and waiting anxiously for the arrival of dawn’s first light. Sleep neither came or stayed easily, and upon waking one time too many, he checked his watch and decided to get up.
The headquarters was quiet as Jackson went looking for the duty officer. They stared at each other for a minute, minds thickened with sleepy weariness, unable to fully recognize each other. The duty officer’s memory sparked first, and he snapped into attention and gave a salute. Jackson saluted back, and only then remembered who the man was: Captain Quintard, one of the newer aides, recruited from the Army of Tennessee, and not one of his Virginia men.
“Saddle my horse and muster an escort,” Jackson said quietly. “I want to have a look around.”
“Yessir,” Quintard whispered back. “Shall I wake Colonel Pendleton, sir?”
“Sandie?” Jackson shook his head, looking at Harrison house, where his senior staff slept on the floors. “No, let him sleep.” He needs the rest, Jackson thought, and would cluck like some fretful hen over the idea of my going on reconnaissance anyway.
The thought of a worrying Sandie gave him pause, for here he was intending to go forward, beyond his own lines, bending if not breaking his word. But Jackson couldn’t stand the waiting anymore. He had to do something, to go and see for himself. So, he rationalized his choice away by saying either the Yankees would be in their works or they would not, and if they were he certainly would not do anything so foolish as to ride right up to them.
He also had no intention of putting Sandie, Smith, or any of the others needlessly into harm’s way. While he lost an arm that night at Chancellorsville, several of his aides were killed in the same accident. He would go with a minimal escort, nothing more.
Jackson studied the house while he waited for his horse, a fine brick mansion with a beautiful, two-story colonnaded porch. Just north of the Tennessee River, the country had the feel of his childhood home deep in the Virginia mountains, a place of villages and crude log cabins. This place reminded him more of the place he had chosen to settle in and raise a family in the Shenandoah, a place of prosperous people, well-settled with good homes made of brick.
The South was like that, he thought. As many places just clawed back from the frontier as were genteel and showed refinement.
A small escort was mounted, and as soon as Jackson had pulled himself up into his saddle one-armed, they set out down the Columbia Pike in the early morning gloom. Once they were out of sight, Quintard hurried off to wake Sandie Pendleton. The Colonel had left strict orders with the staff that he was to be woken whenever Jackson was up, and Quintard was not about to cross the army’s chief of staff, no matter what the commanding general said.
Riding over the hills, Jackson could see little in the dim light of the early morning. He hushed his escort and advanced slowly up the road, listening for any signs of Yankee pickets. There were none. As the sun crept over the horizon, they came before the ramparts of Franklin. As he had expected, there wasn’t a Yankee in sight.
“Send word of this back to headquarters,” Jackson said flatly, to no one in particular. “Order up the engineers, and have them meet me at the Harpeth bridges.” As one of the escorts turned his horse around and galloped back to the Confederate camp, Jackson struggled to maneuver his mount through the series of earthworks protecting the opening that admitted the Columbia Pike into town, ignoring how much easier the passage was for his escort party. His horsemanship had always been subpar, much to his embarrassment.
Jackson soon found himself looking upon the smoking ruins of Franklin’s railroad and wagon bridges. He knew McPherson had been thought one of West Point’s most promising young engineering officers before the war, and that promise showed here. Not only were the bridge decks and superstructures burnt away to nothing, but the piers had been badly damaged by demolition charges.
The stone piers of the railroad bridge were repairable, Jackson thought, given time. The wooden wagon bridge was a complete loss. My pontoon train was behind the supply wagons, at the end of a slow column that should be in Columbia now, 25 miles away. No one would cross the Harpeth from here until tomorrow morning, at the earliest.
He scowled, despite himself. McPherson had escaped him. Even though Stewart’s Corps should be on the road by now, and Forrest had advance cavalry as far as Nolensville, McPherson would reach Nashville. He was as certain of this as he was of the reasons why it had happened.
The prideful Yankees had been deceived, and he had succeeded in bringing a larger army into Tennessee than the one sent to meet him. Providence laid the prospect of a great victory before the South, a victory that would have opened the road to winning the war, to winning independence. If he had destroyed McPherson at Lawrenceburg, Sherman would have had no choice but to quit Georgia, leave a garrison in Chattanooga, and march the bulk of his army to defend Nashville.
Instead, it was all undone by wicked and worthless men within his own army. The treachery of Loring, the sloth and stupidity of Featherston, the weakness among so many of the common soldiers. The last part was especially painful. If they had caught up to McPherson yesterday, if only for a little while, Stewart would have arrived in time to smash the Federal flank. His soldiers had their orders, but they couldn’t keep up, and all for a few biscuits. A third of his army was straggled back 60 miles, all the way to Lawrenceburg. Many of his men had made a valiant effort, had done their duty, but many others had not.
Bullets thwacked against the house behind him, confirming the enemy’s presence on the opposite bank. Just as at Columbia, he thought, cavalry would no doubt continue to secure the crossings for much of the morning. Jackson grunted and withdrew to greater safety behind the house, a concession to his promises regarding reckless exposure, where he was met soon after by the engineers.
Leaning against a brick wall, Jackson ordered “Inspect the railroad bridge piers and begin repairs. Also, send a courier to Generals Stewart and Forrest. Halt the pursuit, withdraw to the south banks of the Harpeth, and await further direction.”
Further direction, he thought. I should move right now, advance behind the curtains of the Harpeth and Cumberland, cross the Cumberland River at Clarksville, swing in behind, and cut the railroad to Louisville. The entire United States would panic, and Sherman and McPherson would have no choice but to attack me, lest every enemy soldier from Nashville to Decatur and Chattanooga starve.
Jackson’s features twisted into an angry frown as he realized he couldn’t, at least not yet. He needed to feed his men, just as he needed his pontoons if he was to cross the Cumberland. That meant at least two days to rest his men, regroup, wait for his bridging train, and distribute rations and ammunition. He clenched his fist and his teeth, and resolved it would be no more than two days.
“Excuse me, General, but you are
the
Stonewall Jackson, are you not?”
Jackson looked up. A wary, middle-aged civilian was standing a few yards away. Jackson wondered for a moment who the stranger was, but realized he must be the owner of the house he was sheltering behind.
Jackson’s features relaxed. “Yes, yes. If I may trouble you, does your lovely town have a Presbyterian house of worship?”
The man brightened. Stonewall Jackson, here, in my backyard! “Delighted to be of service,” he answered smartly. “Yes, sir, General, we do indeed. The Presbyterian Church is at Five Points, ah, that’s 5
th
and Main.”
Jackson nodded. He had ridden right past it and not noticed. He thanked the man and started for his horse.
“General Jackson! Won’t you come in and have some coffee? We don’t have any real coffee, mind you, but we do have a supply of Kentucky coffee.”
Jackson pulled himself up onto his horse, and smiled. “No, no, but thank you.” I must pray, he thought. The victory was incomplete and more battles waited for them, but that was Providence. It was also Providence that they still had a victory, if only a partial one, and with it part of Tennessee was liberated. What they had was good, and thanks were due.
Upon reaching the church, Jackson told the lieutenant that led his escort “Go find the pastor and tell him I’m here. If he is having his breakfast, insist on my behalf that he finish first. I’ll wait.” With that, Jackson dismounted, sat down on the church steps, put his back up against the door, and fell soundly asleep.
9 a.m.
Headquarters in the Field, Army of the Tennessee, USA
Brentwood Crossroads
Brentwood
McPherson heard the clopping and clapping of riders coming on hard from a hundred yards off, and after turning to look down the Franklin Pike, he saw a splash of red under the hat of the lead rider, far in front of the others.
That must be Bill, he thought. His spirits instantly lightened, as a feeling of relief passed through him.
He watched as Sherman thundered on fast, right up to the place he was standing. As smooth as any man in the cavalry, Sherman brought the horse up, about, and to stop on just the right spot, and then rolled smartly off the saddle.
Stepping forward with his hand extended, McPherson said “Bill, I didn’t reckon you were already in Nashville, but I should have.”
With a wide smile, Sherman took shook his hand and slapped him on the shoulder. “Damn, Mac, am I glad to see you. I ran into Logan on the way. Had some words. What’s the situation here?”
“Well, I have Sweeney covering the approaches from Franklin and Nolensville. The cavalry ought to arrive shortly, unless they ran into trouble with Forrest. Then I’m pulling Sweeney back.”
Sherman frowned. “Jackson and Forrest. A match made in hell, right there. This fellow of yours, Bobby Minty, he seems to have done well enough against the devil in the saddle, didn’t he?”
“He did, he did indeed. I’ll tell you, my cavalry have taken a real kicking. Holly Grove, Lawrenceburg, covering our retreat. Not a clear win in the lot, Bill, but their morale has never been better. Minty has the style, that Irish pugnacity with a dash of British parade ground panache for good measure. He’s got my enthusiastic endorsement as Kilpatrick’s permanent replacement. Get him his star, soon as you can, that’s my advice.”
Sherman withdrew a cigar from its case, struck a match, and started puffing it alight. He muttered “I’ll draw up the papers today,” cigar clenched in his teeth. Taking the cigar out, he pointed away from the road. “We need to talk.”
The two withdrew a short distance. “Before you get started, Bill, I just want to say... I lost at Lawrenceburg, and I know it. I haven’t had a chance to write it up, but my resignation will be on your desk this evening.”
Sherman was non-plussed. Even though this sort of thing was customary, that McPherson might tender his resignation was the last thing on his mind. “Poppycock. I won’t accept it, Mac, and neither will Halleck or Grant. You stay right where you are.”
“Bill, you and I know the press will kick up a whirlwind over this, and I don’t have that many friends in Washington. Think about this. I’ll be more trouble to you than I’m worth.”
“You have the commanding general of the United States Army, its chief of staff, and the commander of its largest military department behind you. All three of us. Mac, if Horace Greeley, some other syphilitic newsman, or any grubby, bullying politician takes a swing at your head, he’ll do it through the protests of Halleck, Grant’s resignation, and my dead body.”