John Brown's Body, page 32
The tiny armada continued floating downriver until those in the lead boats could make out several campfires on each shore of the river up ahead. Clearly, the fires belonged to the Confederate forces, lazily guarding both ends of Brown’s Ferry. Turchin hissed instructions to the boats behind his own, with orders to pass them along. The soldiers with oars began to row the boats to the right bank. Meanwhile, about halfway back in the line, the convoy split, the boats to the rear heading toward the left bank; General Hazen and his men were on their own mission to secure the western approach to Brown’s Ferry.
The lead boats began to bump into the bank. In a low but penetrating voice, Turchin hissed his orders. “Cold steel, boys! Bayonet, but not fire until cannot be helped! Pass it back!” With that, Turchin jumped into the shallow water and slogged quickly to shore, drawing his heavy saber as he ran straight to the first campfire.
A grizzled old sergeant heard Turchin coming but had been too long near the comfortable fire to see well in the dark. “Who goes there! Give the sign!” he shouted just as the Russian surged out of the dark at him, gleefully screaming something in his native tongue. The Confederate tried to level his rifle, but Turchin swung his saber with terrific force, and the man’s head went flying away from his body.
In a moment, utter confusion ensued as hundreds of attackers overwhelmed the unprepared rebels. Many sleeping soldiers stumbled bleary-eyed out of their tents only to be bayoneted before they had any idea what was happening. There were shouts, pleas and screams, but few gunshots, almost all of them from Confederates firing wildly into the dark, harming nothing.
Then, in a moment, it was over. Hundreds of gray-clad soldiers stood prisoner, terror on their faces; scores more lay dead and dying. Triumphant shouts from across the river indicated Hazen’s troops had met with similar success. Only a few Union soldiers were wounded or dead, hardly worth mentioning after all the massacres of the first two years of the war.
Spattered with gore, Turchin bellowed for his men to join him near the largest of the campfires. “Boys, you make me proud. Today you show you could make a Turk shit his pants! Now, we finish job. All right to shoot, for they know now Turchin’s boys come! But more fun to use bayonet, to see light in Johnnie Reb’s eyes go out as you kill traitor! Those who not guarding prisoners, follow me; we clear path back to Chattanooga!”
Lot was unnerved by the viciousness of the speech, but he could tell that the men were not; they were roaring their approval. Lot looked around for Clay and saw him standing near Turchin, his own sword stained with blood halfway to the hilt. It disturbed Lot even more that Clay’s blue eyes seemed to dance with joy behind the spectacles. He then noticed Lieutenant Bierce standing alongside Turchin, arms crossed on his chest, a sardonic smile on his face, seemingly amused by the spectacle. That disturbed the black sergeant even more.
Setting off at a brisk walk, Turchin led his forces along the road to Chattanooga, a mere half mile away. Periodically, he would shout orders to a particular company to peel off to the left or to the right, to round up Confederate pickets and stragglers. Occasional shots and screams came from the darkness, but they were rare and signified little in the grand scale of war. Bierce jogged to the front and went to the lead. Clearly, the young Lieutenant felt obligated to make sure that the advance did not get lost in the darkness. Clay moved up to accompany him. Lot cursed to himself, feeling that Clay put them both at risk in some obscure desire to prove his courage the equal of Bierce’s.
Suddenly a shot erupted from the brush to the side of the road. Bierce stopped and clapped a hand to the side of his neck; in the dim light of the coming dawn, a look of surprise came to his face. He brought his hand to his face and looked with amazement at a dark smear. At that moment, a shadowy figure leaped, screaming from the brush, running at Bierce with a bayonet-tipped musket.
In a blur of motion, Clay whipped his German-made saber from its scabbard and lunged at the Rebel. The man started to turn, but Clay batted the bayoneted musket away with the flat of his saber. Then he thrust his sword deep into the man’s bowels. The Confederate soldier dropped his weapon and made as to grab the sword and remove it from his vitals. He then looked directly at Clay, who hissed in surprise as he recognized the young soldier whose artless relief of his bladder had given such amusement a quarter of an hour ago. Clay drew out the sword and the man fell to the ground, beginning a keening series of low cries. Clay stood stock still, bloody sword in hand, looking at the man he had just stabbed. Up trotted General Turchin, who saw the blood on Bierce’s hand.
“Lieutenant, what happen here?”
“Some fool shot at me,” Bierce replied in wonderment. “I don’t believe it is serious; just grazed the side of my neck. He would have finished me off but for Captain Clay. I suppose that I owe him my life.”
“Good job, Captain,” said Turchin. “Not many like Bierce; should not lose him in silly skirmish. You think quick.”
Clay said nothing but continued to stare expressionlessly at the young man on the ground, whose cries were getting louder and more pathetic.
Turchin bent over, and inspected the Rebel in the strengthening light of the dawn. “Man will not survive this; no point in taking to hospital.” In a smooth motion, Turchin drew his saber and plunged it into the chest of the young Confederate, who shuddered and died.
Clay started. “General Turchin, was that really necessary?” he asked in a quiet voice.
The Russian shrugged as he wiped his blade clean and restored it to its scabbard. “Man was dead, Captain. Better it be quick and now, rather than later of infection. This is war. Come, Chattanooga Bridge just around bend.” Without waiting, Turchin began jogging along with his men, who were advancing up the road in greater and greater numbers. Bierce stood looking at Clay in puzzlement, Clay looked at the body of the young soldier with no expression at all, and Lot looked at Clay with pity.
“Huzzah for the cracker line, boys! Huzzah for the cracker line!” Soldiers along the riverfront kept repeating the cheer as the first wagons from the new wharfs at Brown’s Ferry made their way into Chattanooga. Generals Grant and Thomas stood together on a hilltop overlooking the riverfront, with Rawlins, Parker, Clay, Lot, and Bierce at a respectful distance.
“Strange how the soldiers have taken to calling the route across Moccasin Point ‘the cracker line,’” muttered Grant, lighting another of his ever-present cigars. “Crackers aren’t the most important thing. Fodder for the animals, fresh vegetables and meat for the men, ammunition, and medicine—all of those are as important, if not more so.”
Thomas stared moodily at the waterfront, while the distant cries of ‘Huzzah for the cracker line’ continued. “I expect it’s the symbolism of the humble army cracker, sir. All of the things you mention are critical, and we’re short of them all, but the cracker is the most basic of the rations. When it starts coming through, the soldiers know that everything else will follow.”
“I expect you’re right, General. Anyway, now we can not only supply your men, but bring in Sherman and Hooker. With their fifty thousand extra men, we can go on the offensive, and finally whip Bragg and Longstreet.”
“Sir, I meant to tell you something of importance,” replied Thomas. “My staff has interrogated several prisoners and confirmed that Bragg is detaching Longstreet to go attack Burnside in Knoxville.”
Grant stared at Thomas in amazement. “Why would Bragg do such a doggone foolish thing? Longstreet’s corps is one-third of his army, and the best third at that.”
Thomas shrugged. “The prisoners are not entirely sure, but they feel that Bragg fears he will be kicked out of his command, and Longstreet named his replacement. You know Bragg’s reputation in the old army: the most contrary, mean, ornery, and high-handed officer you could meet in a month of Sundays. He’s hated by his officers and despised by his men, who are kept in line only by vicious punishment. Do you know, he actually executed a man for shooting a chicken! I am more against looting civilians than most and certainly believe in discipline, but that kind of harshness can only impact the morale of an army adversely. Anyway, it sounds like Bragg is actually willing to weaken his army in order to get rid of a potential replacement.”
Grant stared moodily at his smoldering cigar. “Well, that will make it easier for us here. However, if Burnside is destroyed and Longstreet drives north from Knoxville to the Ohio, it won’t matter what we do. I need to know more of what’s going on in Knoxville.” Grant turned to the knot of soldiers standing behind the two generals, and motioned for them to come forward. “Rawlins, tell General Thomas of that telegram you decoded.”
The gaunt chief of staff nodded. “When we finally got the telegraph working day before yesterday, one of the first things to come through was a coded message from Major Joachim von Lindau, a signals officer on the staff of Burnside’s Army of the Ohio. It said that he had irrefutable proof that the Rebels were obtaining advance knowledge of Burnside’s movements and dispositions, and that the information could only have come from within Burnside’s immediate staff. He apologized for not respecting the chain of command. However, he felt that he dare not alert the traitor that he is suspect. He appeals to you to send experienced officers to root out the exact identity of the traitor.”
“This could make a more rational reason for sending Longstreet to attack Burnside,” commented Grant. “Burnside is not the most … shall we say … quick witted of our generals, and Longstreet is one of their very best. If Longstreet had inside knowledge, he could very well destroy Burnside and his command before we could do anything about it.”
“Who is this von Lindau?” asked Parker. “Is he reliable, trustworthy?”
“I know him by reputation, sir,” responded Clay unexpectedly. “A Prussian lawyer who had some role in the revolution of ’48. He fled Berlin one-step ahead of the hangman and settled in the German community in St. Louis, where he became a prosecutor with an excellent record of obtaining convictions. He is said to be highly intelligent and fiercely devoted to abolitionism. He is also well connected with the Republican Party in Missouri and is a personal friend of both Generals Schurz and Sigel. I would consider him as reliable as anyone who I have not had the pleasure of actually meeting.”
“Well, maybe we can kill two birds with one stone,” said Grant. “Captain Clay, you and Sergeant Lot are to go overland to Knoxville, establish contact with Major von Lindau, and investigate whether there is merit to his charges. I sincerely hope that there is not, but we dare not take the chance, especially after … well, we dare not take the chance.
“Officially, you are to be my observer at Burnside’s headquarters, Clay, and in fact, if you feel he is getting overwhelmed, you let me know. We can’t have him losing control again, like he did at Fredericksburg. General Thomas, with your permission, I’d like to send Lieutenant Bierce with Clay. It may be necessary to move reinforcements directly from Chattanooga to Knoxville, and it is vital that I have a better idea of the roads and terrain than is given by the sorry excuses for maps that we have.”
Thomas nodded. “Lieutenant Bierce, please accompany Captain Clay to Knoxville, starting dawn tomorrow. I will have official orders drafted, and the best horses ready for all three of you.”
Bierce saluted Thomas then grinned sardonically at Clay. “Ah, just like old times, Clay. What times we had before Vicksburg! Still, it’s bound to be disappointing, not having a personal murder to look into—just masses of bodies from state-sanctioned slaughter.”
“Remember, Clay, I want certainty,” said Grant. “No rumors or guesses. Let me have the unvarnished truth about Burnside and whether there’s a traitor in his headquarters. I don’t care which way the answer goes, so long as it is certain.”
“Of course, sir,” said Clay saluting, nonetheless thinking to himself that even if certainty was possible, few men were able to endure it. Of all people, Ulysses Grant was probably one of those very few.
Chapter 2
“So We’re Springing to the Call from the East from the West”
It had not rained at all that day, but this fact pleased the three riders less than it should. They had been picking their way along a road little better than a game trail through countryside that had been hardscrabble in the best of times. The soil was poor and the drainage so bad that mud was everywhere, even when it had not been raining. Thinly settled as the land must have been in peacetime, it was virtually deserted now. Like most highland people in Tennessee, the inhabitants of this area were largely Union loyal. Confederate militia had been through a number of times, leaving untended fields and blackened chimneys as testimony to their opinion of those who clung to old allegiances.
The muddy trail was so narrow that the three soldiers had to ride single-file. Bierce was in front, as befitted his status as a scout. His restless eyes never ceased darting about: first the ground in front of them, then the woods and fields to either side, then the distant ridgeline ahead, then back to the ground in front of them. Next came Clay, frowning slightly as he took in the surroundings; the poor, untended land offended the sensibilities of a planter’s son who had grown up in Kentucky bluegrass. Last rode Lot, his constant vigilance as to their flanks and rear giving him a worried expression.
“This detour of yours will add at least two days to our journey,” said Clay to Bierce, breaking a long silence. “Yes, I know you were concerned that taking the direct route through Loudon County might cause us to run into Longstreet’s advance guard, but we could avoid contact if reasonably careful, and the roads would be much better.”
“I don’t quite share your optimism about avoiding capture if we come across the Reb main body. I would take the chance if it was Bragg. He’s sloppy, and his men don’t give their best. But Longstreet? Longstreet has a pretty smart outfit, and his men really stir themselves to give an extra ten percent. No, I do not want to be taking the long way any more than you, Clay, but have faith in my skills as a scout. Up here in Roane County, the roads are so bad, and the few sources of forage have been so picked over, that Longstreet’s Corps would never dream of coming this way. Even Forrest, light as he travels, wouldn’t risk more than a few companies of his horsemen up here, and we are unlikely to …”
Clay held up his hand and hissed, “Listen.”
All three horsemen drew up their mounts. Bierce wore a puzzled expression; he obviously heard nothing.
Clay said, “Somewhere up ahead and to our left. Crying or moaning.”
“I hear pretty damn good, Clay, but I don’t hear a thing,” replied Bierce.
Clay did not answer, but just spurred his horse into a gallop, heading at an angle across a muddy, uncultivated field. Wordlessly, Lot followed suit. Muttering curses under his breath, Bierce brought up the rear.
Clay galloped toward a ramshackle farmhouse, with an even more decrepit barn to its left. As he approached the farmhouse, Clay suddenly veered toward the barn and galloped around its corner. Bierce and Lot could now hear the sound that had attracted Clay’s attention, half moan, half sob, repeating over and over.
“How in the hell could he hear that from the road?” asked Bierce of Lot as he slewed his mount to follow Clay.
“He always could hear things no one else could,” responded Lot, just in front of Bierce. The two soldiers rounded the corner and reined their mounts in sharply. Later, both would recall that their eyes took some moments to acknowledge what was before them.
Clay had already dismounted and was standing beside a man in shapeless farmer’s clothing who was huddled on the ground, his back to the newest arrivals; from this man came the continuous moaning, weeping sounds. Clay was not looking at the man, but at an object that was in front of the moaning farmer. The object was a cross. On the cross, a naked boy of about ten had been nailed upside down in an obscene mockery of the Crucifixion. Lot cried out when he saw the gaping hole where the child’s heart should be. He was a believing Christian, and the sight was horrible to him on more than one level. Clay stood mesmerized at the sight of the child.
“Dear God,” whispered the black sergeant. “Dear, sweet Jesus.”
“You can look at this and believe in a God of mercy?” asked Bierce angrily, not taking his eyes off the sight. “Look at that! Someone took time with that child. Only thing I ever heard like this is what the newspapers said was found in the basement of the Starry Wisdom church in Rhode Island, back in ’61. Besides all those bodies under the basement floor, they said there had been some sort of human sacrifice. I thought it was something the newspapers made up to thrill the ignorant rabble and sell papers. Maybe not.”
“Where is the blood?” asked Lot suddenly. “A wound like that, blood should be splattered around all over. Where is the blood?”
Bierce had no answer, but continued to stare at the somber scene.
Without taking his eyes from the slaughtered child, Clay suddenly said “Sir, what happened here?”
The huddled farmer ceased his moaning. “Who’s there?” he asked in a cracked voice.
“Captain Clay, United States Volunteers, sir. I know this is hard on you, but I must know what took place here. I must.”
“Should’ve gone to Lenoir City, or to Knoxville,” came a low response from the huddled farmer. “Most folks hereabouts refugeed to them places when they heard Forrest’s boys were coming. Most of ’em don’t hold with the slavocracy or with Richmond. Never was political myself; didn’t feel I had a dog in this fight, and figured that if I didn’t bother nobody, nobody would bother me. Had a farm to run. With my woman passed on and with my daughter Celia and son Jethro to raise, no time for getting mixed up in foolishness.” The man stopped talking, and began rocking gently back and forth.
