Glory in Autumn! Alternate Gettysburg Part IV

[51st Georgia]

Been sick the last couple of days. Probably won't get anything written until I start feeling better.

Sorry to hear that. rest up and get better

 

[milhistbuff1]

Been sick the last couple of days. Probably won't get anything written until I start feeling better.

Hope you're on the mend asap.

 

[steve59p]

Sorry to hear that. rest up and get better

Would agree. Take your time and care of your health. The writing is fun to read and hopefully fun for you to write but real life always needs to come 1st.

 

[Wizard of Cozz]

Ch. 7: Hooker

5:00 A.M.
September 25th, 1863
D.C. Terminal
Washington, D.C.

Major General Joseph Hooker stood upon the platform of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad terminal and watched the war come rolling back to him.

It came on iron wheels.

The locomotive appeared first, black almost invisible in the pre-dawn sky, trailing a plume of smoke that drifted lazily across the station roof. Then came the cars, one after another, rattling and groaning beneath the weight of men and equipment. The train from the Orange and Alexandria Railroad entered the station with a shriek of brakes and a great exhalation of steam.

Hooker's eyes followed it eagerly. For the first time in months, he felt something very close to satisfaction. His army was coming.

Not an army in the grand sense, not yet. Not the hundred thousand men he had once commanded along the Rappahannock, nor the great Army of the Potomac that had marched beneath his authority toward Chancellorsville.

But men to call his own. Twenty thousand of them in fact. Twenty thousand soldiers Washington had entrusted to him. And they were saviours moving west.

Hooker smiled. "That's the first."

Beside him, Major General Daniel Butterfield glanced toward the train. "Should be more coming behind them."

Butterfield's voice had the same confident quality Hooker remembered so well. There was always something slightly theatrical about Daniel Butterfield, even when he was discussing something as mundane as railroad schedules.

He was a handsome man, still young for a major general, with a quick intelligence and an even quicker tongue. He had never been a West Pointer, something that had irritated more than a few of the professional soldiers who had watched his extraordinary rise through the volunteer ranks. Yet Butterfield possessed talents the army desperately needed, organization, energy, an instinct for administration, and a willingness to push himself into nearly every problem placed before him.

He had also acquired enemies with almost equal efficiency.

Some called him Little Napoleon. Less for his tactics and more for his temperament. Others used considerably less flattering terms. Hooker had always preferred the former.

He trusted Butterfield.

That trust had begun during Hooker's command of the Army of the Potomac, when Butterfield became his chief of staff and helped reorganize the army's administration, communications, and supply systems. Whatever his critics said about the man, and they said plenty, Butterfield could make a headquarters function.

Hooker needed that now. Because this assignment was not merely another command. It was a second chance. He had spent the summer carrying the weight of Chancellorsville upon his shoulders. There were men who believed he had lost his nerve there.

Men who believed he had squandered an army twice the size of Lee's. Men who whispered that Fighting Joe had ceased to fight. Hooker had heard all of it. He had never agreed with any of it. He had been wounded by the defeat, certainly. Angered by it. Humiliated by it. But not broken.

When he surrendered command of the Army of the Potomac, he had expected his military career to become an extended footnote. Instead, Lincoln had given him a second life. Once he wasn't going to squander.

The irony was not lost upon him. He had once commanded the largest army in the United States.bNow he was being sent to Tennessee with two depleted corps. But circumstances had changed.

The Federal defeat at Chickamauga had changed much. Following off Lee's twin victories at Gettysburg and Pipe Creek, Lee had struck off west and won another smashing defeat at Chickamauga.

The Army of the Cumberland needed help. And now, suddenly, Hooker was back in command of men, with a chance to get revenge for Lee's drubbing of him at Chancellorsville.

The locomotive hissed. A railway employee waved his lantern. The train came to a final stop. All around the platform, men sprang into motion.

Railroad workers hurried toward the cars. Soldiers leaned out of windows. Doors were thrown open. Officers shouted orders. Horses stamped inside boxcars. The smell of coal smoke, sweat, leather, and hot iron filled the station.

Hooker breathed it in. He liked it. War smelled better than Washington politics. That was one thing Lincoln liked about Hooker, for all his faults, Hooker had no political inclinations, and was a soldier's soldier.

"General Hooker." A voice called out.

That voice belonged to John W. Garrett. President of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, he stood nearby with his hat tucked beneath one arm. He was a businessman surrounded by soldiers, but he possessed none of the nervousness Hooker had come to associate with civilian officials.

Garrett had learned that railroads were their own kind of battlefield. And at this moment, Hooker suspected, the railroad was every bit as important as the battlefield.

"How soon?" Hooker asked.

Garrett smiled. "Soon enough to satisfy you, General."

Hooker asked again, this time a bit more tactfully, "How long do you think it will take to get them off these trains and onto yours?"

Garrett glanced toward the arriving train. "We have three trains ready at this moment. Nearly sixty cars."

Garrett point to the other line at the station that headed northwest. "Available for immediate loading."

"How many men will they hold?" Hooker asked, his impatience getting the best of him.

"About 40 men a car, I'd say we can get over two thousand aboard without difficulty."

Hooker's eyes brightened. "And we'll be able to get going today?"

"Immediately." Garrett asked, surprised at their doubt in the rail's ability.

Butterfield stepped closer. "You mean they'll leave Washington this morning?"

Garrett nodded. "As soon as those men are off the trains, you can decide who you want to send first. Provided the men get loaded quickly we can be on our way."

Hooker looked at the train. Then at Garrett. "Tell me about the rest of the movement."

Garrett's expression became more businesslike. "We will run trains day and night. The military railroad men have already begun clearing the route."

"When do you think we can arrive at Bridgeport?" Hooker wanted to know when he could get into the fight.

Garrett hesitated. "If everything stays on schedule, your lead elements can reach Bridgeport late on the evening of September thirtieth."

Hooker calculated silently. Six days to move twenty thousand men hundreds of miles through a railroad system already carrying an enormous portion of the war.

"But that will just be our lead elements, when can the rest arrive?" Hooker needed to weigh all the evidence, so he knew what he was getting himself into.

"It'll be another eight to ten days afterwards before we can get the rest of your men there."

Hooker nodded. There was no telling what the situation would be like when he got there. "Bobby" Lee was a wiley opponent, one Hooker wouldn't take for granted, not this time. Getting some of his troops there that quickly could be useful. Worst case scenario they'd be able to strengthen the garrisons at Bridgeport and Stevenson.

Hooker looked toward Butterfield. "What troops are these Dan?"

Butterfield consulted a paper. "Several regiments from Howard's command."

Hooker's expression immediately soured. "Howard?"

Butterfield nodded. "They're designated as X Corps."

Hooker gave a humorless laugh. "Of course." Hooker knew Howard would be under his command, but was hoping Newton and his XVIII would be coming up first.

Butterfield watched him carefully. The relationship between Hooker and Oliver Otis Howard had never recovered from Chancellorsville. Howard had commanded the XI Corps on Hooker's right. Hooker had warned him that his flank was vulnerable. When Jackson struck, Howard's corps had been caught badly exposed. The collapse had become one of the defining moments of the battle.

Hooker had never forgiven Howard for it. Howard, in turn, had never accepted Hooker's interpretation of what happened. The matter had been argued, dissected, defended, and recriminated over for months.

Hooker had blamed Howard. Howard had defended himself. And neither man had forgotten. Now some of Howard's soldiers were coming west under Hooker's command. Hooker watched the soldiers begin to spill from the first cars.

Already annoyance was beginning to wash over Hooker's face, "If only Washington had given me some more battle-tested units. How am I to lead this rabble?"

Butterfield's mouth twitched. "You'll figure it out."

Hooker shook his head. "Perhaps the Lord has a sense of humor."

Butterfield smiled. "I have always suspected it."

Hooker looked back at the train. He had hoped to be bringing his old III Corps with him, but that had apparently never been considered. Still while these X and XVIII Corps troops had mostly been fighting in secondary theaters, Hooker sensed his opportunity.

He had not asked for this command. Not exactly. But now that it was his, he intended to use it.

Hooker had always possessed a particular confidence, sometimes mistaken for arrogance, sometimes justified by his battlefield performance. He was aggressive by nature, and he preferred movement to paralysis. His reputation as a hard fighter had been earned in blood at Williamsburg, on the Peninsula, and at Antietam.

The nickname Fighting Joe had itself been born from a newspaper error, but Hooker had embraced it. He liked the name. He liked what it implied. And he intended to remind the army why it had been given to him.

Garrett interrupted his thoughts. "General."

Hooker turned.

"There is one more matter." Garrett waited, making sure he had the General's full attention. "The route."

Hooker's eyes narrowed.

Garrett unfolded a schedule. "We are going to give military traffic priority over almost everything else."

Garrett smiled. "We will be moving twenty thousand men across half the country in six days, everything else is going to have to wait. But I need you and your officers' help in ensuring that they stay orderly, and move efficiently from one train to the next. There are nine different stops on the route."

Hooker understood, "We want to get there as fast as possible, my men won't be a problem."

The three men looked toward the station. The scene had become chaotic. There were soldiers everywhere. Some men carried knapsacks, while others dragged ammunition boxes. Hooker could see one officers shouting out names in a roll call. While this was happening, railroad workers hurried between cars and checked on the trains.

A few soldiers leaned against the station walls, already exhausted from the journey to Washington.

Hooker watched them. He knew soon that the eyes of the men would be on him. At six feet tall, Hooker looked every inch the soldier.

Hooker turned to Butterfield. "How much do we actually know of what's going on in Chattanooga?"

Butterfield's expression became serious. "Not enough. We know Rosecrans is dead, and we know Thomas has taken over. The president has directed Burnside to send troops to Chattanooga as well."

Hooker's jaw tightened. "Burnside will dawdle and do nothing, something he's good at." Getting back on point after venting his frustration over Burnside he asks, "any other news?."

Butterfield nodded. "Latest intelligence from Washington is that word has been sent to Grant to also send reinforcements, but we don't know if he will or how many."

Hooker nodded, "Looks like we're it for the short-term, Then we had better get there quickly."

Hooker looked once more toward Garrett. "Those three trains waiting."

"Yes?" Garrett asked.

"I'll have men for them shortly."

Garrett nodded. "They'll be moving as soon as we can load them."

Hooker paused. "What about after those trains?"

"I've got seven more trains on the way, they'll be here before noon." Garrett beamed with pride.

"Seems you've got everything in hand." Hooker replied.

A shadow fell across the platform. Hooker looked up. For an instant, he saw only the silhouette of a tall officer approaching through the smoke.

Then the man stepped into the light. One arm hung empty beneath his uniform coat. Hooker's expression changed. Butterfield's did as well.

Oliver Otis Howard had arrived. The one-armed general walked toward them with the erect bearing of a man who had endured pain without allowing it to bend him.

Hooker's jaw tightened. Of all the men Washington might have placed before him on this day, Howard was perhaps the last he wanted to see.

Butterfield leaned slightly toward him. "Speak of the devil."

Hooker did not answer.

Howard stopped several yards away.

For a moment, the noise of the railroad seemed to fade.

Two generals who had spent months blaming one another for one of the Union's greatest disasters stood facing each other again. Only now, Hooker was the commander. And Howard was coming west under his orders.

Hooker slowly removed his gloves. His eyes never left Howard. "General Howard."

"General Hooker." Howard answered icily.

Neither smiled. And behind them, another train whistle screamed across the station.

For several seconds, neither man spoke.

The platform around them continued its frantic activity, but Hooker barely noticed it. Men hurried past carrying ammunition boxes. Railway workers shouted to one another. Steam rolled along the platform in thick clouds.

Yet between Hooker and Howard there seemed to be a pocket of stillness. Oliver Otis Howard stood erect, his empty sleeve pinned neatly against his coat. The missing arm was not something Hooker could ignore, however much he might have wished to.

Howard had lost it at Fair Oaks. The loss of his arm did not end his military career. He had commanded at Chancellorsville, and he had survived the destruction of his corps there.

Hooker knew all of that. He also knew that none of it changed what had happened.

"General Howard," Hooker said again.

"General Hooker." Howard's voice was polite, Though there was an icy edge underneath it.

Hooker glanced toward Butterfield. "General Howard has arrived with his command?"

"Most of it," Howard replied.

Hooker turned back. "Tell me about your corp?"

"Approximately nine thousand." Howard responded with little expression.

Hooker raised an eyebrow. "Nine thousand?" Hooker said rhetorically, "your corps has been reduced considerably."

Howard's expression hardened almost imperceptibly. "Some of the troops had to be left in South Carolina when they brought it north to reinforce Meade's Army of the Potomac."

Hooker could hear dig in his answer, as Howard made sure to note that the Army of the Potomac was Meade's army. Hooker seethed with anger.

"Well, General Meade has seen fit to offer your services to me."

He let the silence linger.

Then he said, "Give me the condition of your divisions."

Howard glanced at Butterfield, who was looking over the latest rolls.

Howard then looked back at Hooker, "I have two divisions. Brigadier General Alfred Terry commands the First Division."

Hooker nodded. He knew Terry. He had been a lawyer before the war and had risen through the volunteers with a reputation for steadiness. More importantly, he had gained valuable experience commanding troops during the Charleston operations. He had seen siege warfare. He had dealt with difficult terrain, entrenched positions, artillery, and the slow grinding work required to reduce fortified places.

That experience mattered. "Who commands the other?"

"Brigadier General Thomas Stevenson." Howard answered.

Hooker had much less knowledge on this man. "Stevenson. Division command?"

"Stevenson commanded one of Terry's Brigades gave good service there, while new to command he's a talented officer.

"We shall see won't we?" Hooker glanced toward Butterfield.

Butterfield said nothing. Hooker knew what he was thinking. A veteran division commander on one side. A relatively inexperienced one on the other. It was not ideal.

Hooker looked toward the trains Garrett had prepared. Three long trains waited on the tracks. Steam drifted upward. The railroad men were already beginning to load supplies.

Hooker turned back to Howard. "Your corps is going to Tennessee."

Howard's eyes narrowed. "I assumed as much." Howard could barely keep the contempt from his answer.

"You will be on the first trains with Terry. I want you two there when the first trains make it to Bridgeport." Hooker pointed west.

Howard's expression changed. "You have intelligence?" Howard wanted all available information he could get his one good arm on. "What are we stepping into?"

"General Thomas is in a bad spot, he's holed up in Chattanooga in a rebel siege, and we've got to go bail him out."

Howard looked skeptical. "How many rebels?"

"Can't say for sure, but I'm sure you've heard ol' "Bobby" Lee is leading them.."

Howard's mouth tightened.

Hooker noticed. "Something to say, General?"

Howard hesitated. "I would prefer certainty before committing the corps."

Hooker almost smiled. "That is an admirable preference." Hooker reveled in watching Howard squirm. "It is also unavailable to us."

Butterfield looked down to conceal a smile.

Howard's eyes hardened. "Then what are my orders?"

Hooker gestured toward the trains. "As I said before, you and General Terry will take those three trains. Get a brigade, and as much as another on there and get moving." Hooker then pointed to Garrett, the USMRR men will have all the information you need at all your stops.

Howard looked toward the trains. "That leaves Stevenson behind."

Garrett of the USMRR stepped in on that one, "Only for a little bit, I've got more trains coming to get more of your men."

Howard nodded to Garrett, then turned back to Hooker. "And where will you be?"

Hooker's eyes met his. "Following you. I will bring up Stevenson's Division and the rest of Terry's."

Howard studied him for several seconds. "Then I suppose I should make certain the way is clear."

The old tension returned immediately. Neither man had forgotten Chancellorsville. Hooker had believed Howard's corps had been dangerously exposed. Howard had believed Hooker had failed to provide proper support. The battle had left scars deeper than any wound.

Hooker finally broke the silence. "General Howard. I don't intend to revisit Chancellorsville."

Howard's face remained expressionless. "Neither do I."

"Good. Though that does not mean I agree with your account of it." Hooker answered, getting a barb in just to soothe his wounded ego. .

Howard's eyes narrowed. "Nor do I agree with yours."

Butterfield shifted his weight. This was going nowhere.

Hooker saw it too. He raised a hand. "Enough."

Howard stopped. "I need to get with General Terry and decide what men will be going on those three trains."

Hooker nodded, "very well, but I have a couple things to go over before you leave, so let's get this over with.

Hooker unfolded a smaller map and placed it on a nearby crate. Motion for Howard to join him.

"Bridgeport is the key." he said.

Howard leaned over it. "So Thomas still holds Chattanooga, but the rebels have cut off his rail and river access to Bridgeport?"

"Exactly." Hooker continued. "You will be among the first Union troops to reach the depot outside the small garrison there now."

"What do you want me to do when I arrive?" Howard asked matter of factly.

"For now I want you to reinforce the garrison. Until i can arrive with the rest of your corps"

Howard looked at him. Nodding his understanding.

"Assume a defensive posture, it'll be another 10-12 days before the rest of Newton's corps arrives after you." Hooker wanted to be sure Howard had specific orders; he couldn't afford another Chancellorsville.

Howard nodded. That was sensible.

Then Hooker pointed farther east. "Once I arrive we'll send a telegraph to Thomas, Se what he specifically needs of us, though I suspect he'll want us to move on the rebs and the siege."

Howard's eyes moved along the railroad. "I understand."

Hooker looked directly at him. "If you encounter Confederate cavalry, don't chase it halfway across Alabama."

Howard's expression tightened. "I don't make a habit of pursuing cavalry without orders."

Hooker paused. "You simply have a habit of finding yourself with your flank in the air.."

Butterfield coughed.

Howard stared at Hooker. The insult was on the nose.

But both men recognized it.

Howard straightened. "I'll carry out my orders."

"I expect you will." Hooker glared.

Hooker turned toward the trains. "Now go and find General Terry and get those trains loaded. His experience will be useful."

Hooker glanced back at the tracks. The first locomotive was beginning to hiss.

Garrett approached. "General Hooker. The trains are nearly ready."

Hooker looked at Howard. "Then you should board."

Howard hesitated. "General. I won't have Terry's full division when I arrive, I would like authority to employ the garrison as I see fit."

"You are the commanding general on the field when you arrive. You will have it." Hooker answered, ready for this one-armed man to be out of his sight.

Howard nodded. He turned away, then stopped. "General Hooker."

Hooker looked at him.

"I hope this arrangement works better than the last one." Howard said forcefully.

Hooker's face became cold. "So do I."

Howard walked away.

Butterfield watched him disappear among the soldiers. Then he turned to Hooker. "That went well."

Hooker snorted. "He dislikes me."

"You don't say?"

Butterfield smiled. "And you?"

Hooker watched Howard climb aboard the waiting train. "I don't dislike him. If not for him we'd of had Lee's army whipped."

Butterfield raised an eyebrow.

Hooker paused. "I simply don't trust him."

Hooker turned toward Garrett. "Get them moving."

Garrett nodded. "Yes, General."

The railroad workers hurried. A bell rang. Men began climbing aboard. The first locomotive released a tremendous cloud of steam.

Hooker stood motionless as Howard's train began to move.

Slowly at first.

Then faster.

The cars rattled past him, filled with thousands of soldiers heading west. Hooker watched until the final car disappeared.

Only then did he turn back toward Butterfield.

"How long for Howard to arrive?"

Butterfield checked his watch. "If the railroad performs as Garrett promises, he'll be in Bridgeport before the end of the month."

Hooker nodded. "Good." Hooker looked west. The bitterness of the past seemed to fall away for a moment.

He was no longer the disgraced commander of the Army of the Potomac. He was not the general Washington had sent away after Chancellorsville. He was not the man waiting for the next political disaster. He was Joseph Hooker, and he was back in command of actual troops in the field.

"Then," Hooker said, "we free Chattanooga of their siege."

Butterfield expression turned dour. "What if Chattanooga has fallen?"

Hooker's expression hardened. "Then we take it back."

The second train whistle sounded.

Hooker turned toward it. "Come on, Dan."

Butterfield followed.

Behind them, Washington disappeared beneath the smoke and noise of the railroad.

Ahead lay a long journey across the Ohio River to Louisville then down across the Cumberland River to Nashville and all the way to Bridgeport.

Hooker turned, now all there was to do was wait, when Garrett got the other trains here he and Butterfield would load with Stevenson. While other trains were bringing Newton's Corps to D.C.

For the first time since Chancellorsville, he felt the old confidence returning. The Fighting Joe of old had not disappeared. He had merely been waiting for another fight.

 

[Stryker65]

Ch. 7: Hooker

5:00 A.M.
September 25th, 1863
D.C. Terminal
Washington, D.C.

Major General Joseph Hooker stood upon the platform of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad terminal and watched the war come rolling back to him.

It came on iron wheels.

The locomotive appeared first, black almost invisible in the pre-dawn sky, trailing a plume of smoke that drifted lazily across the station roof. Then came the cars, one after another, rattling and groaning beneath the weight of men and equipment. The train from the Orange and Alexandria Railroad entered the station with a shriek of brakes and a great exhalation of steam.

Hooker's eyes followed it eagerly. For the first time in months, he felt something very close to satisfaction. His army was coming.

Not an army in the grand sense, not yet. Not the hundred thousand men he had once commanded along the Rappahannock, nor the great Army of the Potomac that had marched beneath his authority toward Chancellorsville.

But men to call his own. Twenty thousand of them in fact. Twenty thousand soldiers Washington had entrusted to him. And they were saviours moving west.

Hooker smiled. "That's the first."

Beside him, Major General Daniel Butterfield glanced toward the train. "Should be more coming behind them."

Butterfield's voice had the same confident quality Hooker remembered so well. There was always something slightly theatrical about Daniel Butterfield, even when he was discussing something as mundane as railroad schedules.

He was a handsome man, still young for a major general, with a quick intelligence and an even quicker tongue. He had never been a West Pointer, something that had irritated more than a few of the professional soldiers who had watched his extraordinary rise through the volunteer ranks. Yet Butterfield possessed talents the army desperately needed, organization, energy, an instinct for administration, and a willingness to push himself into nearly every problem placed before him.

He had also acquired enemies with almost equal efficiency.

Some called him Little Napoleon. Less for his tactics and more for his temperament. Others used considerably less flattering terms. Hooker had always preferred the former.

He trusted Butterfield.

That trust had begun during Hooker's command of the Army of the Potomac, when Butterfield became his chief of staff and helped reorganize the army's administration, communications, and supply systems. Whatever his critics said about the man, and they said plenty, Butterfield could make a headquarters function.

Hooker needed that now. Because this assignment was not merely another command. It was a second chance. He had spent the summer carrying the weight of Chancellorsville upon his shoulders. There were men who believed he had lost his nerve there.

Men who believed he had squandered an army twice the size of Lee's. Men who whispered that Fighting Joe had ceased to fight. Hooker had heard all of it. He had never agreed with any of it. He had been wounded by the defeat, certainly. Angered by it. Humiliated by it. But not broken.

When he surrendered command of the Army of the Potomac, he had expected his military career to become an extended footnote. Instead, Lincoln had given him a second life. Once he wasn't going to squander.

The irony was not lost upon him. He had once commanded the largest army in the United States.bNow he was being sent to Tennessee with two depleted corps. But circumstances had changed.

The Federal defeat at Chickamauga had changed much. Following off Lee's twin victories at Gettysburg and Pipe Creek, Lee had struck off west and won another smashing defeat at Chickamauga.

The Army of the Cumberland needed help. And now, suddenly, Hooker was back in command of men, with a chance to get revenge for Lee's drubbing of him at Chancellorsville.

The locomotive hissed. A railway employee waved his lantern. The train came to a final stop. All around the platform, men sprang into motion.

Railroad workers hurried toward the cars. Soldiers leaned out of windows. Doors were thrown open. Officers shouted orders. Horses stamped inside boxcars. The smell of coal smoke, sweat, leather, and hot iron filled the station.

Hooker breathed it in. He liked it. War smelled better than Washington politics. That was one thing Lincoln liked about Hooker, for all his faults, Hooker had no political inclinations, and was a soldier's soldier.

"General Hooker." A voice called out.

That voice belonged to John W. Garrett. President of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, he stood nearby with his hat tucked beneath one arm. He was a businessman surrounded by soldiers, but he possessed none of the nervousness Hooker had come to associate with civilian officials.

Garrett had learned that railroads were their own kind of battlefield. And at this moment, Hooker suspected, the railroad was every bit as important as the battlefield.

"How soon?" Hooker asked.

Garrett smiled. "Soon enough to satisfy you, General."

Hooker asked again, this time a bit more tactfully, "How long do you think it will take to get them off these trains and onto yours?"

Garrett glanced toward the arriving train. "We have three trains ready at this moment. Nearly sixty cars."

Garrett point to the other line at the station that headed northwest. "Available for immediate loading."

"How many men will they hold?" Hooker asked, his impatience getting the best of him.

"About 40 men a car, I'd say we can get over two thousand aboard without difficulty."

Hooker's eyes brightened. "And we'll be able to get going today?"

"Immediately." Garrett asked, surprised at their doubt in the rail's ability.

Butterfield stepped closer. "You mean they'll leave Washington this morning?"

Garrett nodded. "As soon as those men are off the trains, you can decide who you want to send first. Provided the men get loaded quickly we can be on our way."

Hooker looked at the train. Then at Garrett. "Tell me about the rest of the movement."

Garrett's expression became more businesslike. "We will run trains day and night. The military railroad men have already begun clearing the route."

"When do you think we can arrive at Bridgeport?" Hooker wanted to know when he could get into the fight.

Garrett hesitated. "If everything stays on schedule, your lead elements can reach Bridgeport late on the evening of September thirtieth."

Hooker calculated silently. Six days to move twenty thousand men hundreds of miles through a railroad system already carrying an enormous portion of the war.

"But that will just be our lead elements, when can the rest arrive?" Hooker needed to weigh all the evidence, so he knew what he was getting himself into.

"It'll be another eight to ten days afterwards before we can get the rest of your men there."

Hooker nodded. There was no telling what the situation would be like when he got there. "Bobby" Lee was a wiley opponent, one Hooker wouldn't take for granted, not this time. Getting some of his troops there that quickly could be useful. Worst case scenario they'd be able to strengthen the garrisons at Bridgeport and Stevenson.

Hooker looked toward Butterfield. "What troops are these Dan?"

Butterfield consulted a paper. "Several regiments from Howard's command."

Hooker's expression immediately soured. "Howard?"

Butterfield nodded. "They're designated as X Corps."

Hooker gave a humorless laugh. "Of course." Hooker knew Howard would be under his command, but was hoping Newton and his XVIII would be coming up first.

Butterfield watched him carefully. The relationship between Hooker and Oliver Otis Howard had never recovered from Chancellorsville. Howard had commanded the XI Corps on Hooker's right. Hooker had warned him that his flank was vulnerable. When Jackson struck, Howard's corps had been caught badly exposed. The collapse had become one of the defining moments of the battle.

Hooker had never forgiven Howard for it. Howard, in turn, had never accepted Hooker's interpretation of what happened. The matter had been argued, dissected, defended, and recriminated over for months.

Hooker had blamed Howard. Howard had defended himself. And neither man had forgotten. Now some of Howard's soldiers were coming west under Hooker's command. Hooker watched the soldiers begin to spill from the first cars.

Already annoyance was beginning to wash over Hooker's face, "If only Washington had given me some more battle-tested units. How am I to lead this rabble?"

Butterfield's mouth twitched. "You'll figure it out."

Hooker shook his head. "Perhaps the Lord has a sense of humor."

Butterfield smiled. "I have always suspected it."

Hooker looked back at the train. He had hoped to be bringing his old III Corps with him, but that had apparently never been considered. Still while these X and XVIII Corps troops had mostly been fighting in secondary theaters, Hooker sensed his opportunity.

He had not asked for this command. Not exactly. But now that it was his, he intended to use it.

Hooker had always possessed a particular confidence, sometimes mistaken for arrogance, sometimes justified by his battlefield performance. He was aggressive by nature, and he preferred movement to paralysis. His reputation as a hard fighter had been earned in blood at Williamsburg, on the Peninsula, and at Antietam.

The nickname Fighting Joe had itself been born from a newspaper error, but Hooker had embraced it. He liked the name. He liked what it implied. And he intended to remind the army why it had been given to him.

Garrett interrupted his thoughts. "General."

Hooker turned.

"There is one more matter." Garrett waited, making sure he had the General's full attention. "The route."

Hooker's eyes narrowed.

Garrett unfolded a schedule. "We are going to give military traffic priority over almost everything else."

Garrett smiled. "We will be moving twenty thousand men across half the country in six days, everything else is going to have to wait. But I need you and your officers' help in ensuring that they stay orderly, and move efficiently from one train to the next. There are nine different stops on the route."

Hooker understood, "We want to get there as fast as possible, my men won't be a problem."

The three men looked toward the station. The scene had become chaotic. There were soldiers everywhere. Some men carried knapsacks, while others dragged ammunition boxes. Hooker could see one officers shouting out names in a roll call. While this was happening, railroad workers hurried between cars and checked on the trains.

A few soldiers leaned against the station walls, already exhausted from the journey to Washington.

Hooker watched them. He knew soon that the eyes of the men would be on him. At six feet tall, Hooker looked every inch the soldier.

Hooker turned to Butterfield. "How much do we actually know of what's going on in Chattanooga?"

Butterfield's expression became serious. "Not enough. We know Rosecrans is dead, and we know Thomas has taken over. The president has directed Burnside to send troops to Chattanooga as well."

Hooker's jaw tightened. "Burnside will dawdle and do nothing, something he's good at." Getting back on point after venting his frustration over Burnside he asks, "any other news?."

Butterfield nodded. "Latest intelligence from Washington is that word has been sent to Grant to also send reinforcements, but we don't know if he will or how many."

Hooker nodded, "Looks like we're it for the short-term, Then we had better get there quickly."

Hooker looked once more toward Garrett. "Those three trains waiting."

"Yes?" Garrett asked.

"I'll have men for them shortly."

Garrett nodded. "They'll be moving as soon as we can load them."

Hooker paused. "What about after those trains?"

"I've got seven more trains on the way, they'll be here before noon." Garrett beamed with pride.

"Seems you've got everything in hand." Hooker replied.

A shadow fell across the platform. Hooker looked up. For an instant, he saw only the silhouette of a tall officer approaching through the smoke.

Then the man stepped into the light. One arm hung empty beneath his uniform coat. Hooker's expression changed. Butterfield's did as well.

Oliver Otis Howard had arrived. The one-armed general walked toward them with the erect bearing of a man who had endured pain without allowing it to bend him.

Hooker's jaw tightened. Of all the men Washington might have placed before him on this day, Howard was perhaps the last he wanted to see.

Butterfield leaned slightly toward him. "Speak of the devil."

Hooker did not answer.

Howard stopped several yards away.

For a moment, the noise of the railroad seemed to fade.

Two generals who had spent months blaming one another for one of the Union's greatest disasters stood facing each other again. Only now, Hooker was the commander. And Howard was coming west under his orders.

Hooker slowly removed his gloves. His eyes never left Howard. "General Howard."

"General Hooker." Howard answered icily.

Neither smiled. And behind them, another train whistle screamed across the station.

For several seconds, neither man spoke.

The platform around them continued its frantic activity, but Hooker barely noticed it. Men hurried past carrying ammunition boxes. Railway workers shouted to one another. Steam rolled along the platform in thick clouds.

Yet between Hooker and Howard there seemed to be a pocket of stillness. Oliver Otis Howard stood erect, his empty sleeve pinned neatly against his coat. The missing arm was not something Hooker could ignore, however much he might have wished to.

Howard had lost it at Fair Oaks. The loss of his arm did not end his military career. He had commanded at Chancellorsville, and he had survived the destruction of his corps there.

Hooker knew all of that. He also knew that none of it changed what had happened.

"General Howard," Hooker said again.

"General Hooker." Howard's voice was polite, Though there was an icy edge underneath it.

Hooker glanced toward Butterfield. "General Howard has arrived with his command?"

"Most of it," Howard replied.

Hooker turned back. "Tell me about your corp?"

"Approximately nine thousand." Howard responded with little expression.

Hooker raised an eyebrow. "Nine thousand?" Hooker said rhetorically, "your corps has been reduced considerably."

Howard's expression hardened almost imperceptibly. "Some of the troops had to be left in South Carolina when they brought it north to reinforce Meade's Army of the Potomac."

Hooker could hear dig in his answer, as Howard made sure to note that the Army of the Potomac was Meade's army. Hooker seethed with anger.

"Well, General Meade has seen fit to offer your services to me."

He let the silence linger.

Then he said, "Give me the condition of your divisions."

Howard glanced at Butterfield, who was looking over the latest rolls.

Howard then looked back at Hooker, "I have two divisions. Brigadier General Alfred Terry commands the First Division."

Hooker nodded. He knew Terry. He had been a lawyer before the war and had risen through the volunteers with a reputation for steadiness. More importantly, he had gained valuable experience commanding troops during the Charleston operations. He had seen siege warfare. He had dealt with difficult terrain, entrenched positions, artillery, and the slow grinding work required to reduce fortified places.

That experience mattered. "Who commands the other?"

"Brigadier General Thomas Stevenson." Howard answered.

Hooker had much less knowledge on this man. "Stevenson. Division command?"

"Stevenson commanded one of Terry's Brigades gave good service there, while new to command he's a talented officer.

"We shall see won't we?" Hooker glanced toward Butterfield.

Butterfield said nothing. Hooker knew what he was thinking. A veteran division commander on one side. A relatively inexperienced one on the other. It was not ideal.

Hooker looked toward the trains Garrett had prepared. Three long trains waited on the tracks. Steam drifted upward. The railroad men were already beginning to load supplies.

Hooker turned back to Howard. "Your corps is going to Tennessee."

Howard's eyes narrowed. "I assumed as much." Howard could barely keep the contempt from his answer.

"You will be on the first trains with Terry. I want you two there when the first trains make it to Bridgeport." Hooker pointed west.

Howard's expression changed. "You have intelligence?" Howard wanted all available information he could get his one good arm on. "What are we stepping into?"

"General Thomas is in a bad spot, he's holed up in Chattanooga in a rebel siege, and we've got to go bail him out."

Howard looked skeptical. "How many rebels?"

"Can't say for sure, but I'm sure you've heard ol' "Bobby" Lee is leading them.."

Howard's mouth tightened.

Hooker noticed. "Something to say, General?"

Howard hesitated. "I would prefer certainty before committing the corps."

Hooker almost smiled. "That is an admirable preference." Hooker reveled in watching Howard squirm. "It is also unavailable to us."

Butterfield looked down to conceal a smile.

Howard's eyes hardened. "Then what are my orders?"

Hooker gestured toward the trains. "As I said before, you and General Terry will take those three trains. Get a brigade, and as much as another on there and get moving." Hooker then pointed to Garrett, the USMRR men will have all the information you need at all your stops.

Howard looked toward the trains. "That leaves Stevenson behind."

Garrett of the USMRR stepped in on that one, "Only for a little bit, I've got more trains coming to get more of your men."

Howard nodded to Garrett, then turned back to Hooker. "And where will you be?"

Hooker's eyes met his. "Following you. I will bring up Stevenson's Division and the rest of Terry's."

Howard studied him for several seconds. "Then I suppose I should make certain the way is clear."

The old tension returned immediately. Neither man had forgotten Chancellorsville. Hooker had believed Howard's corps had been dangerously exposed. Howard had believed Hooker had failed to provide proper support. The battle had left scars deeper than any wound.

Hooker finally broke the silence. "General Howard. I don't intend to revisit Chancellorsville."

Howard's face remained expressionless. "Neither do I."

"Good. Though that does not mean I agree with your account of it." Hooker answered, getting a barb in just to soothe his wounded ego. .

Howard's eyes narrowed. "Nor do I agree with yours."

Butterfield shifted his weight. This was going nowhere.

Hooker saw it too. He raised a hand. "Enough."

Howard stopped. "I need to get with General Terry and decide what men will be going on those three trains."

Hooker nodded, "very well, but I have a couple things to go over before you leave, so let's get this over with.

Hooker unfolded a smaller map and placed it on a nearby crate. Motion for Howard to join him.

"Bridgeport is the key." he said.

Howard leaned over it. "So Thomas still holds Chattanooga, but the rebels have cut off his rail and river access to Bridgeport?"

"Exactly." Hooker continued. "You will be among the first Union troops to reach the depot outside the small garrison there now."

"What do you want me to do when I arrive?" Howard asked matter of factly.

"For now I want you to reinforce the garrison. Until i can arrive with the rest of your corps"

Howard looked at him. Nodding his understanding.

"Assume a defensive posture, it'll be another 10-12 days before the rest of Newton's corps arrives after you." Hooker wanted to be sure Howard had specific orders; he couldn't afford another Chancellorsville.

Howard nodded. That was sensible.

Then Hooker pointed farther east. "Once I arrive we'll send a telegraph to Thomas, Se what he specifically needs of us, though I suspect he'll want us to move on the rebs and the siege."

Howard's eyes moved along the railroad. "I understand."

Hooker looked directly at him. "If you encounter Confederate cavalry, don't chase it halfway across Alabama."

Howard's expression tightened. "I don't make a habit of pursuing cavalry without orders."

Hooker paused. "You simply have a habit of finding yourself with your flank in the air.."

Butterfield coughed.

Howard stared at Hooker. The insult was on the nose.

But both men recognized it.

Howard straightened. "I'll carry out my orders."

"I expect you will." Hooker glared.

Hooker turned toward the trains. "Now go and find General Terry and get those trains loaded. His experience will be useful."

Hooker glanced back at the tracks. The first locomotive was beginning to hiss.

Garrett approached. "General Hooker. The trains are nearly ready."

Hooker looked at Howard. "Then you should board."

Howard hesitated. "General. I won't have Terry's full division when I arrive, I would like authority to employ the garrison as I see fit."

"You are the commanding general on the field when you arrive. You will have it." Hooker answered, ready for this one-armed man to be out of his sight.

Howard nodded. He turned away, then stopped. "General Hooker."

Hooker looked at him.

"I hope this arrangement works better than the last one." Howard said forcefully.

Hooker's face became cold. "So do I."

Howard walked away.

Butterfield watched him disappear among the soldiers. Then he turned to Hooker. "That went well."

Hooker snorted. "He dislikes me."

"You don't say?"

Butterfield smiled. "And you?"

Hooker watched Howard climb aboard the waiting train. "I don't dislike him. If not for him we'd of had Lee's army whipped."

Butterfield raised an eyebrow.

Hooker paused. "I simply don't trust him."

Hooker turned toward Garrett. "Get them moving."

Garrett nodded. "Yes, General."

The railroad workers hurried. A bell rang. Men began climbing aboard. The first locomotive released a tremendous cloud of steam.

Hooker stood motionless as Howard's train began to move.

Slowly at first.

Then faster.

The cars rattled past him, filled with thousands of soldiers heading west. Hooker watched until the final car disappeared.

Only then did he turn back toward Butterfield.

"How long for Howard to arrive?"

Butterfield checked his watch. "If the railroad performs as Garrett promises, he'll be in Bridgeport before the end of the month."

Hooker nodded. "Good." Hooker looked west. The bitterness of the past seemed to fall away for a moment.

He was no longer the disgraced commander of the Army of the Potomac. He was not the general Washington had sent away after Chancellorsville. He was not the man waiting for the next political disaster. He was Joseph Hooker, and he was back in command of actual troops in the field.

"Then," Hooker said, "we free Chattanooga of their siege."

Butterfield expression turned dour. "What if Chattanooga has fallen?"

Hooker's expression hardened. "Then we take it back."

The second train whistle sounded.

Hooker turned toward it. "Come on, Dan."

Butterfield followed.

Behind them, Washington disappeared beneath the smoke and noise of the railroad.

Ahead lay a long journey across the Ohio River to Louisville then down across the Cumberland River to Nashville and all the way to Bridgeport.

Hooker turned, now all there was to do was wait, when Garrett got the other trains here he and Butterfield would load with Stevenson. While other trains were bringing Newton's Corps to D.C.

For the first time since Chancellorsville, he felt the old confidence returning. The Fighting Joe of old had not disappeared. He had merely been waiting for another fight.

Amazing writing. I felt chills when I read the cold conversation of Howard and Hooker, and I'm currently walking in the sun on the college green.

 

[Wizard of Cozz]

Evening of September 25th

 

[Bonnie Prince Charlie]

Didn't Hooker hate his "Fighting Joe" nickname? I remember reading that he thought it made him sound like a bandit.

 

[hollyac]

Don't know, but I seem to recall Lee called him "Mr F J Hooker" as a joke.

 

[hollyac]

Ch. 7: Hooker

5:00 A.M.
September 25th, 1863
D.C. Terminal
Washington, D.C.

Major General Joseph Hooker stood upon the platform of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad terminal and watched the war come rolling back to him.

It came on iron wheels.

The locomotive appeared first, black almost invisible in the pre-dawn sky, trailing a plume of smoke that drifted lazily across the station roof. Then came the cars, one after another, rattling and groaning beneath the weight of men and equipment. The train from the Orange and Alexandria Railroad entered the station with a shriek of brakes and a great exhalation of steam.

Hooker's eyes followed it eagerly. For the first time in months, he felt something very close to satisfaction. His army was coming.

Not an army in the grand sense, not yet. Not the hundred thousand men he had once commanded along the Rappahannock, nor the great Army of the Potomac that had marched beneath his authority toward Chancellorsville.

But men to call his own. Twenty thousand of them in fact. Twenty thousand soldiers Washington had entrusted to him. And they were saviours moving west.

Hooker smiled. "That's the first."

Beside him, Major General Daniel Butterfield glanced toward the train. "Should be more coming behind them."

Butterfield's voice had the same confident quality Hooker remembered so well. There was always something slightly theatrical about Daniel Butterfield, even when he was discussing something as mundane as railroad schedules.

He was a handsome man, still young for a major general, with a quick intelligence and an even quicker tongue. He had never been a West Pointer, something that had irritated more than a few of the professional soldiers who had watched his extraordinary rise through the volunteer ranks. Yet Butterfield possessed talents the army desperately needed, organization, energy, an instinct for administration, and a willingness to push himself into nearly every problem placed before him.

He had also acquired enemies with almost equal efficiency.

Some called him Little Napoleon. Less for his tactics and more for his temperament. Others used considerably less flattering terms. Hooker had always preferred the former.

He trusted Butterfield.

That trust had begun during Hooker's command of the Army of the Potomac, when Butterfield became his chief of staff and helped reorganize the army's administration, communications, and supply systems. Whatever his critics said about the man, and they said plenty, Butterfield could make a headquarters function.

Hooker needed that now. Because this assignment was not merely another command. It was a second chance. He had spent the summer carrying the weight of Chancellorsville upon his shoulders. There were men who believed he had lost his nerve there.

Men who believed he had squandered an army twice the size of Lee's. Men who whispered that Fighting Joe had ceased to fight. Hooker had heard all of it. He had never agreed with any of it. He had been wounded by the defeat, certainly. Angered by it. Humiliated by it. But not broken.

When he surrendered command of the Army of the Potomac, he had expected his military career to become an extended footnote. Instead, Lincoln had given him a second life. Once he wasn't going to squander.

The irony was not lost upon him. He had once commanded the largest army in the United States.bNow he was being sent to Tennessee with two depleted corps. But circumstances had changed.

The Federal defeat at Chickamauga had changed much. Following off Lee's twin victories at Gettysburg and Pipe Creek, Lee had struck off west and won another smashing defeat at Chickamauga.

The Army of the Cumberland needed help. And now, suddenly, Hooker was back in command of men, with a chance to get revenge for Lee's drubbing of him at Chancellorsville.

The locomotive hissed. A railway employee waved his lantern. The train came to a final stop. All around the platform, men sprang into motion.

Railroad workers hurried toward the cars. Soldiers leaned out of windows. Doors were thrown open. Officers shouted orders. Horses stamped inside boxcars. The smell of coal smoke, sweat, leather, and hot iron filled the station.

Hooker breathed it in. He liked it. War smelled better than Washington politics. That was one thing Lincoln liked about Hooker, for all his faults, Hooker had no political inclinations, and was a soldier's soldier.

"General Hooker." A voice called out.

That voice belonged to John W. Garrett. President of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, he stood nearby with his hat tucked beneath one arm. He was a businessman surrounded by soldiers, but he possessed none of the nervousness Hooker had come to associate with civilian officials.

Garrett had learned that railroads were their own kind of battlefield. And at this moment, Hooker suspected, the railroad was every bit as important as the battlefield.

"How soon?" Hooker asked.

Garrett smiled. "Soon enough to satisfy you, General."

Hooker asked again, this time a bit more tactfully, "How long do you think it will take to get them off these trains and onto yours?"

Garrett glanced toward the arriving train. "We have three trains ready at this moment. Nearly sixty cars."

Garrett point to the other line at the station that headed northwest. "Available for immediate loading."

"How many men will they hold?" Hooker asked, his impatience getting the best of him.

"About 40 men a car, I'd say we can get over two thousand aboard without difficulty."

Hooker's eyes brightened. "And we'll be able to get going today?"

"Immediately." Garrett asked, surprised at their doubt in the rail's ability.

Butterfield stepped closer. "You mean they'll leave Washington this morning?"

Garrett nodded. "As soon as those men are off the trains, you can decide who you want to send first. Provided the men get loaded quickly we can be on our way."

Hooker looked at the train. Then at Garrett. "Tell me about the rest of the movement."

Garrett's expression became more businesslike. "We will run trains day and night. The military railroad men have already begun clearing the route."

"When do you think we can arrive at Bridgeport?" Hooker wanted to know when he could get into the fight.

Garrett hesitated. "If everything stays on schedule, your lead elements can reach Bridgeport late on the evening of September thirtieth."

Hooker calculated silently. Six days to move twenty thousand men hundreds of miles through a railroad system already carrying an enormous portion of the war.

"But that will just be our lead elements, when can the rest arrive?" Hooker needed to weigh all the evidence, so he knew what he was getting himself into.

"It'll be another eight to ten days afterwards before we can get the rest of your men there."

Hooker nodded. There was no telling what the situation would be like when he got there. "Bobby" Lee was a wiley opponent, one Hooker wouldn't take for granted, not this time. Getting some of his troops there that quickly could be useful. Worst case scenario they'd be able to strengthen the garrisons at Bridgeport and Stevenson.

Hooker looked toward Butterfield. "What troops are these Dan?"

Butterfield consulted a paper. "Several regiments from Howard's command."

Hooker's expression immediately soured. "Howard?"

Butterfield nodded. "They're designated as X Corps."

Hooker gave a humorless laugh. "Of course." Hooker knew Howard would be under his command, but was hoping Newton and his XVIII would be coming up first.

Butterfield watched him carefully. The relationship between Hooker and Oliver Otis Howard had never recovered from Chancellorsville. Howard had commanded the XI Corps on Hooker's right. Hooker had warned him that his flank was vulnerable. When Jackson struck, Howard's corps had been caught badly exposed. The collapse had become one of the defining moments of the battle.

Hooker had never forgiven Howard for it. Howard, in turn, had never accepted Hooker's interpretation of what happened. The matter had been argued, dissected, defended, and recriminated over for months.

Hooker had blamed Howard. Howard had defended himself. And neither man had forgotten. Now some of Howard's soldiers were coming west under Hooker's command. Hooker watched the soldiers begin to spill from the first cars.

Already annoyance was beginning to wash over Hooker's face, "If only Washington had given me some more battle-tested units. How am I to lead this rabble?"

Butterfield's mouth twitched. "You'll figure it out."

Hooker shook his head. "Perhaps the Lord has a sense of humor."

Butterfield smiled. "I have always suspected it."

Hooker looked back at the train. He had hoped to be bringing his old III Corps with him, but that had apparently never been considered. Still while these X and XVIII Corps troops had mostly been fighting in secondary theaters, Hooker sensed his opportunity.

He had not asked for this command. Not exactly. But now that it was his, he intended to use it.

Hooker had always possessed a particular confidence, sometimes mistaken for arrogance, sometimes justified by his battlefield performance. He was aggressive by nature, and he preferred movement to paralysis. His reputation as a hard fighter had been earned in blood at Williamsburg, on the Peninsula, and at Antietam.

The nickname Fighting Joe had itself been born from a newspaper error, but Hooker had embraced it. He liked the name. He liked what it implied. And he intended to remind the army why it had been given to him.

Garrett interrupted his thoughts. "General."

Hooker turned.

"There is one more matter." Garrett waited, making sure he had the General's full attention. "The route."

Hooker's eyes narrowed.

Garrett unfolded a schedule. "We are going to give military traffic priority over almost everything else."

Garrett smiled. "We will be moving twenty thousand men across half the country in six days, everything else is going to have to wait. But I need you and your officers' help in ensuring that they stay orderly, and move efficiently from one train to the next. There are nine different stops on the route."

Hooker understood, "We want to get there as fast as possible, my men won't be a problem."

The three men looked toward the station. The scene had become chaotic. There were soldiers everywhere. Some men carried knapsacks, while others dragged ammunition boxes. Hooker could see one officers shouting out names in a roll call. While this was happening, railroad workers hurried between cars and checked on the trains.

A few soldiers leaned against the station walls, already exhausted from the journey to Washington.

Hooker watched them. He knew soon that the eyes of the men would be on him. At six feet tall, Hooker looked every inch the soldier.

Hooker turned to Butterfield. "How much do we actually know of what's going on in Chattanooga?"

Butterfield's expression became serious. "Not enough. We know Rosecrans is dead, and we know Thomas has taken over. The president has directed Burnside to send troops to Chattanooga as well."

Hooker's jaw tightened. "Burnside will dawdle and do nothing, something he's good at." Getting back on point after venting his frustration over Burnside he asks, "any other news?."

Butterfield nodded. "Latest intelligence from Washington is that word has been sent to Grant to also send reinforcements, but we don't know if he will or how many."

Hooker nodded, "Looks like we're it for the short-term, Then we had better get there quickly."

Hooker looked once more toward Garrett. "Those three trains waiting."

"Yes?" Garrett asked.

"I'll have men for them shortly."

Garrett nodded. "They'll be moving as soon as we can load them."

Hooker paused. "What about after those trains?"

"I've got seven more trains on the way, they'll be here before noon." Garrett beamed with pride.

"Seems you've got everything in hand." Hooker replied.

A shadow fell across the platform. Hooker looked up. For an instant, he saw only the silhouette of a tall officer approaching through the smoke.

Then the man stepped into the light. One arm hung empty beneath his uniform coat. Hooker's expression changed. Butterfield's did as well.

Oliver Otis Howard had arrived. The one-armed general walked toward them with the erect bearing of a man who had endured pain without allowing it to bend him.

Hooker's jaw tightened. Of all the men Washington might have placed before him on this day, Howard was perhaps the last he wanted to see.

Butterfield leaned slightly toward him. "Speak of the devil."

Hooker did not answer.

Howard stopped several yards away.

For a moment, the noise of the railroad seemed to fade.

Two generals who had spent months blaming one another for one of the Union's greatest disasters stood facing each other again. Only now, Hooker was the commander. And Howard was coming west under his orders.

Hooker slowly removed his gloves. His eyes never left Howard. "General Howard."

"General Hooker." Howard answered icily.

Neither smiled. And behind them, another train whistle screamed across the station.

For several seconds, neither man spoke.

The platform around them continued its frantic activity, but Hooker barely noticed it. Men hurried past carrying ammunition boxes. Railway workers shouted to one another. Steam rolled along the platform in thick clouds.

Yet between Hooker and Howard there seemed to be a pocket of stillness. Oliver Otis Howard stood erect, his empty sleeve pinned neatly against his coat. The missing arm was not something Hooker could ignore, however much he might have wished to.

Howard had lost it at Fair Oaks. The loss of his arm did not end his military career. He had commanded at Chancellorsville, and he had survived the destruction of his corps there.

Hooker knew all of that. He also knew that none of it changed what had happened.

"General Howard," Hooker said again.

"General Hooker." Howard's voice was polite, Though there was an icy edge underneath it.

Hooker glanced toward Butterfield. "General Howard has arrived with his command?"

"Most of it," Howard replied.

Hooker turned back. "Tell me about your corp?"

"Approximately nine thousand." Howard responded with little expression.

Hooker raised an eyebrow. "Nine thousand?" Hooker said rhetorically, "your corps has been reduced considerably."

Howard's expression hardened almost imperceptibly. "Some of the troops had to be left in South Carolina when they brought it north to reinforce Meade's Army of the Potomac."

Hooker could hear dig in his answer, as Howard made sure to note that the Army of the Potomac was Meade's army. Hooker seethed with anger.

"Well, General Meade has seen fit to offer your services to me."

He let the silence linger.

Then he said, "Give me the condition of your divisions."

Howard glanced at Butterfield, who was looking over the latest rolls.

Howard then looked back at Hooker, "I have two divisions. Brigadier General Alfred Terry commands the First Division."

Hooker nodded. He knew Terry. He had been a lawyer before the war and had risen through the volunteers with a reputation for steadiness. More importantly, he had gained valuable experience commanding troops during the Charleston operations. He had seen siege warfare. He had dealt with difficult terrain, entrenched positions, artillery, and the slow grinding work required to reduce fortified places.

That experience mattered. "Who commands the other?"

"Brigadier General Thomas Stevenson." Howard answered.

Hooker had much less knowledge on this man. "Stevenson. Division command?"

"Stevenson commanded one of Terry's Brigades gave good service there, while new to command he's a talented officer.

"We shall see won't we?" Hooker glanced toward Butterfield.

Butterfield said nothing. Hooker knew what he was thinking. A veteran division commander on one side. A relatively inexperienced one on the other. It was not ideal.

Hooker looked toward the trains Garrett had prepared. Three long trains waited on the tracks. Steam drifted upward. The railroad men were already beginning to load supplies.

Hooker turned back to Howard. "Your corps is going to Tennessee."

Howard's eyes narrowed. "I assumed as much." Howard could barely keep the contempt from his answer.

"You will be on the first trains with Terry. I want you two there when the first trains make it to Bridgeport." Hooker pointed west.

Howard's expression changed. "You have intelligence?" Howard wanted all available information he could get his one good arm on. "What are we stepping into?"

"General Thomas is in a bad spot, he's holed up in Chattanooga in a rebel siege, and we've got to go bail him out."

Howard looked skeptical. "How many rebels?"

"Can't say for sure, but I'm sure you've heard ol' "Bobby" Lee is leading them.."

Howard's mouth tightened.

Hooker noticed. "Something to say, General?"

Howard hesitated. "I would prefer certainty before committing the corps."

Hooker almost smiled. "That is an admirable preference." Hooker reveled in watching Howard squirm. "It is also unavailable to us."

Butterfield looked down to conceal a smile.

Howard's eyes hardened. "Then what are my orders?"

Hooker gestured toward the trains. "As I said before, you and General Terry will take those three trains. Get a brigade, and as much as another on there and get moving." Hooker then pointed to Garrett, the USMRR men will have all the information you need at all your stops.

Howard looked toward the trains. "That leaves Stevenson behind."

Garrett of the USMRR stepped in on that one, "Only for a little bit, I've got more trains coming to get more of your men."

Howard nodded to Garrett, then turned back to Hooker. "And where will you be?"

Hooker's eyes met his. "Following you. I will bring up Stevenson's Division and the rest of Terry's."

Howard studied him for several seconds. "Then I suppose I should make certain the way is clear."

The old tension returned immediately. Neither man had forgotten Chancellorsville. Hooker had believed Howard's corps had been dangerously exposed. Howard had believed Hooker had failed to provide proper support. The battle had left scars deeper than any wound.

Hooker finally broke the silence. "General Howard. I don't intend to revisit Chancellorsville."

Howard's face remained expressionless. "Neither do I."

"Good. Though that does not mean I agree with your account of it." Hooker answered, getting a barb in just to soothe his wounded ego. .

Howard's eyes narrowed. "Nor do I agree with yours."

Butterfield shifted his weight. This was going nowhere.

Hooker saw it too. He raised a hand. "Enough."

Howard stopped. "I need to get with General Terry and decide what men will be going on those three trains."

Hooker nodded, "very well, but I have a couple things to go over before you leave, so let's get this over with.

Hooker unfolded a smaller map and placed it on a nearby crate. Motion for Howard to join him.

"Bridgeport is the key." he said.

Howard leaned over it. "So Thomas still holds Chattanooga, but the rebels have cut off his rail and river access to Bridgeport?"

"Exactly." Hooker continued. "You will be among the first Union troops to reach the depot outside the small garrison there now."

"What do you want me to do when I arrive?" Howard asked matter of factly.

"For now I want you to reinforce the garrison. Until i can arrive with the rest of your corps"

Howard looked at him. Nodding his understanding.

"Assume a defensive posture, it'll be another 10-12 days before the rest of Newton's corps arrives after you." Hooker wanted to be sure Howard had specific orders; he couldn't afford another Chancellorsville.

Howard nodded. That was sensible.

Then Hooker pointed farther east. "Once I arrive we'll send a telegraph to Thomas, Se what he specifically needs of us, though I suspect he'll want us to move on the rebs and the siege."

Howard's eyes moved along the railroad. "I understand."

Hooker looked directly at him. "If you encounter Confederate cavalry, don't chase it halfway across Alabama."

Howard's expression tightened. "I don't make a habit of pursuing cavalry without orders."

Hooker paused. "You simply have a habit of finding yourself with your flank in the air.."

Butterfield coughed.

Howard stared at Hooker. The insult was on the nose.

But both men recognized it.

Howard straightened. "I'll carry out my orders."

"I expect you will." Hooker glared.

Hooker turned toward the trains. "Now go and find General Terry and get those trains loaded. His experience will be useful."

Hooker glanced back at the tracks. The first locomotive was beginning to hiss.

Garrett approached. "General Hooker. The trains are nearly ready."

Hooker looked at Howard. "Then you should board."

Howard hesitated. "General. I won't have Terry's full division when I arrive, I would like authority to employ the garrison as I see fit."

"You are the commanding general on the field when you arrive. You will have it." Hooker answered, ready for this one-armed man to be out of his sight.

Howard nodded. He turned away, then stopped. "General Hooker."

Hooker looked at him.

"I hope this arrangement works better than the last one." Howard said forcefully.

Hooker's face became cold. "So do I."

Howard walked away.

Butterfield watched him disappear among the soldiers. Then he turned to Hooker. "That went well."

Hooker snorted. "He dislikes me."

"You don't say?"

Butterfield smiled. "And you?"

Hooker watched Howard climb aboard the waiting train. "I don't dislike him. If not for him we'd of had Lee's army whipped."

Butterfield raised an eyebrow.

Hooker paused. "I simply don't trust him."

Hooker turned toward Garrett. "Get them moving."

Garrett nodded. "Yes, General."

The railroad workers hurried. A bell rang. Men began climbing aboard. The first locomotive released a tremendous cloud of steam.

Hooker stood motionless as Howard's train began to move.

Slowly at first.

Then faster.

The cars rattled past him, filled with thousands of soldiers heading west. Hooker watched until the final car disappeared.

Only then did he turn back toward Butterfield.

"How long for Howard to arrive?"

Butterfield checked his watch. "If the railroad performs as Garrett promises, he'll be in Bridgeport before the end of the month."

Hooker nodded. "Good." Hooker looked west. The bitterness of the past seemed to fall away for a moment.

He was no longer the disgraced commander of the Army of the Potomac. He was not the general Washington had sent away after Chancellorsville. He was not the man waiting for the next political disaster. He was Joseph Hooker, and he was back in command of actual troops in the field.

"Then," Hooker said, "we free Chattanooga of their siege."

Butterfield expression turned dour. "What if Chattanooga has fallen?"

Hooker's expression hardened. "Then we take it back."

The second train whistle sounded.

Hooker turned toward it. "Come on, Dan."

Butterfield followed.

Behind them, Washington disappeared beneath the smoke and noise of the railroad.

Ahead lay a long journey across the Ohio River to Louisville then down across the Cumberland River to Nashville and all the way to Bridgeport.

Hooker turned, now all there was to do was wait, when Garrett got the other trains here he and Butterfield would load with Stevenson. While other trains were bringing Newton's Corps to D.C.

For the first time since Chancellorsville, he felt the old confidence returning. The Fighting Joe of old had not disappeared. He had merely been waiting for another fight.

Great post! Looking forward to have Hooker on the field. I can see him being very agressive to wipe away the whole Chamcellorsville debatten.

 

[milhistbuff1]

Well done chapter with Hooker/Howard. The tense professionalism is quite realistic. Will Confederate forces attempt to interfere with or intercept the AOP reinforcements? E.g ANV elements from Longstreet or Gen. Sam Jones' Valley/SW VA troops might make it to B&O north in time to impede Newton's follow up wave?

 

[13 IL Cav & 64 GA Inf]

Ch. 1: Forrest

5:20 A.M.
September 22nd, 1863
West Base Missionary Ridge
Chattanooga, TN

Nathan Bedford Forrest woke angry. It was not an uncommon condition for the general, and most men who served under him had learned not to inquire too closely into the cause. But this morning his anger had a particular edge to it. He had been dressed down the night before.

Dressed down! And by the Commanding General of the entire Confederate forces for God's sake General Lee had done it after he'd been summoned Forrest to Lee's headquarters last evening, and Forrest had stood there with his fists clenched behind his back, listening to Lee tell him that cavalry was the eyes of the army, and that Forrest and his men had not been up to the task.

Forrest had heard many men call him every name under the sun. He had been called a butcher, a barbarian, a devil, a damned fool, and a young lieutenant hadn't survived the day he questioned a transfer order, which had turned violent. None of them had mattered.

Lee was different. Forrest had quickly lost his temper when telling Lee he wanted a transfer if Lee didn't think him up to the task. Lee had slammed his fist on the table and Forrest quickly shut his mouth. That silence had cost him more effort than any charge he had ever ordered.

Now, in the pale light of morning, Forrest stood outside his headquarters near the western foot of Missionary Ridge and stared toward the mountains. The air was cool enough that his breath showed faintly when he exhaled. Mist clung to the lower ground, hanging in the hollows between the ridges. Above it, Lookout Mountain rose dark and immense against the morning sky.

Out there across the fields between Missionary Ridge and Chattanooga were thousands of Federal soldiers who, if the reports were right, were digging in as he woke, another reminder of his intelligence failure from the day before.

Chattanooga wasn't what Forrest was interested in this morning. His mind was fixed on another target. Bridgeport.

He had studied the maps himself with General Lee the previous evening, and after leaving headquarters, he had questioned some guides from the area before he had sent scouts ahead before dawn.

There was a railroad bridge there. If it remained intact, it might be worth more than a victory in the mountains. If the Confederates could seize it, repair it, or use it, Beauregard's army could cross the Tennessee River and come at Chattanooga from the west.

The thought pleased Forrest. He liked plans that involved moving where the enemy did not expect him. He liked them even better when they threatened the enemy's supply. A horse snorted behind him. Forrest turned.

Frank Armstrong was approaching, his uniform still carrying the dust of the previous day's fighting. Armstrong commanded one of Forrest's two divisions, and unlike many officers who had learned to flatter their superiors, he had the useful habit of telling Forrest when he thought something was foolish. Forrest valued that.

Behind Armstrong came Lt. Bill Forrest, Nathan's younger brother, who had recently returned from an injury. He walked with only the slightest stiffness, though Nathan had noticed it immediately. Capt. Strange followed with a leather folder tucked under one arm. Lieutenant Mann came behind him, carrying a field glass and a rolled map. Colonel Saunders was already talking quietly with one of the other staff officers. Last came Captain Jackson, commander of Forrest's escort company. Jackson was young enough that Forrest sometimes wondered whether he understood just how many dead men had made it possible for him to wear a captain's bars.

Forrest looked at all of them. "Morning."

"Morning, General," Armstrong replied.

Bill simply nodded, while Capt. Strange removed his hat. "General."

Forrest looked toward Lookout Mountain and then pointed up at the mountain. "Has anybody seen anything moving up there?"

Mann shook his head. "Nothing substantial. We have scouts watching the roads. There may be Federal pickets higher up."

"There may be?" Forrest answered icily. He was already on edge from having given Lee imprecise information that led to the failed attack on Chattanooga yesterday, and Forrest saw Mann hesitate. "Lieutenant, when I ask what is on that mountain, I don't want to hear what may be there. I want to know."

"Yes, sir." Mann quickly blurted out.

"Then find out." Forrest replied in a venomous tone.

"Yes, sir." Mann replied, and then turned away.

Armstrong watched him go, then looked back toward the mountain. "You intend to take the whole mountain?"

Forrest gave him a sideways glance. Then answered matter of factly. "I intend to clear it."

Armstrong smiled faintly. As if that was the answer he expected from Forrest.

Forrest stepped toward the map table that had been set up beside the headquarters tent. He slapped his gloves onto the surface. "Orders are simple." He looked at each man. "Lee and Beauregard want Lookout Mountain cleared first. That will both protect the army's flank, and give an observation post into Chattanooga. Every Federal outpost, patrol, signal station, picket that's up. If anything is wearing blue it gets pushed off or better yet, kill em!"

Strange nodded and opened his folder. "Then Lookout Valley?" He posited

"We clear the valley." From Lookout Valley we can threaten any supply being moved by the River into the city. Forrest's finger moved across the map. "Bridgeport." Nobody spoke for a moment. The word seemed to change the character of the morning. Forrest tapped the map again. "This is the real work." He looked at Captain Jackson. "I want to know whether that railroad bridge is standing."

"If it is?"Jackson replied inquisitively.

"Then we use it."Forrest stated. Forrest could almost feel the men calculating the implications.

A Confederate army crossing the Tennessee River at Bridgeport would be like a dagger at the throat of the Federal army in Chattanooga. It wouldn't just be maneuvering around the Federal army's flank, but would actually sever the main supply artery into the city. And if Chattanooga's defenders were already short of supplies, Forrest cut the thought short then smiled. "Once we get across that river," he said, "their road back north becomes a **** sight tougher."

General Armstrong leaned over the map. "What strength do you expect at Bridgeport?"

"Don't know." Forrest replied.

"Federal infantry?" Armstrong asked, trying to see what intelligence Forrest may be privy to.

"Don't know." Forrest answered again

"What about artillery?" Armstrong pried.

"Don't know that either." Forrest shrugged as he answered Armstrong. He then held up his hand to cut short any other questions Armstrong may have. "That," he said, "is why we're going."

Bill Forrest chuckled. "Could have saved yourself a lot of trouble and just told him we're scouting."

Forrest looked at his brother. "That's what we're doing."

Bill shook his head. Forrest's eyes returned to the map. The previous night's reprimand came back to him. The enemy is before us and we will not waste time on these petty concerns.

Forrest's jaw tightened. He had been furious. Lee had spoken as though Forrest were some ignorant backwoodsman who had stumbled onto a horse and discovered that it could run. Yet there had been something in Lee's manner that Forrest could not dismiss. For all of Lee's West Point background, and his Virginia esteem, Lee was a fighter. He was no desk soldier. He fought. Forrest respected that. He simply didn't like being reminded that he wasn't the only hard man in the Confederacy.

"General?" Someone asked, and Forrest looked up. Armstrong was watching him.

"You were somewhere else." Armstrong proffered.

"I was thinking." Forrest replied non-chalantly.

"That's a dangerous habit brother." Bill laughed.

Forrest gave the small entourage a thin smile. "Don't get too comfortable." He then looked at Armstrong. "I need your division ready to move out within the hour, and ready to move up that mountain we got a lot of work to do, and we can't give the enemy time to catch their breath or those sons-a-*****es turn and make a fight of it, just like they did yesterday."

Armstrong straightened. "That may take some time."

"Within the hour, that's the time you get." Forrest replied, and expected the orders to be carried out regardless of what the men or officers thoughts.

"Yes, sir." Armstrong replied. He began giving orders to his own staff.

Forrest watched them disperse, while Captain Strange moved toward the wagons to find the guides. Saunders began organizing the scouts. Mann disappeared toward the picket line. Jackson turned toward the escort.

Only Bill remained. For a moment the two brothers stood silently.

"You shouldn't be riding yet," Nathan said.

Bill looked offended. "I've been riding for days."

Forrest looked at him incredulously. "You've been limping for days." Bill didn't say anything, Nathan then looked away toward the mountain.

Bill's voice softened. "You're worried." Forrest's eyes remained fixed ahead. "About what?"

Forrest remained silent for a few seconds and then simply stated, "everything."

That answer drew a grunt from Bill who continued. "Rosecrans is dead Nathan. Thomas is falling back. We've got half the Federal army running toward Chattanooga, and the other half scattered around the mountains. Lee's here. Beauregard's here. Bragg is gone. And now you're supposed to ride across half of Tennessee and find a railroad bridge before the Yankees blow it up."

Forrest glanced at him. "You forgot to mention that you're injured." Bill shrugged. Forrest studied his brother for several seconds. Then he said quietly, "Stay close."

Bill smiled. "I always do."

Nathan looked back toward the mountain. The sun was beginning to burn through the mist. The landscape emerged piece by piece, the roads, the fields, the ridges, the dark timber, the distant slopes. It was a beautiful country. Forrest knew better than to trust the beautiful country. He had learned long ago that the prettiest ground could kill a man just as efficiently as the ugliest.

Captain Jackson approached and saluted. "General. The escort is mounted and ready to move out, looks like Frank has his command ready to move as well."

Forrest turned back toward Lookout Mountain. "Today ain't about glory." Nobody answered. "It's about information," Forrest continued. "I want to know where they are. How many they are. What roads they have. What roads they don't have. Where they can run. Where they can't. And most importantly I want to know what condition that bridge at Bridgeport is in. If any of those blue-bellied bastards get in our way, then they'll have a fight on there hands!"

That last statement brought a few quiet laughs.Forrest allowed himself one.Then his expression hardened again. The mountain waited. Somewhere beyond it, the Federal army was trying to survive. He mounted his horse. The animal shifted beneath him. Forrest settled into the saddle and looked once more toward the mountain. Lee's words returned to him. For a moment, his anger rose again. Then he pushed it down. Lee and Beauregard's order were clear, and that was enough.

Forrest pulled the reins gently. "Armstrong, get your division moving." He turned to the escort.

"Mount up."

Leather creaked. Spurs struck stirrups. Horses shifted and stamped as men swung into their saddles. The camp came alive. Forrest looked over his shoulder at the men gathering behind him. "Let's go see what the Yankees left us." He turned his horse toward Lookout Mountain. Behind him, the escort began to move.

By midmorning, Lookout Mountain belonged to the Confederates. It had not been much of a fight. In fact, Forrest had expected more.

The column had ridden through High Point Gap beneath a sky that was clearing by the hour, the morning mist burning away from the valleys below. The climb had been difficult in places, particularly for the wagons and artillery attached to Armstrong's division, but Forrest had pushed his men hard.

He wanted the summit before the Federals understood what was happening. When the first Union pickets appeared among the trees, Forrest had halted the column. A few shots cracked through the timber. Then more. Forrest raised his field glasses. "Infantry," he said. Armstrong nodded, and Forrest looked at him, "more than enough."

Armstrong tilted his head slightly to the side, and replied, "for what?"

"For them to run." Forrest answered jovially. Armstrong smiled. Forrest waved his hand."Push them."

The Confederate skirmishers advanced. The Federal infantry fired another ragged volley, then disappeared into the woods.

Forrest waited. Nothing. Armstrong had sent some scouts on ahead. The captain returned twenty minutes later to report to Armstrong, who then relayed the information back to Forrest. "They're gone."

"How many?" Forrest wanted to know

Armstrong simply shook his head, "couldn't say. They left in a hurry."

Forrest lowered his glasses."Then we've accomplished our purpose, and those cowards can't bother us any more."

Armstrong looked toward the distant Chattanooga valley. "They may have known they couldn't hold, or maybe they may have been told to run as soon as they engage any force in strength."

Armstrong glanced at him, and before Armstrong could say anything Forrest beat him to it, "I think they're already evacuating, I think them Yankees are scared."

Armstrong's expression changed. "That's a dangerous assumption sir."

"It is dangerous, for the Yankees that is." Forrest quipped. Forrest turned his horse. "Come on, we got to keep moving." They moved down the mountain. By afternoon, the Confederate cavalry had descended into Lookout Valley. The valley was strangely quiet.

At Brown's Ferry, the Confederates encountered only scattered resistance. Whatever union strength had been on Lookout Mountain had retreated here, and had crossed back over to the other side of the river. Armstrong's men swept across the position. The ferry was now in Confederate hands.

Forrest stopped on the eastern bank and looked across the Tennessee River. The water moved steadily beneath him, broad and brown, carrying leaves and small branches westward. "Spread the division through the valley," he ordered.

Armstrong nodded. "Pickets?"

"Every road." Forrest looked at him, "and the River too, keep an eye on it." The main body of Armstrong's division began spreading through Lookout Valley while Forrest assembled a smaller party.

The day wasn't close to finished. While Armstrong was spreading out across the valley, Forrest called on Captain Jackson's escort. He needed to move fast and not be seen. He'd take his staff and his escort only and move out towards Bridgeport and see what's up.

The farther west they went, the quieter the countryside became. They followed the river. The terrain changed. The Tennessee made a broad bend here, curling around a wooded island before straightening again toward Bridgeport. They'd only been in the saddle for an hour since leaving Lookout Valley. Forrest stopped. He studied the water. Then the island. Then the far bank. "Interesting." Forrest thought out loud.

Jackson followed his gaze. "What do you make of it sir?"

Forrest smiled. "This island is perfect, boys. It's wooded and therefore will conceal any movement towards Bridgeport

They moved closer. The first thing they saw was the railroad bridge. Or what remained of it. The bridge had been destroyed. Timbers and sections of the structure lay twisted into the river. Some had been dragged away by the current. Others jutted from the water at strange angles.

Forrest's smile disappeared. "****, so much for the bridge." His staff all visibly sagged, the bridge was their only way to get across the river. Forrest didn't have time to respond, he was busy staring beyond the wreckage. He raised his field glasses. "There." He pointed

Jackson followed his gaze. A pontoon bridge. It stretched across the river. "How many boats would you say there are, sir?"

Forrest slowly lowered the glasses. "Four dozen, perhaps." Forrest grinned.

Jackson understood immediately. "General?"

Forrest pointed. "Look." They all now had their glasses raised to their eyes. The pontoon bridge connected the southern bank to the island, and while they couldn't see it through the foliage, it probably connected the island to the northern shore as well. Of utmost interest, was a small Federal blockhouse stood near the bridge approach. A few soldiers moved around it.

Forrest's excitement became impossible to hide. "There's our bridge." They all looked at him. Forrest pointed toward the island. "Look at the current." The river flowed around the island, narrowing slightly on the southern side before widening again.

Forrest's mind was already moving. Faster than the others could follow. Forrest dismounted. He wanted to make sure they stayed out of sight of those lookouts near the blockhouse. He walked toward the riverbank. The others followed.

He crouched and picked up a small stick, using it to draw in the dirt. "This is the island." He drew the river around it. "This is the bridge." Then he marked the blockhouse. "Here." Bill leaned over. Forrest continued. "When we get infantry here." He marked the southern shore. "Then we take the blockhouse."

Jackson and the others were beginning to understand. "We take the blockhouse and we can then use that pontoon bridge ourselves.'

"Forrest looked up. "Not quite."

Jackson looked perplexed. "I thought that's what we're looking for, a crossing?"

Even Forrest's brother looked confused, but before he could offer a word, Nathan cut him off. "You are correct, that those boats are the answer, just not as a bridge."

Mann stared at them. "You don't mean to capture the bridge intact?"

"Nope." Forrest shook his head. "We don't need the bridge, and even if we took this end of the bridge intact, their stoutest defenses will be on the other side of that island where the other span of the pontoon connects to Bridgeport." Forrest then stood up. "We don't need the bridge, we just need the boats."

The men were silent. Still not understanding what Forrest was getting at.

Forrest looked toward the island. "The bridge is made of individual pontoons. They can be cut loose."

Jackson's eyes widened, as he began to understand. "And floated down around the island."

Forrest nodded. "Under the trees." The excitement in his voice was unmistakable, as he continued. "We cut them loose one at a time. The current carries them down this side of the island." He traced the route with his finger. "Then we pull them ashore below the Federal camp."

Bill's face lit up. "And put infantry in them."

Forrest beamed, "exactly!" He then turned toward the river. "Infantry gets across without the Yankees seeing them."

Captain Strange stared at the northern bank."They can establish a lodgement."

Forrest finished his thought, "Then we bring the rest." Forrest pointed toward the pontoons. "Once we've got men on that shore, we use those boats to ferry more across."

They all understood now.

Forrest continued "And then we can take Bridgeport where they least expect it, from the west."

Nobody spoke for several seconds. The destruction of the railroad bridge suddenly seemed irrelevant. The Federals had destroyed the bridge they expected the Confederates to use. But in doing so, they had left another crossing behind. A crossing Forrest could turn against them.

He walked to the edge of the river. The current moved silently past. He could almost see it. The blockhouse silenced and the boats cut loose. Confederate infantry slipping into the pontoons. The boats drifting beneath the cover of the island. Men landing on the northern shore. A sudden rush against the Federal camp. If Bridgeport falls, surely Chattanooga will follow.

Forrest's heart began pounding. Not from fear. He turned sharply. "Saunders. I want scouts to get as much information on the northern bank and around Bridgeport as we can."

"Yes, sir." Saunder replied assuredly.

Forrest continued. "Find out everything. Strength of the camp. Guns. Roads. Where their pickets are. Everything."

Saunders simply nodded.

Forrest looked back at the river. The sun was beginning to descend behind the western ridges. The light turned the water copper. The Federal camp across the river was becoming harder to see.

Forrest's anger toward Lee had vanished. There was no room for it now. He had found something. Something the Federal commanders might not yet understand. Forrest looked at the ruined railroad bridge one final time.

"You know," Bill said beside him, "I believe the Yankees have made a mistake."

Forrest smiled. "Yes they have." He pointed toward the pontoon bridge. "Their mistake is our opportunity." Then he mounted back up. He looked toward Bridgeport. He turned his horse toward the east, and then looked back at Captain Strange. "Get word to Armstrong."

"Tell him we're going to take Bridgeport, and that I want one of his brigades detailed over here watching the blockhouse and the town, but to stay out of sight."

Strange nodded in approval.

The men began to ride. Behind them, the ruined railroad bridge stood useless in the river. But beside it, the pontoon bridge remained.vFour dozen boats. Forrest had already begun imagining what they could carry.

I am FALLING BEHIND on reading this, but will catch up as soon as I can!

Amazing work as usual!

I am SO FAR behind. It will be fun when I am someday able to catch up!

Evening of September 25th View attachment 588591

I believe that I have FINALLY caught up in the reading of this excellent book. Hope so, and will be on the alert for another chapter!

 

[Wizard of Cozz]

Ch. 8: Lee

6:20 P.M.
September 26, 1863
Lee's HQ
Missionary Ridge

Robert E. Lee sat beneath the dim light of a candle and read the dispatch for the third time. He did not re-read it because he failed to understand it. He read it because he wanted to be certain.

The headquarters had grown quieter in the last hour. Outside, the Confederate camps stretched along the slopes of Missionary Ridge, extra fires burning to make their position seem larger than it was. The fires looked like no more than scattered clusters beneath the darkening sky.

Somewhere farther down the ridge, a horse whinnied. From another direction came the muted clank of equipment and the occasional voice of a sentry challenging someone moving through the darkness.

Inside the headquarters tent, however, the only sounds were paper, pen, and the low murmur of Lee's staff speaking among themselves.

Lee lowered the dispatch. "Pender reports no movement along the northern bank of the Tennessee into Chattanooga."

Colonel Walter H. Taylor, standing across the table, nodded. "Yes, General. Pender has posted Perrin's South Carolinian Brigade and Folsom's Georgian Brigade along the southern bank. "

Lee looked back at the paper, before responding to Taylor. "If Thomas isn't using Haley's Trace to supply his army, he must be forced to use the longer route over Walden Ridge." Lee waited for any staff input before continuing.

Colonel Marshall responded, "With infantry now in Lookout Valley sir, we have surer control over the area, on top of that General Pender reports that his other three brigades have occupied Lookout Mountain and are in the process of fortifying it."

"Can General Pender support Perrin and Folsom from Lookout Mountain?" asked Brigadier General William N. Pendleton.

"With enough intelligence of enemy activity I believe so." Lee answered assuredly. "It's not an easy trek up or down that mountain, but as long Forrest keeps us up to date on any movement into the Valley Pender should have enough to to move the rest of his division into the Valley to stop any attempt to open a supply line along the southern bank.

Pendleton leaned closer. "Then the valley is becoming considerably more secure."

"More secure," Lee replied, "but not secure."

The distinction was important. Lee placed the paper on the table. Perrin's brigade and Folsom's brigade, both from Pender's division, had now entered Lookout Valley. That gave the Confederates an infantry presence where, only days before, Lee had possessed little more than cavalry reconnaissance and scattered outposts.

It also meant that the Federal army would have greater difficulty moving westward without being observed.

Taylor studied the map. "With Armstrong's division now relieved of watching Haley's Trace, they are now freed up to operate with General Jones on our right flank as you wished sir."

"Yes, that is very encouraging." Lee exclaimed.

"Minus Sir, Dibrell's brigade which Forrest has detached for his own purposes." Taylor dutifully dispersed the information, wanting to make sure General Lee had all the information.

"Yes, Yes," Lee waved him off, "I have Forrest's latest report right here.

The message from General Nathan Bedford Forrest that needed to be considered. Forrest's handwriting, though hurried, was unmistakable. His reports had a peculiar directness about them. There was little ornament, little concern for the conventions that so occupied some officers. Forrest reported what he had seen, what he had done, and what he intended to do next.

Lee appreciated that. The general had also developed an appreciation for the man himself. Not without reservations.

Forrest possessed qualities that could not be taught at West Point or acquired through years of staff work. He possessed an instinct for movement, terrain, opportunity, and danger that Lee had seen in very few cavalry commanders.

He also possessed a temper, a very considerable one for that matter. Lee's mouth tightened slightly as he remembered their conversation a few nights back.

Forrest had not liked being corrected, but in Lee's mind few men did. Thankfully Forrest had listened. That was what mattered.

Lee held up the yesterday's dispatch. "General Forrest has taken his escort and Dibrell's brigade to reconnoiter Bridgeport one more time before doubling back to meet up with General Beauregard. This was dated as of yesterday evening." Lee inwardly beamed with pride for the Cavalry officer. He was taking to heart his duty of being the eyes of the army.

Even more impressive was the report they had received this afternoon from General Forrest.

"Colonel Taylor, can you please summarize the dispatch from Forrest we received this afternoon?" Lee looked towards his young Adjutant.

"As you say sir." Taylor obligingly went through his most recent dispatches including ones from Generals Beauregard and Jones, before find the one from Forrest. Reading it quickly to jog his memory, "Sir, General Forrest says that the Union has reinforced Bridgeport with two more regiments. He took the whole morning scouting the position again and counting troops."

"Very good, Colonel Taylor, and how many regiments does he count in the town as of the last dispatch?" Lee knew the answer, but wanted his staff to reconsider the information.

"He says he counts five regiments in total, as well as a battery of artillery." Taylor recited.

"And what of the report from General Hill?" Lee had seen a report earlier about something at Stevenson.

Colonel Charles Venable was able to answer that information. "General Hill states that he received a report from General Wheeler of seeing some infantry in Stevenson, though Hill says Wheeler doesn't give specifics."

Lee stood deep in thought before answering. Wheeler's careless attention to detail made divining the enemy's strength rather difficult. "Unfortunately General Wheeler seems slim on specifics, but we must assume there are multiple regiments in Stevenson, at least until proven otherwise."

Lee walked back to the map spread out over the makeshift table of his command tent. He reached down tracing the information. His finger followed the roads. The plan was beginning to take shape.

Not quickly enough for his liking, but it was taking shape. Beauregard had departed with Hardee's Corps. D. H. Hill was consolidating around Trenton.

The intention was simple in conception and exceedingly difficult in execution: concentrate west of Lookout Mountain, move upon Bridgeport, and destroy or seize the Federal supply base that sustained Chattanooga.

If they succeeded, Thomas would find himself in a position that no fortification could solve.

Lee looked toward Taylor. "General Forrest understands his orders."

Taylor smiled faintly. "I doubt General Forrest requires much explanation of anything."

Lee's expression remained serious. "He requires direction."

Marshall, Venable, and the others waited, listening to Lee extrapolate the situation.

"And he requires restraint." Lee answered objectively.

That earned a quiet chuckle from several officers. Lee allowed himself the faintest smile. Forrest was useful precisely because he was Forrest. Attempting to turn him into another cavalry officer would destroy the qualities that made him valuable. But Lee also knew that Forrest was capable of becoming so engrossed in an opportunity that he could lose sight of the larger design.

That could not happen now. Beauregard's operation depended upon speed. It depended upon secrecy.

And above all, it depended upon the Confederates maintaining pressure in front of Chattanooga while their principal blow fell behind it.

Lee folded his hands behind his back. "I hope General Forrest does not imagine that I am taking his command from him."

Taylor looked at him. "I doubt he is excited about most of his corps operating away from him." Taylor paused to consider his next words carefully. "General Forrest also knows that you're trusting him with an important mission, I'm sure he can manage for a few days."

Lee turned toward the map. "Armstrong is needed here." His finger touched the Confederate right. "We require his division to strengthen our cavalry position north of Missionary Ridge. We have gained ground, but we have nothing certain. Thomas remains in Chattanooga, and I will not allow him to discover that we have weakened ourselves merely because Beauregard has moved west."

Brigadier General William Pendleton nodded. "And Forrest?"

Lee calmly considered Penderleton's question. "He's better employed with Beauregard. I trust no one else besides maybe General Jones to carry out the operation"

Taylor understood.

Lee continued. "I cannot be certain that General Wheeler will give Beauregard what he needs."

The tent became quiet, and no one immediately answered. The criticism was significant. Joseph Wheeler was popular among his men. He had earned a reputation for energy and personal courage, and his cavalry had served the Confederacy well on countless occasions.

But Lee had watched the reports. He had read the dispatches. Wheeler had been given a simple responsibility during the pursuit of the Federal southern wing. Find the enemy. Keep them from escaping.

Instead, portions of the Federal infantry had slipped away while Wheeler's cavalry had become entangled in pursuing their mounted counterparts. That mistake might now cost the Confederates dearly.

Lee did not like changing commanders in the middle of a campaign. It damaged confidence in the men, and it created uncertainty.

And among cavalrymen, loyalty to a commander could be nearly as important as loyalty to the army itself, and yet Lee had another problem, he needed a cavalry man to cover the move on Bridgeport.

The success of Beauregard's entire movement could depend upon accurate reconnaissance and aggressive cavalry action.

Forrest could provide both with Dibrell's large cavalry brigade, while Jones operated on the armies northern flank and Wheeler on it's southern one. It wasn't an ideal situation, but was the best they could do for now.

"He is not being removed from his command," Lee said. "He is being employed where his particular abilities are required."

Pendleton nodded. "But will General Forrest see the distinction?"

"I hope so." Lee said out loud, though his eyes remained on the map.

He had no intention of allowing personal considerations to interfere with the campaign. Yet he also understood men and their peculiarities. Forrest was a very proud man, who didn't deal with fools.

The dressing-down Lee had given him had been deliberate. Forrest had needed to understand that reckless independence could ruin an army as quickly as it could win a battle, yet Lee had no desire to humiliate the man.

He needed him, and the army needed him.

Now Beauregard needed him.

Lee turned toward one of his adjutants. "Colonel Venable, when General Forrest arrives at Trenton, I want him to understand that he is to do everything he can to make the mission a success, but that his corps will need him soon."

Venable raised an eyebrow. "I shall phrase it delicately."

"That would be wise." Lee answered.

A few officers smiled. Lee returned to his papers.

Another report lay beside the first, and another. The war had become an endless procession of paper.

Lee lifted another report. "General Cleburne reports—" but before Lee could finish the sentence. A knock interrupted him.

Everyone in the tent turned. An aide stood outside. "A Telegram for General Lee!"

Colonel Taylor showed the man in. The young officer stepped inside and saluted.

"From where?" General Lee asked.

"Richmond sir." Lee nodded.

The words immediately changed the atmosphere. Lee extended his hand. The aide crossed the tent and placed the folded telegram before him. Lee looked at the letter it was from the War Department in Richmond.

For a moment he did not open it. Perhaps it was news from Virginia that could alter everything he was attempting to accomplish in Tennessee. He looked at the Telegram and read it.

Taylor watched him carefully.

Lee unfolded the paper. His eyes moved across the first line. Then the second. His expression did not change. But the officers nearest him saw his attention sharpen.

"What is it, General?" Pendleton asked.

Lee continued reading. The telegram was from the War Department. And whatever Richmond had to say, Lee understood immediately.

Lee read the telegram again.

The candle beside his elbow guttered in the slight evening breeze that found its way beneath the canvas. The flame bent sideways, recovered, and bent again. Beyond the headquarters tent, the sounds of the army continued without pause—horses stamping in the darkness, wagons creaking along the ridge road, the distant calls of sentries, and somewhere down the line the muffled laughter of soldiers gathered around a fire.

The paper in Lee's hand seemed almost weightless. Its contents were not. Lee lowered it slowly.

"From President Davis," he said.

The officers around the table straightened.

Lee did not immediately read the message aloud. His eyes read each and every word while his mind was already moving to conclusions.

Richmond

September 26, 1863
To Robert E. Lee
Chattanooga, TN

Recent information received through our agents in Washington indicates that two corps of Meade's army are now in motion. Large numbers of troops have been observed at the cars, with considerable quantities of artillery already loaded for transportation. There is no doubt as to the destination of these troops, part for General Rosecrans, and perhaps for General Burnside in East Tennessee.

A copy of the New York Post has also been obtained, containing information corroborating the reported movement. The enemy appears to be acting with considerable dispatch.

I deem it proper that you should be apprised of these movements without delay, as they may materially affect operations in Tennessee.

The present opportunity should, if practicable, be turned to account before the enemy's reinforcements can reach the field.

Jefferson Davis

"President Davis writes that recent information has been received from one of our agents in Washington."

Lee looked up. "Two of Meade's corps are on the move. Large numbers of troops are at the cars, already loaded with cannon."

A silence settled over the tent.

"Is there any doubt of their destination?" Taylor asked.

"None." Lee looked back down at the telegram. "Davis says there is no doubt that they are intended for Rosecrans, and perhaps for Burnside."

Pendleton frowned. "Two corps. That would be—"

"Enough," Lee interrupted quietly.

Pendleton stopped. Everyone understood.

Lee folded the telegram once along its original crease. The information did not surprise him. Not entirely. He had known that Washington would react.

The Federals had suffered too much at Chickamauga to do otherwise. Their army had been driven from the field, Rosecrans was dead, and Thomas was clinging to Chattanooga with what remained of the Army of the Cumberland.

Lincoln and Stanton could not simply accept such a disaster. It was inevitable that Lincoln and his administration would respond.

The question had always been when, and the answer was now.

"President Davis also says that a copy of the New York Post was obtained."

Taylor looked up. "The newspapers have confirmed the movement?"

"Apparently." Lee placed the telegram upon the map.

The New York Post had been one of the many newspapers in the North that could scarcely conceal its delight in Federal military movements. Such papers were not military documents, but in wartime even newspapers could become sources of intelligence.

Troop movements could be inferred from railway notices, casualty lists, rumors, political speeches, and reports from correspondents.

And now the movement was unmistakable. The North was beginning to pour men toward Tennessee.

Lee rose from his chair. The officers stepped aside as he moved toward the entrance of the tent.

He lifted the canvas flap. It was night now, and the air was cooler.

Missionary Ridge stretched away beneath a sky crowded with stars. Fires dotted the Confederate position like small red eyes. Men moved between them as dark silhouettes. A wagon passed somewhere below, its wheels grinding against the rough road. The smell of wood smoke mingled with that of horses and damp earth.

Farther west, beyond the ridge and the darkness, lay Chattanooga, along with the Tennessee River, and then further west Lookout Valley and then Bridgeport. The whole campaign seemed to Lee suddenly compressed into a handful of miles.

He stepped back inside. "Colonel Taylor."

"General?" Taylor answered studiously.

Lee considered his question. "How long would it take Hooker's troops to reach Chattanooga?"

Taylor glanced toward the map. "If they are traveling by rail, I presume they would go through Nashville, then south to Bridgeport."

Lee nodded. "My thoughts as well."

He bent over the map. "Washington cannot send an entire corps directly to Chattanooga. They must move through the rail network."

His finger traced the route, the troops would be routed from the Army of the Potomac up to Washington, and then northwest through West Virginia and Pennsylvania to Louisville. Finally they would move on from there to Nashville and then south to Bridgeport. Unless the Confederates intervened.

Lee's finger stopped at Bridgeport. Lee looked up at his staff. "If Hooker is coming, he will require Bridgeport. He will operate from there to open the supply line back to the Army of the Cumberland."

"All the more reason for Beauregard to take it, correct?" Colonel Marshall asked.

Lee's eyes remained fixed on the map. "Then we will drive a wedge between them, preventing any junction."

The thought pleased him. Not because Lee underestimated Hooker. Quite the contrary.

He knew Joseph Hooker too well to underestimate him. Hooker was an aggressive, energetic, and capable commander. A man with his capabilities and being given a second chance would be dangerous. .

And if the Federal government had chosen to send him west with two corps, it was because Washington believed he could restore the situation.

Lee straightened. "We have perhaps a few days."

Pendleton looked uncertain. "General, Beauregard has only just begun his movement."

"Then should we not consider delaying the operation?" Pendleton asked.

Lee turned toward him. "No."

The answer came quietly, and yet still just as forceful.

"We cannot delay." Lee answered, walking back toward the table.

"This is a race now." He placed one hand upon the map. "Time though for Thomas is a double edged sword. While it will allow him to improve his fortifcations, it also serves to strain his supply chain."

He tapped Chattanooga. "And now Washington is sending him reinforcements."

Taylor nodded. "Yes, sir."

They were building their inner defensive belt. Their outer works were spreading outward. Every hour spent waiting gave Thomas another trench, another parapet, another battery.

A frontal assault would be costly. Perhaps ruinously so.

They must seek to maneuver and deceive the Federals to their intentions till the time to strike was right. We must turn Thomas's attention away from the west and to a more pressing matter.

Lee turned toward Taylor. "Has General Jones been briefed on his operation?"

Taylor waited. "I rode and delivered the orders to him personally. He was delighted at the opportunity. Well as delighted as "Grumble" Jones gets."

"I want to speak with him personally I want to speak with him tomorrow evening at 5:00 P.M." Lee's new the importance of the next week, and Jones's cavalry would play a major part in occupying the Federal attention away from Bridgeport.

"I'll dispatch riders with a message now sir." Taylor answered as he hurriedly scribbled a note and then took it out to some orderlies to take to General Jones.

"Very Good." Lee could feel the tightness return in his chest. It never truly went away. He never liked to show weakness in front of his staff.

"If Jones can maneuver two divisions of cavalry across the Tennessee northeast of Chattanooga. Thomas will have no choice but to respond" Lee looked around the room. "He will have to pull more of his cavalry east to deal with the matter. Or risk Jones operating freely in his rear"

Everyone was shaking their head in agreement. Lee had been sending numerous messages back and forth between him and Beauregard keeping him updated on the situation.

Now they were closer than ever to their objective. Beauregard was probably marching into Trenton now. His men would be tired from the move over Lookout Mountain. But they were that much closer to moving on to Bridgeport.

Within the next few days Beauregard would be ready to move on Bridgeport and cross the Tennessee River, and yet the Federal government was already reacting.

Lee folded his hands behind his back. "They are moving faster than I anticipated."

Pendleton smiled grimly. "So are we."

Lee shook his head. "We have kept the initiative, but we must take this new information into account."

He thought of Beauregard. The Creole general had been given the most dangerous assignment of the campaign. March west, and unite Hardee's Corps with D. H. Hill's. From their they would move and seize Bridgeport. Most of the major details had been worked out, but Lee left any necessary changes up to General Beauregard. Ultimately Lee needed Beauregard to take command of this Theater so that Lee could get back to Virginia.

Lee looked again at the map. "If Hooker reaches Bridgeport before Beauregard…" He did not finish.

He did not need to, as the implications were obvious. Hooker would reinforce the garrison. From There Hooker could build up his forces for a move on Lookout Valley.

Lee would not allow that if he could prevent it. "Colonel Marshall, send a message to General Beauregard."

Marshall reached for his notebook. "What shall I say?"

Lee considered the message carefully. "Tell him the enemy is moving reinforcements from the Army of the Potomac."

Marshall's pencil moved.

Lee continued, "tell him Hooker's troops are likely headed for Bridgeport."

The pencil stopped.

"And tell him," Lee continued, "that the importance of his movement has increased." Lee paused. "Lastly, make sure he knows there is no time to waste."

Marshall nodded. He began writing again.

Lee looked toward the entrance. The wind stirred the canvas. The army slept uneasily around them. Lee wondered how many of those men understood how much depended upon the next few days. Probably more than most. The men always seemed to know the significance of the coming maelstrom.

While they probably could feel the oncoming struggle. They did not know that thousands of the enemy were already boarding trains hundreds of miles away. They did not know that in Washington, men were pushing locomotives and railway schedules to their limits.

Lee did. He looked once more at the map.

He thought of Forrest's report. Even with the incoming reinforcements, there was a remarkable opportunity before them. Perhaps the finest opportunity the Confederacy had been given since crossing the Tennessee.

Lee's expression hardened. "Colonel Venable."

"Yes, sir?" Colonel Charles Venable stepped forward.

"I want a message sent to General Forrest as well." Lee told his young adjutant.

"What should he be told?" Venable asked.

Lee considered for only a moment. "Nothing that will distract him from his present duty."

Venable waited.

Lee though considerably on the matter. "But tell him to move with all possible speed to make a junction with Beauregard and his men at Trenton."

Lee sat again. The telegram from Davis remained before him. He placed his hand upon it. For months, the Confederacy had struggled merely to survive. Now, for a brief and dangerous moment, it possessed the initiative. Lee knew better than most how quickly such moments disappeared.

He had no intention of surrendering this one. "Gentlemen," he said quietly, "we have beaten the Army of the Cumberland." His eyes moved from one officer to another. "Now we must prevent Washington from rebuilding it."

For a moment, he imagined he could hear the iron wheels carrying Hooker's soldiers south and west toward Tennessee.

The race had begun. And somewhere beyond the mountains, Beauregard would soon be moving toward Bridgeport.

 

[SWS]

In terms of delaying the invasion of the Southern heartland and flustering the Federals, recapturing East Tennessee in 1863 could be just as decisive for the Confederate West as Lee's defense of the Va. Central Railroad and Richmond-Petersburg in 1864 was for the Virginia-North Carolina theater. It is a momentous thing, IMO.

 

[Wizard of Cozz]

In terms of delaying the invasion of the Southern heartland and flustering the Federals, recapturing East Tennessee in 1863 could be just as decisive for the Confederate West as Lee's defense of the Va. Central Railroad and Richmond-Petersburg in 1864 was for the Virginia-North Carolina theater. It is a momentous thing, IMO.

If Lee and Beauregard can force Thomas back from Chattanooga that would open up Lee to operate against Burnside at Knoxville. Thereby opening up the railway between Virginia and Chattanooga. Basing out of Chattanooga to Stevenson would allow Forrest the winter to operate in middle and western Tennessee recruiting. By keeping a toe hold in Tennessee I don't believe the Tennessee regiments would be as demoralised and you may see a slight increase in recruiting for those regiments.

 

[13 IL Cav & 64 GA Inf]

Ch. 8: Lee

6:20 P.M.
September 26, 1863
Lee's HQ
Missionary Ridge

Robert E. Lee sat beneath the dim light of a candle and read the dispatch for the third time. He did not re-read it because he failed to understand it. He read it because he wanted to be certain.

The headquarters had grown quieter in the last hour. Outside, the Confederate camps stretched along the slopes of Missionary Ridge, extra fires burning to make their position seem larger than it was. The fires looked like no more than scattered clusters beneath the darkening sky.

Somewhere farther down the ridge, a horse whinnied. From another direction came the muted clank of equipment and the occasional voice of a sentry challenging someone moving through the darkness.

Inside the headquarters tent, however, the only sounds were paper, pen, and the low murmur of Lee's staff speaking among themselves.

Lee lowered the dispatch. "Pender reports no movement along the northern bank of the Tennessee into Chattanooga."

Colonel Walter H. Taylor, standing across the table, nodded. "Yes, General. Pender has posted Perrin's South Carolinian Brigade and Folsom's Georgian Brigade along the southern bank. "

Lee looked back at the paper, before responding to Taylor. "If Thomas isn't using Haley's Trace to supply his army, he must be forced to use the longer route over Walden Ridge." Lee waited for any staff input before continuing.

Colonel Marshall responded, "With infantry now in Lookout Valley sir, we have surer control over the area, on top of that General Pender reports that his other three brigades have occupied Lookout Mountain and are in the process of fortifying it."

"Can General Pender support Perrin and Folsom from Lookout Mountain?" asked Brigadier General William N. Pendleton.

"With enough intelligence of enemy activity I believe so." Lee answered assuredly. "It's not an easy trek up or down that mountain, but as long Forrest keeps us up to date on any movement into the Valley Pender should have enough to to move the rest of his division into the Valley to stop any attempt to open a supply line along the southern bank.

Pendleton leaned closer. "Then the valley is becoming considerably more secure."

"More secure," Lee replied, "but not secure."

The distinction was important. Lee placed the paper on the table. Perrin's brigade and Folsom's brigade, both from Pender's division, had now entered Lookout Valley. That gave the Confederates an infantry presence where, only days before, Lee had possessed little more than cavalry reconnaissance and scattered outposts.

It also meant that the Federal army would have greater difficulty moving westward without being observed.

Taylor studied the map. "With Armstrong's division now relieved of watching Haley's Trace, they are now freed up to operate with General Jones on our right flank as you wished sir."

"Yes, that is very encouraging." Lee exclaimed.

"Minus Sir, Dibrell's brigade which Forrest has detached for his own purposes." Taylor dutifully dispersed the information, wanting to make sure General Lee had all the information.

"Yes, Yes," Lee waved him off, "I have Forrest's latest report right here.

The message from General Nathan Bedford Forrest that needed to be considered. Forrest's handwriting, though hurried, was unmistakable. His reports had a peculiar directness about them. There was little ornament, little concern for the conventions that so occupied some officers. Forrest reported what he had seen, what he had done, and what he intended to do next.

Lee appreciated that. The general had also developed an appreciation for the man himself. Not without reservations.

Forrest possessed qualities that could not be taught at West Point or acquired through years of staff work. He possessed an instinct for movement, terrain, opportunity, and danger that Lee had seen in very few cavalry commanders.

He also possessed a temper, a very considerable one for that matter. Lee's mouth tightened slightly as he remembered their conversation a few nights back.

Forrest had not liked being corrected, but in Lee's mind few men did. Thankfully Forrest had listened. That was what mattered.

Lee held up the yesterday's dispatch. "General Forrest has taken his escort and Dibrell's brigade to reconnoiter Bridgeport one more time before doubling back to meet up with General Beauregard. This was dated as of yesterday evening." Lee inwardly beamed with pride for the Cavalry officer. He was taking to heart his duty of being the eyes of the army.

Even more impressive was the report they had received this afternoon from General Forrest.

"Colonel Taylor, can you please summarize the dispatch from Forrest we received this afternoon?" Lee looked towards his young Adjutant.

"As you say sir." Taylor obligingly went through his most recent dispatches including ones from Generals Beauregard and Jones, before find the one from Forrest. Reading it quickly to jog his memory, "Sir, General Forrest says that the Union has reinforced Bridgeport with two more regiments. He took the whole morning scouting the position again and counting troops."

"Very good, Colonel Taylor, and how many regiments does he count in the town as of the last dispatch?" Lee knew the answer, but wanted his staff to reconsider the information.

"He says he counts five regiments in total, as well as a battery of artillery." Taylor recited.

"And what of the report from General Hill?" Lee had seen a report earlier about something at Stevenson.

Colonel Charles Venable was able to answer that information. "General Hill states that he received a report from General Wheeler of seeing some infantry in Stevenson, though Hill says Wheeler doesn't give specifics."

Lee stood deep in thought before answering. Wheeler's careless attention to detail made divining the enemy's strength rather difficult. "Unfortunately General Wheeler seems slim on specifics, but we must assume there are multiple regiments in Stevenson, at least until proven otherwise."

Lee walked back to the map spread out over the makeshift table of his command tent. He reached down tracing the information. His finger followed the roads. The plan was beginning to take shape.

Not quickly enough for his liking, but it was taking shape. Beauregard had departed with Hardee's Corps. D. H. Hill was consolidating around Trenton.

The intention was simple in conception and exceedingly difficult in execution: concentrate west of Lookout Mountain, move upon Bridgeport, and destroy or seize the Federal supply base that sustained Chattanooga.

If they succeeded, Thomas would find himself in a position that no fortification could solve.

Lee looked toward Taylor. "General Forrest understands his orders."

Taylor smiled faintly. "I doubt General Forrest requires much explanation of anything."

Lee's expression remained serious. "He requires direction."

Marshall, Venable, and the others waited, listening to Lee extrapolate the situation.

"And he requires restraint." Lee answered objectively.

That earned a quiet chuckle from several officers. Lee allowed himself the faintest smile. Forrest was useful precisely because he was Forrest. Attempting to turn him into another cavalry officer would destroy the qualities that made him valuable. But Lee also knew that Forrest was capable of becoming so engrossed in an opportunity that he could lose sight of the larger design.

That could not happen now. Beauregard's operation depended upon speed. It depended upon secrecy.

And above all, it depended upon the Confederates maintaining pressure in front of Chattanooga while their principal blow fell behind it.

Lee folded his hands behind his back. "I hope General Forrest does not imagine that I am taking his command from him."

Taylor looked at him. "I doubt he is excited about most of his corps operating away from him." Taylor paused to consider his next words carefully. "General Forrest also knows that you're trusting him with an important mission, I'm sure he can manage for a few days."

Lee turned toward the map. "Armstrong is needed here." His finger touched the Confederate right. "We require his division to strengthen our cavalry position north of Missionary Ridge. We have gained ground, but we have nothing certain. Thomas remains in Chattanooga, and I will not allow him to discover that we have weakened ourselves merely because Beauregard has moved west."

Brigadier General William Pendleton nodded. "And Forrest?"

Lee calmly considered Penderleton's question. "He's better employed with Beauregard. I trust no one else besides maybe General Jones to carry out the operation"

Taylor understood.

Lee continued. "I cannot be certain that General Wheeler will give Beauregard what he needs."

The tent became quiet, and no one immediately answered. The criticism was significant. Joseph Wheeler was popular among his men. He had earned a reputation for energy and personal courage, and his cavalry had served the Confederacy well on countless occasions.

But Lee had watched the reports. He had read the dispatches. Wheeler had been given a simple responsibility during the pursuit of the Federal southern wing. Find the enemy. Keep them from escaping.

Instead, portions of the Federal infantry had slipped away while Wheeler's cavalry had become entangled in pursuing their mounted counterparts. That mistake might now cost the Confederates dearly.

Lee did not like changing commanders in the middle of a campaign. It damaged confidence in the men, and it created uncertainty.

And among cavalrymen, loyalty to a commander could be nearly as important as loyalty to the army itself, and yet Lee had another problem, he needed a cavalry man to cover the move on Bridgeport.

The success of Beauregard's entire movement could depend upon accurate reconnaissance and aggressive cavalry action.

Forrest could provide both with Dibrell's large cavalry brigade, while Jones operated on the armies northern flank and Wheeler on it's southern one. It wasn't an ideal situation, but was the best they could do for now.

"He is not being removed from his command," Lee said. "He is being employed where his particular abilities are required."

Pendleton nodded. "But will General Forrest see the distinction?"

"I hope so." Lee said out loud, though his eyes remained on the map.

He had no intention of allowing personal considerations to interfere with the campaign. Yet he also understood men and their peculiarities. Forrest was a very proud man, who didn't deal with fools.

The dressing-down Lee had given him had been deliberate. Forrest had needed to understand that reckless independence could ruin an army as quickly as it could win a battle, yet Lee had no desire to humiliate the man.

He needed him, and the army needed him.

Now Beauregard needed him.

Lee turned toward one of his adjutants. "Colonel Venable, when General Forrest arrives at Trenton, I want him to understand that he is to do everything he can to make the mission a success, but that his corps will need him soon."

Venable raised an eyebrow. "I shall phrase it delicately."

"That would be wise." Lee answered.

A few officers smiled. Lee returned to his papers.

Another report lay beside the first, and another. The war had become an endless procession of paper.

Lee lifted another report. "General Cleburne reports—" but before Lee could finish the sentence. A knock interrupted him.

Everyone in the tent turned. An aide stood outside. "A Telegram for General Lee!"

Colonel Taylor showed the man in. The young officer stepped inside and saluted.

"From where?" General Lee asked.

"Richmond sir." Lee nodded.

The words immediately changed the atmosphere. Lee extended his hand. The aide crossed the tent and placed the folded telegram before him. Lee looked at the letter it was from the War Department in Richmond.

For a moment he did not open it. Perhaps it was news from Virginia that could alter everything he was attempting to accomplish in Tennessee. He looked at the Telegram and read it.

Taylor watched him carefully.

Lee unfolded the paper. His eyes moved across the first line. Then the second. His expression did not change. But the officers nearest him saw his attention sharpen.

"What is it, General?" Pendleton asked.

Lee continued reading. The telegram was from the War Department. And whatever Richmond had to say, Lee understood immediately.

Lee read the telegram again.

The candle beside his elbow guttered in the slight evening breeze that found its way beneath the canvas. The flame bent sideways, recovered, and bent again. Beyond the headquarters tent, the sounds of the army continued without pause—horses stamping in the darkness, wagons creaking along the ridge road, the distant calls of sentries, and somewhere down the line the muffled laughter of soldiers gathered around a fire.

The paper in Lee's hand seemed almost weightless. Its contents were not. Lee lowered it slowly.

"From President Davis," he said.

The officers around the table straightened.

Lee did not immediately read the message aloud. His eyes read each and every word while his mind was already moving to conclusions.

Richmond

September 26, 1863
To Robert E. Lee
Chattanooga, TN

Recent information received through our agents in Washington indicates that two corps of Meade's army are now in motion. Large numbers of troops have been observed at the cars, with considerable quantities of artillery already loaded for transportation. There is no doubt as to the destination of these troops, part for General Rosecrans, and perhaps for General Burnside in East Tennessee.

A copy of the New York Post has also been obtained, containing information corroborating the reported movement. The enemy appears to be acting with considerable dispatch.

I deem it proper that you should be apprised of these movements without delay, as they may materially affect operations in Tennessee.

The present opportunity should, if practicable, be turned to account before the enemy's reinforcements can reach the field.

Jefferson Davis

"President Davis writes that recent information has been received from one of our agents in Washington."

Lee looked up. "Two of Meade's corps are on the move. Large numbers of troops are at the cars, already loaded with cannon."

A silence settled over the tent.

"Is there any doubt of their destination?" Taylor asked.

"None." Lee looked back down at the telegram. "Davis says there is no doubt that they are intended for Rosecrans, and perhaps for Burnside."

Pendleton frowned. "Two corps. That would be—"

"Enough," Lee interrupted quietly.

Pendleton stopped. Everyone understood.

Lee folded the telegram once along its original crease. The information did not surprise him. Not entirely. He had known that Washington would react.

The Federals had suffered too much at Chickamauga to do otherwise. Their army had been driven from the field, Rosecrans was dead, and Thomas was clinging to Chattanooga with what remained of the Army of the Cumberland.

Lincoln and Stanton could not simply accept such a disaster. It was inevitable that Lincoln and his administration would respond.

The question had always been when, and the answer was now.

"President Davis also says that a copy of the New York Post was obtained."

Taylor looked up. "The newspapers have confirmed the movement?"

"Apparently." Lee placed the telegram upon the map.

The New York Post had been one of the many newspapers in the North that could scarcely conceal its delight in Federal military movements. Such papers were not military documents, but in wartime even newspapers could become sources of intelligence.

Troop movements could be inferred from railway notices, casualty lists, rumors, political speeches, and reports from correspondents.

And now the movement was unmistakable. The North was beginning to pour men toward Tennessee.

Lee rose from his chair. The officers stepped aside as he moved toward the entrance of the tent.

He lifted the canvas flap. It was night now, and the air was cooler.

Missionary Ridge stretched away beneath a sky crowded with stars. Fires dotted the Confederate position like small red eyes. Men moved between them as dark silhouettes. A wagon passed somewhere below, its wheels grinding against the rough road. The smell of wood smoke mingled with that of horses and damp earth.

Farther west, beyond the ridge and the darkness, lay Chattanooga, along with the Tennessee River, and then further west Lookout Valley and then Bridgeport. The whole campaign seemed to Lee suddenly compressed into a handful of miles.

He stepped back inside. "Colonel Taylor."

"General?" Taylor answered studiously.

Lee considered his question. "How long would it take Hooker's troops to reach Chattanooga?"

Taylor glanced toward the map. "If they are traveling by rail, I presume they would go through Nashville, then south to Bridgeport."

Lee nodded. "My thoughts as well."

He bent over the map. "Washington cannot send an entire corps directly to Chattanooga. They must move through the rail network."

His finger traced the route, the troops would be routed from the Army of the Potomac up to Washington, and then northwest through West Virginia and Pennsylvania to Louisville. Finally they would move on from there to Nashville and then south to Bridgeport. Unless the Confederates intervened.

Lee's finger stopped at Bridgeport. Lee looked up at his staff. "If Hooker is coming, he will require Bridgeport. He will operate from there to open the supply line back to the Army of the Cumberland."

"All the more reason for Beauregard to take it, correct?" Colonel Marshall asked.

Lee's eyes remained fixed on the map. "Then we will drive a wedge between them, preventing any junction."

The thought pleased him. Not because Lee underestimated Hooker. Quite the contrary.

He knew Joseph Hooker too well to underestimate him. Hooker was an aggressive, energetic, and capable commander. A man with his capabilities and being given a second chance would be dangerous. .

And if the Federal government had chosen to send him west with two corps, it was because Washington believed he could restore the situation.

Lee straightened. "We have perhaps a few days."

Pendleton looked uncertain. "General, Beauregard has only just begun his movement."

"Then should we not consider delaying the operation?" Pendleton asked.

Lee turned toward him. "No."

The answer came quietly, and yet still just as forceful.

"We cannot delay." Lee answered, walking back toward the table.

"This is a race now." He placed one hand upon the map. "Time though for Thomas is a double edged sword. While it will allow him to improve his fortifcations, it also serves to strain his supply chain."

He tapped Chattanooga. "And now Washington is sending him reinforcements."

Taylor nodded. "Yes, sir."

They were building their inner defensive belt. Their outer works were spreading outward. Every hour spent waiting gave Thomas another trench, another parapet, another battery.

A frontal assault would be costly. Perhaps ruinously so.

They must seek to maneuver and deceive the Federals to their intentions till the time to strike was right. We must turn Thomas's attention away from the west and to a more pressing matter.

Lee turned toward Taylor. "Has General Jones been briefed on his operation?"

Taylor waited. "I rode and delivered the orders to him personally. He was delighted at the opportunity. Well as delighted as "Grumble" Jones gets."

"I want to speak with him personally I want to speak with him tomorrow evening at 5:00 P.M." Lee's new the importance of the next week, and Jones's cavalry would play a major part in occupying the Federal attention away from Bridgeport.

"I'll dispatch riders with a message now sir." Taylor answered as he hurriedly scribbled a note and then took it out to some orderlies to take to General Jones.

"Very Good." Lee could feel the tightness return in his chest. It never truly went away. He never liked to show weakness in front of his staff.

"If Jones can maneuver two divisions of cavalry across the Tennessee northeast of Chattanooga. Thomas will have no choice but to respond" Lee looked around the room. "He will have to pull more of his cavalry east to deal with the matter. Or risk Jones operating freely in his rear"

Everyone was shaking their head in agreement. Lee had been sending numerous messages back and forth between him and Beauregard keeping him updated on the situation.

Now they were closer than ever to their objective. Beauregard was probably marching into Trenton now. His men would be tired from the move over Lookout Mountain. But they were that much closer to moving on to Bridgeport.

Within the next few days Beauregard would be ready to move on Bridgeport and cross the Tennessee River, and yet the Federal government was already reacting.

Lee folded his hands behind his back. "They are moving faster than I anticipated."

Pendleton smiled grimly. "So are we."

Lee shook his head. "We have kept the initiative, but we must take this new information into account."

He thought of Beauregard. The Creole general had been given the most dangerous assignment of the campaign. March west, and unite Hardee's Corps with D. H. Hill's. From their they would move and seize Bridgeport. Most of the major details had been worked out, but Lee left any necessary changes up to General Beauregard. Ultimately Lee needed Beauregard to take command of this Theater so that Lee could get back to Virginia.

Lee looked again at the map. "If Hooker reaches Bridgeport before Beauregard…" He did not finish.

He did not need to, as the implications were obvious. Hooker would reinforce the garrison. From There Hooker could build up his forces for a move on Lookout Valley.

Lee would not allow that if he could prevent it. "Colonel Marshall, send a message to General Beauregard."

Marshall reached for his notebook. "What shall I say?"

Lee considered the message carefully. "Tell him the enemy is moving reinforcements from the Army of the Potomac."

Marshall's pencil moved.

Lee continued, "tell him Hooker's troops are likely headed for Bridgeport."

The pencil stopped.

"And tell him," Lee continued, "that the importance of his movement has increased." Lee paused. "Lastly, make sure he knows there is no time to waste."

Marshall nodded. He began writing again.

Lee looked toward the entrance. The wind stirred the canvas. The army slept uneasily around them. Lee wondered how many of those men understood how much depended upon the next few days. Probably more than most. The men always seemed to know the significance of the coming maelstrom.

While they probably could feel the oncoming struggle. They did not know that thousands of the enemy were already boarding trains hundreds of miles away. They did not know that in Washington, men were pushing locomotives and railway schedules to their limits.

Lee did. He looked once more at the map.

He thought of Forrest's report. Even with the incoming reinforcements, there was a remarkable opportunity before them. Perhaps the finest opportunity the Confederacy had been given since crossing the Tennessee.

Lee's expression hardened. "Colonel Venable."

"Yes, sir?" Colonel Charles Venable stepped forward.

"I want a message sent to General Forrest as well." Lee told his young adjutant.

"What should he be told?" Venable asked.

Lee considered for only a moment. "Nothing that will distract him from his present duty."

Venable waited.

Lee though considerably on the matter. "But tell him to move with all possible speed to make a junction with Beauregard and his men at Trenton."

Lee sat again. The telegram from Davis remained before him. He placed his hand upon it. For months, the Confederacy had struggled merely to survive. Now, for a brief and dangerous moment, it possessed the initiative. Lee knew better than most how quickly such moments disappeared.

He had no intention of surrendering this one. "Gentlemen," he said quietly, "we have beaten the Army of the Cumberland." His eyes moved from one officer to another. "Now we must prevent Washington from rebuilding it."

For a moment, he imagined he could hear the iron wheels carrying Hooker's soldiers south and west toward Tennessee.

The race had begun. And somewhere beyond the mountains, Beauregard would soon be moving toward Bridgeport.

Beauregard is within a two days march of Bridgeport, while just the vanguard of the Federal reinforcements is 5 plus days from reaching Bridgeport.
Beauregard should release Forrest with just the part of his corps that he currently possesses to destroy track and RR bridges between Bridgeport and Tullahoma (Forrest proved in real life that he could do this effectively). A lesser (smaller) cavalry force should also be designated for track destruction and bridges if possible between Stevenson and Decatur. This means that Beauregard would have to fall back into using Wheeler as his "eyes," but that is more feasible with the target destination (Bridgeport) firmly established, and the river in front and Lee's troops far to the east.
With the Union reinforcements already behind the Confederate schedule, any DELAYS will only help Beauregard's cause.

 

[13 IL Cav & 64 GA Inf]

Beauregard is within a two days march of Bridgeport, while just the vanguard of the Federal reinforcements is 5 plus days from reaching Bridgeport.
Beauregard should release Forrest with just the part of his corps that he currently possesses to destroy track and RR bridges between Bridgeport and Tullahoma (Forrest proved in real life that he could do this effectively). A lesser (smaller) cavalry force should also be designated for track destruction and bridges if possible between Stevenson and Decatur. This means that Beauregard would have to fall back into using Wheeler as his "eyes," but that is more feasible with the target destination (Bridgeport) firmly established, and the river in front and Lee's troops far to the east.
With the Union reinforcements already behind the Confederate schedule, any DELAYS will only help Beauregard's cause.

We will see what the Wizard has in mind. Can't wait!

 

[13 IL Cav & 64 GA Inf]

We will see what the Wizard has in mind. Can't wait!

Obviously, my thought behind destroying RR between Stevenson and Decatur is because if only that between Bridgeport and Tullahoma is disrupted, the Union would just come from Nashville to Decatur to Stevenson and Bridgeport, although it is a longer route.

 

[51st Georgia]

He stepped back inside. "Colonel Taylor."

"General?" Taylor answered studiously.

Lee considered his question. "How long would it take Hooker's troops to reach Chattanooga?"

I'm sorry if I missed it, I looked for it and did not see it. How did Lee know Hooker had command of the detachment? I only see them identified as "Meade's two corps detached"

 

[13 IL Cav & 64 GA Inf]

He stepped back inside. "Colonel Taylor."

"General?" Taylor answered studiously.

Lee considered his question. "How long would it take Hooker's troops to reach Chattanooga?"

I'm sorry if I missed it, I looked for it and did not see it. How did Lee know Hooker had command of the detachment? I only see them identified as "Meade's two corps detached"

Good point, @51st Georgia. Perhaps Lee had a telegram from a personal source in northern Virginia who had come across the information. Perhaps he intuited it.

 

[Wizard of Cozz]

He stepped back inside. "Colonel Taylor."

"General?" Taylor answered studiously.

Lee considered his question. "How long would it take Hooker's troops to reach Chattanooga?"

I'm sorry if I missed it, I looked for it and did not see it. How did Lee know Hooker had command of the detachment? I only see them identified as "Meade's two corps detached"

He wouldn't! Great catch. I slipped up on that!