How he came to be face-down in the Tennessee snow was a mystery to him. Oh, he could remember the series of events well enough – the delivery of the Sharps rifles to Yardley’s regiment at Paducah, the days of training and firing and drill, the eagerness of the men, their poor discipline and fierce delight in spraying bullets at the targets. Then the steamboats had arrived with fresh faces from St Louis, Siegel’s men, and Yardley’s 33rd Ohio had boarded for a move up the rivers. Come with us, the men had said, it’ll be a lark! No, he had said, and then reluctantly yes. Yes because he had been cooped up in the unreal world of cities and money for too long, yes because he had forgotten what this wild new country really was; yes from a desire to see something of the fierce, brave, new emotions that would drive men to cross the continent to kill one other.
The fort had fallen before they had reached it, Fort Harris then and Fort Rodgers now, and all glory to the Navy. There had been much grumbling in the ranks that the Navy had stolen their triumph. Makhearne had told the soldiers that they should be glad the Navy had done the work, but they had only laughed, for they were young and wanted glory and knew they could not die. Then Lyon’s brigade had been picked to scout the way across the narrow neck of land between the Tennessee and Cumberland Rivers but Yardley’s regiment had been left behind, Yardley deep in the bottle as usual and hoping no-one would notice, but everyone knew. The men were resentful, sullen as they went about the chores of restoring the fort to some semblance of defense.
That had been days ago, but this was now; the bite of the cold wind, and the wet of melted snow in his overcoat despite its waterproofing, and the feather-fall of fluttery flakes that both hid motion and created it where nothing moved but the wind and the snow, all of these things were now. Donneval Makhearne cursed and spat grit while his frozen fingers fumbled blindly at the cartridge box. The Sharps was fully loaded – seven shots – and he wanted it to remain that way. Yes, that happy time had been days ago, when the black iron turtles had steamed away to go a-raiding up the Tennessee and others crawled back to Mound City for repairs. The few that remained had been sent to scout the approaches to the Cumberland while General Porter prepared his men for the march on Fort Polk.
But the Confederates had struck first, Lyon’s men driven back on the camp in disorder this very afternoon, Lyon wounded and near death, his men pretty well shaken and full of wild rumors. The Confederates hadn’t been able to turn the Union men out of the rifle pits around the fort, though the rebels had fought like madmen. Cavalry, Lyon’s men had said, which meant Forrest, and Kentucky men, which probably meant Buckner’s Kentucky Orphans. Yardley might be closed to conversation but his lieutenant colonel was a fresh-faced Cleveland clerk who kept the civilian up on the news from headquarters. Makhearne had the advantage of knowing more about Buckner and Forrest than anyone in this timeline, and knew that Porter’s little army was in for a test. The camp had been all confusion, and Yardley had vanished, and Lieutenant Colonel Ames had come to him and there had been no-one else. And so he had led them out to the rifle pits. The men had remembered the lessons he had drilled into them – aim low, chose your target, save your ammunition, and the Sharps had stopped the rebels, had stopped Forrest’s wildcat charges, at least here.
And he could remember all of this with perfect clarity but could not for the life of him remember what, by Munin’s bloody beak, what he had been thinking, what had moved him to take up such madness. How he had gotten himself here was perfectly clear, but the why… the why hung out there somewhere out of reach, unfathomable, irretrievable. He could have remained safely in Paducah, or considering the meager charms of that place, returned to Cincinnati, or Chicago, or glittering New York. What in all the names of all the gods he was doing here… He owed these men nothing, rather the opposite, and there was nothing to prevent a civilian from easing back into the safety of the landing. And yet he could not do it, and lay facedown in the Tennessee snow and waited for Forrest’s men, and marveled at his own stubborn stupidity.
There was movement, and the man to his left snapped off a shot and the sergeant to his left cursed the man in round, low tones for wasting a bullet and followed it with a less-than-gentle slap against the shoulder. Yes, there were dark shapes out there in the twilight and the blowing snow, but they were too indistinct to risk a shot. Then the artillery opened up on the right, a lurid red glow and a series of muffled thumps, with the cracking report of shells louder and closer. So that was the rebel’s artillery and not ours, Makhearne thought, and then marveled at the word ‘ours’. He hadn’t been under fire in battle since… when was it? That Allied invasion of Japan, probably, over on the Pacific War timeline, and that had been fought with weapons not much more advanced than these. He had no time to dwell on it; artillery meant the rebels were coming again, in deadly earnest again, as deadly grim and serious as any soldier of the Shogun’s ever was.
He reached town and tapped the cartridge box again. Brass cartridges didn’t mind a little wet, and on a night like this that was comforting. Then the rebels shrieked like damned souls and came on, demons from the mouth of a black and frozen hell, and the sergeants shouted, “Aim low!” and the Sharps began to crack, bodies tumbling to make bloody snow-angels in the pristine whiteness, and then there was no more time for thought.
“Pull back!” The speaker came up from his seat with fists clenched, and for a moment Buckner thought that Forrest might grab Gideon Pillow by the chin-whiskers and beat some sense into him. “My men have run the damned Yankees all the way to the water! Pull back! We need to press on, hard, now! They’ll run and we can git ‘em in the woods like rabbits! Goddammit, we got the skeer into ‘em! We got to keep it up! We kin go all the way to Cairo if we whip these Yankees now!”
Pillow shook his head and Buckner allowed the tiniest of sighs to escape his rigid self-control. West Point taught many things to its graduates, but deference to authority and obedience to orders, no matter how arbitrary and foolish, were ground in to cadets from the first day at the Academy. Pillow had wanted to have a victory but had not wanted to risk a fight for it; he was a vain, boastful politician, full of fine phrases and hot air, and no warrior. But he had allowed his generals to talk him into letting them lead the army to battle, or more likely Pillow hadn’t been able to find a reason to forbid them that would not reflect badly on his courage and his honor. The general’s backbone – never very stout – had been wilting ever since the bullets began to fly, despite their successes earlier in the day. Buckner’s brigade had driven in the outposts and Forrest’s men had been like very devils, chasing Yankees through the snowy woods and whooping as they went. But the Yankees had firmed up on the defenses around Fort Harris – defenses Confederate soldiers had dug in the first place, Buckner noted, and which Confederate blood was being spilt by the gallon to retake.
Then too, Pillow and Forrest simply could not talk to one another. Pillow was educated and genteel, a wealthy Tennessee planter who took to politics as something that was his by right, and wore the uniform because it promised fame and glory. Forrest was a rough-cut, self-educated, self-made man; wealthy, but by hard work and sharp dealing, coarse in speech and direct in action. Pillow spoke in the fine round tones of the genteel orator; Forrest rasped like a Tennessee hillman. Pillow was a gentleman, Forrest a roughneck. Bucker had everything in his class and education in common with Pillow, but despised him. Rank and authority were inviolable, owed by oath and duty to the uniform and position despite the worth of the man who held them. Buckner could admire and support Forrest, but it was his duty to obey Pillow.
A long moment of silence followed. Then Pillow swallowed hard. “The Yankees are landing reinforcements from the river… We have heard the steamboat whistles… And soon those gunboats will be back, so the fort cannot be held if we take it now. We do not have the strength to press them… we are greatly outnumbered. The Army will withdraw to Fort Polk, and place it in a state of defense while we await reinforcements. Then we shall crush the invaders.”
Forrest drew up even tighter. “There ain’t nobody else comin’, Gen’ral. We’re it. We got to hit them now.” Pillow shook his head again and Buckner knew it was time to speak.
“General Pillow, is it your definite intention that we should withdraw?” Pillow swallowed again and nodded. “Then it is our duty to obey.” He cut his eyes at Forrest, who clenched his teeth and looked back at Buckner before grinding out a tiny nod of agreement. “Very well. I suggest we begin the movement immediately, before we lose any more men for no result. If the General will permit, I believe Colonel Forrest’s men should scout the road to Fort Polk, ensuring that no Federals have positioned themselves across our line of retreat. My men will form the rear-guard; I believe there is a hill a mile or so behind us that will form a splendid place from which to give any pursuer a bloody nose.”
Pillow rose, nodded to them both and withdrew.
“Hell, there ain’t no Yankees behind us,” Forrest swore. “Let my men stay and we’ll kill sommore Yankees.”
Buckner motioned at the dark around them and lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Colonel Forrest, when you arrive at Fort Polk I believe you will have the opportunity to use the telegraph there. In the absence of General Pillow,” Buckner looked around the clearing as if searching for his superior officer, and Forrest snorted a laugh. “As I say, in the absence of General Pillow, I believe you should make a full report on the events of this day to General Hardee and General Polk.” Forrest frowned, then quirked one corner of his mouth in an evil grin.
“Why General Buckner, I do believe you have convinced me,” Forrest said at his normal volume, then dropped his voice to match Buckner’s. “That is a fine idea, sir. I’ll move out right now, and I doubt Old Feather Pillow will reach Fort Polk ahead of me.” The piratical grin vanished and the voice rose again. “But I’ll leave Summer’s and Gorlet’s boys with you… by God, General, you know how to fight, and it wouldn’t do for any Yankees to get the jump on you!”
The first rays of sunlight over Fort Rodgers landing found FitzJohn Porter’s little army in considerable confusion. The scouts were bringing in half-frozen wounded from the woods along the road, the men who had thrown down their arms and run were huddled outside the fort and at the landing, and the men who had stayed at their posts were cold, hungry and tired. By noon the picture was much improved, for the sergeants and lower-level officers had gotten the men in hand. Cook-fires blazed and savory odors of roast meat, soup and hot coffee hung in the air thick enough to invigorate a man just by inhaling them. The men had quickly deduced that the rebels had gone, and the arrival of a timberclad riverboat had further raised their spirits. By noon, a rebel assault would have found a very different reception from that of the frantic, snowy night before.
If anything the officers were slower to regain their composure than were the men they commanded. Throughout the day they discussed plans to demolish the fort and retreat downriver to Paducah. But the skippers of the newly-arrived transports were reluctant to put ashore lest the stragglers attempt to rush aboard. Besides that, the transports were already laden with men and supplies brought up from Cairo. Reversing the direction of the army would require as long to plan as the original movement, or longer. Once that unwelcome fact was recognized, Porter’s staff set the men to work extending and improving the landward defenses. A few of the higher ranking officers, like ‘Baldy’ Smith, wanted to press overland after the rebels. But by then the army had waited a week too long; the first thaws had turned the road to a series of ponds and the woodlands to sodden mire. Rodgers had taken five of his ironclads up the flooding Cumberland, but a brief reconnaissance convinced him that Fort Polk would not fall as had Fort Harris. Its heavy guns were sited on a high hilltop, and were larger and better protected as well. Without the assistance of the army, Rodgers declined to try the case.
Political factors also had their effect on the sapping of the army’s momentum. Buell was seen to have quite enough to do in Missouri, and the praise heaped on FitzJohn Porter for the capture of Fort Harris had evaporated after his perceived lack of preparation almost allowed the Confederates to bag the fort and his army, too. The New York Telegraph and other major newspapers buzzed with accusations that Porter was incompetent, that his officers were inept or drunk or both. After that rebel counter-attack there were no more calls to promote Porter to theater command. But such a commander would have to be found, and soon, if the Union was to follow up on its initial success
In real life and in the game the forts on the Tennessee and Cumberland were given a low priority compared to the forts on the Mississippi. The gunboat raid up the Tennessee River did a lot of damage, not least to the railroad bridges that the South really couldn't afford to repair or do without.
