The Virginian Did Not Wait: a George H. Thomas timeline

Prologue



David Hackett Fischer, in his remarkable book Albion’s Seed, describes a particular Virginia culture – probably better described as the Chesapeake Bay culture – that attempted to emulate the social order of seventeenth-century southern England. With an abundance of evidence, he sets out the characteristic folkways and social institutions of the Chesapeake Bay culture. Fischer argues that to a large extent, this social structure was the deliberate creation of the long-serving governor of Virginia, Sir William Berkeley, who set out to re-create the hierarchical and deferential world of southern England.

In many ways this was an unattractive culture. Its greatest evil, of course, was the practice of slavery – a thing which in itself tended to mean that Virginia was not, in fact, an altogether faithful reproduction of Old England. At the same time that Virginia gentlemen were turning into slaveholders, southern English gentlemen were turning into Sir Roger de Coverley.

One can see why, however, men like Berkeley took this path. They valued hierarchy and deference and could not conceive of a social order without them. However, hierarchy and deference were hard to sustain in a world where land was abundant and labour was scarce. Berkeley’s answer was to create a racialized hierarchy instead. When one considers the immense suffering that resulted from this path, one has to consider Sir William Berkeley as one of the great villains of history, on this ground alone. There were many other deplorable features of the Chesapeake Bay culture, which are explored in Fischer’s great work.

It is probably fortunate, then, that over time, the dominance of this culture in American life has lessened. Fischer argues that there were four major types of social order established in America during the colonial era. The Chesapeake Bay culture had its headquarters in Virginia and could be called a Cavalier order. The other cultures were the Puritan culture of Massachusetts Bay, the Quaker-influenced culture of the Delaware Valley, and the Borderer culture of Appalachia. Each of these had a distinct regional origin (or set of origins) within the British Isles. Ultimately the biggest single influence on the American way of life, in Fischer’s interpretation, was the Delaware culture, derived from the social institutions and material culture of what he calls the ‘North Midlands’ of England – the counties of Staffordshire, Nottinghamshire, Yorkshire, Lancashire, Cheshire, Derbyshire and some surrounding areas. The present writer grew up in the latter-day manifestation of that culture, so is not unbiased about its qualities. He will therefore leave further consideration of that question to the philosophers.

However, if the Chesapeake Bay culture had any redeeming feature, then it lies – as with any system of aristocracy – in the remarkable personal qualities of the aristocrats themselves, personalities who strike the imagination in the same way as a work of art. Undeniably the glamour of the aristocrat is a historical force. Many people are immune to it, but throughout history there is a pattern, observable in every continent and epoch, whereby aristocrats attract the loyalty of the commons by particular patterns of behaviour – a mixture of leadership in war and open-handed generosity in peace. There is more that could be said about the operation of the aristocratic principle, but for now I wish merely to point out that this glamour was a salient feature of old Virginia.

We can note that old-school Virginia gentlemen regarded a military career as almost a default setting, and their society placed upon them certain expectations of behaviour. From they to whom much has been given, much will be expected. The qualities they displayed, of calm under pressure, calculation of risk, decisiveness, the ability to set and keep to priorities, and (not least) physical courage, were the key to victory in many places, in many wars. The Civil War was the time - perhaps even more than the Revolution - when the qualities of the Old Dominion's officer class stood out most strongly.

Some of them wore blue.
 
Chapter 1. No Better Place to Die


Morning of December 31st 1862: NW of Murfreesboro, Tenn.

Since its right flank had collapsed every minute had been worth more than rubies to the Army of the Cumberland. General George H. Thomas had concentrated every battery he could find in the centre, knowing that their fire would discourage the relentless advance of the Confederates. Only one of the three Union divisions on the right – Sheridan’s – had held them up for long. Now it might be hoped that, with the first rush checked, Sheridan might have enough time to make a fighting retreat, falling back on the turnpike road that ran through the middle of the position.

Thomas saluted as the army commander, General Rosecrans, rode up, accompanied by his aide, Colonel Garesche. In a few words, they appraised the situation.

‘General Thomas, can you hold your position? You must do so at all hazards.’ The two made a strong contrast; the army's commander in a high state of excitement, talking rapidly; Thomas on the other hand pondering his words before he spoke, and speaking slowly.

‘Rousseau’s division is moving into line on the right, sir,’ replied the Virginian. ‘Hardee’s men cannot maintain such a pace for their advance. They cannot beat us, so long as Sheridan holds them up for another hour.’

‘That is the spirit, general,’ said Rosecrans. ‘I have every confidence in you and your men. Now I must go to Sheridan.’ He rode off in great haste, removing his hat and waving to the troops, who cheered as they saw their commander, red-haired and red-faced, gallop past.

Thomas turned his attention back to his own command. With Rousseau moving to the right, he had no reserve in case of an assault on the centre, where Negley’s division stood. He mused for a moment, and considered whether to ride over to look for himself. What was the real state of things on the right? A panic could wreck a corps in minutes – but panic was the result of surprise, and that element was gone. The sound of the firing to the west told its own story. The reserve batteries were in action. A mean fight was unfolding, and that meant the Rebels were not having it all their own way.

A small party of horsemen were approaching from the east; as they drew closer he recognised General Palmer. He was that rarest of creatures, a political general who actually knew his business.

‘I have just come from Negley, sir,’ said Palmer, after the briefest of pleasantries. ‘No movement on his front, or mine. You have taken two batteries from my divisional artillery. I come to offer you another.’

It was a fine gesture. ‘Thank you, general, but keep it,’ said Thomas. ‘I have as much as I can use for now.’ Palmer’s division of Crittenden’s corps was next in line to Negley; he needed to know that he could fend off any assault on that side. There had been reports all morning that the Confederates on the far side of Stone’s River – the Confederate right flank, the Union’s left – had been making mysterious movements.


*​


On the other side of the field, Privates Johnson and Sprye of the 1st Tennessee Regiment - who had been on their way back to the regiment after a brief sojourn to the rear - had temporarily suspended hostilities against the Union in order to fight each other.

'You're a goddamned thief, Johnson,' shouted Sprye, and laid down his end of the ammunition box in order to remonstrate more forcibly. Private Sprye, though a Tennessee man by adoption, had grown up within a few yards of the waterfront of Manhattan Island, and had honed his argumentative skills to a high pitch in that milieu.

'I paid you fair and square,' came the retort. Johnson put down his end of the box. He had no intention of yielding the point to one he regarded as no better than a Yankee – even if he was wearing grey.

Lieutenant Radcliffe, commanding a battery of the divisional artillery, would have had nothing to do with this quarrel, except that as the two infantrymen bickered and shoved they came into the line of fire of his guns. He had been about to shout 'Fire' but instead found himself saying 'You there! What in Hell do you think you're doing? Getting your heads blown off!' The men of the battery watched with interest and amusement: for once the lieutenant’s temper was not directed at them.

The two men paid no attention to mere artillerists. At this moment, however, an NCO of the 1st Tennessee, Sergeant Hill, came up and let the two privates know what he thought.

'Ain't you got enough trouble with the Yankees? What are you fighting about, anyhow?' Hill managed to tower over the pair even though he was the shorter man.

A shamefaced Johnson opened his fist, to reveal a small green object. Radcliffe with difficulty restrained himself from bad language. He had always been taught that Hell followed where a foul tongue led, but was finding that the war was making it hard to keep up standards.

'A pod of peas?' he said. 'What, are you children?'

Sprye snatched the offending item, burst it open, and swallowed the peas in one go. 'If the Lieutenant hadn't had any breakfast, or any dinner last night for that matter, perhaps the Lieutenant might show a little more understanding,' he said. 'Come on, Johnson, we've got a war to fight.'

'That's right, get back into the ranks, you good-for-nothings,' shouted Hill. 'I tell you...' but what he had to tell the quarrelsome pair was lost in the noise as Radcliffe's battery was finally able to fire.


*​


General Thomas took a moment to listen to the battle. The noise from the west reached another peak, then dropped again. Odd things occurred in the midst of battle: while Thomas and Palmer talked of what was to be done, Thomas’ servant, Old Phil, approached to offer them coffee, on a tray decorated with white lace. Palmer rejected it with a smile.

Now another party of riders approached: in the lead there was a man whose uniform was soaked in blood. It took some moments for Thomas to recognise Colonel Garesche. Not just his uniform had changed: the man’s face had too, his eyes staring and bloodshot.

‘Colonel, what brings you here?’ he asked.

The colonel sobbed once, and said: ‘The General – my friend – he is…’ He gestured to his uniform.

Thomas nodded slowly. ‘Then he has paid a soldier’s debt,’ he said.

Garesche pulled himself together for a moment. ‘General Thomas, you must take command. It was his wish.’

Palmer gave vigorous assent. ‘There is no other man,’ he said. ‘McCook is a fool, if I may speak plain, and Crittenden could not gain the confidence of the army.’ McCook, was senior, and Crittenden was Palmer's own corps commander, so this was very close to insubordination, but there was no time for anything less than the blunt truth. Thomas privately agreed with the assessment of McCook: the collapse of the right wing was his responsibility.

There had been no doubt in Thomas’ mind anyway that he must take command, but this additional confirmation was no harm. ‘General Palmer, take command of the centre. Appoint one of your brigadiers to command your division, I will inform General Crittenden. Colonel Garesche, tell me what you saw on the right.’

The morning wore on, cold and bitter, but soon Thomas knew that the worst was over. The Confederate onslaught had shocked the army, battered it, but they lacked the strength in reserve that could turn a reverse into a rout. Rousseau’s division was in line and fighting hard. By midday Thomas had seen Sheridan, heard that all of his brigade commanders had fallen, but the division held. Phil had brought him lunch – plain fare on a small trestle table – when a staff officer, Captain Dewson, approached accompanied by a stranger in civilian clothes.

‘This is Mister Barton, an English gentleman of the press,’ said the officer.

The General said nothing, but his body language was eloquent. The captain, too late, realised that it had been poor timing to interrupt the general's lunch in the middle of a battle.

‘May I ask how the battle is going?’ asked the newsman.

With no response, Dewson hurried him away. ‘The army is in good spirit for all our troubles,’ he said. ‘Mister Barton, I believe we may have more time for you after the fight…’

As the day drew on, the fighting subsided. News began to trickle in of McCook’s scattered men: more had fled than had fallen, and some regiments were re-joining the army, along with McCook himself. In the dark there was a council of war in the General’s tent, lit by a bonfire outside the flap and a single hurricane lamp. As servants and staff officers came and went, by the flickering light Thomas’ corps commanders – McCook, Palmer, Crittenden – sat on their camp-stools and told their tales.

‘General Rosecrans’ death has troubled the men, and supplies are short. We had a hot time of it,’ summarised McCook, ‘but we have come through, and we can withdraw in good order.’

McCook was trying to implicate the entire army in his own failure. ‘I do not believe we should yield the field,’ said Palmer. ‘Why should we give Bragg right to crow?’

‘General Thomas, my corps is ready to fight or retreat,’ said Crittenden. ‘What do you say?’

Thomas stood. ‘Gentlemen, I know no better place to die than right here,’ he said.
 
So, the Grant-Rosecrans feud is stillborn, and assuming the North wins (which they will), Rosecrans dies a hero. May not be an exaggeration to be a Northern A. S. Johnson / Stonewall Jackson equivalent (he never lost a battle up to this point in the war, and was outnumbered at Iuka and Corinth).

I can't see Thomas messing up Stone's River, so a mostly-like-OTL victory there. He also will probably follow Rosecrans' OTL pause during the Spring of 1863 due to building up of supplies and well-equipped Cavalry. I don't know how much Halleck and company will let him pause, but at the same time Thomas was capable of corresponding politely with the War Department, and in OTL tried to moderate some of Rosecrans' messages.

Thomas may not have Rosecrans' vision of using repeating rifles for the cavalry, so *maybe* no Wilder Lightning brigade. Also he may have a different plan for the Alt-Tullahoma campaign. On the other hand I also cannot see Thomas ultimately failing to push Bragg back at least to Chattanooga...

Very interesting TL. I am following avidly!
 
So, the Grant-Rosecrans feud is stillborn, and assuming the North wins (which they will), Rosecrans dies a hero. May not be an exaggeration to be a Northern A. S. Johnson / Stonewall Jackson equivalent (he never lost a battle up to this point in the war, and was outnumbered at Iuka and Corinth).
Agreed.

I can't see Thomas messing up Stone's River, so a mostly-like-OTL victory there. He also will probably follow Rosecrans' OTL pause during the Spring of 1863 due to building up of supplies and well-equipped Cavalry. I don't know how much Halleck and company will let him pause, but at the same time Thomas was capable of corresponding politely with the War Department, and in OTL tried to moderate some of Rosecrans' messages.

Thomas may not have Rosecrans' vision of using repeating rifles for the cavalry, so *maybe* no Wilder Lightning brigade. Also he may have a different plan for the Alt-Tullahoma campaign. On the other hand I also cannot see Thomas ultimately failing to push Bragg back at least to Chattanooga...

Very interesting TL. I am following avidly!
Interesting point about the Lightning Brigade, I will have to look into that. My impression is that Thomas was quite forward-looking where it came to new technology. Alt-Tullahoma coming soon: IMO the smart flanking move was Thomas' signature, so I assume he would do something similar. Thanks for commenting.
 
Just posting to register my satisfaction at a George H. Thomas timeline. He is hands-down my favorite senior general in the American Civil War. I sometimes think of him as the first twentieth-century general, active half a century early.
 
So, Thomas instead of Grant is a possibility???

I had that idea for a timeline of my own...of course, if I ever get to doing that, I'll probably do it regardless of whether it's done here first, especially since it'd be an ancillary detail in a larger-scale story.
 
George Thomas is one of the Virginians who never got a fair shake here in the Commonwealth - funny how wearing Union blue doesn't get you a statue on Monument Avenue, but burning down Richmond while you flee the city does.

Hopefully he can fix that here with a bigger reputation.
 
Chapter 2. Old Slow Trot


Bruce Catton, A Short History of the Civil War, excerpt

After the victory – of sorts – at Stone’s River, the Army of the Cumberland sat down. It sat and sat and sat and sat, and voices in Washington became increasingly impatient. Much was made of General Thomas’ West Point nickname: ‘Old Slow Trot’. The newspapers delivered strongly worded editorials; Congress importuned the President; Lincoln held meetings of increasing asperity with General Halleck, the nominal General-in-chief; and General Halleck sent numerous telegrams demanding action.

However, there were plenty of sound reasons for a pause that January. The Tennessee roads had liquefied, and were slow drying out. The scale of the Western theatre of operations was vast, its logistic requirements correspondingly so. Army purchasing agents had bought every broken-down nag in ten states at three times their peacetime price, and were still looking for more. Myriads of engineers, soldiers and freedmen were working to repair (or in some cases build from scratch) the bridges, culverts and roads leading back northwards from Murfreesboro, but this great effort would take time to reach fruition.

The Western theatre, in fact, was a world just emerging from a state of nature, in which a thin skein of railroads and telegraph wires barely held together a hardscrabble civilisation of small farms and small towns. Experience of Virginia, of the Eastern theatre – itself an environment that seemed rough-hewn at times – could mislead as much as it informed. Even there, a premature attempt to make an offensive move by the Army of the Potomac in January quickly became known as the Mud March, an event the men concerned all tried hard to forget.

All of this, of course, counted for little or nothing in the eternal game of Washington gossip, and the political campaign against Thomas was heavy for a time. The euphoria that had followed the Emancipation Proclamation had faded. In February, the weather mocked men’s plans and enforced leisure meant much drinking and much idle talk. General U.S. Grant – himself stalled outside Vicksburg, for much the same logistic reasons impeding Thomas – played a part in it, but the main running was made by Republican Party power-brokers. Thomas was a Virginian: he had no rabbi in Congress. And the command of the Army of the Cumberland was a juicy plum that might go to someone more politically connected. The only thing that protected him for the moment was that the rival factions could not agree who to install.

The President - who knew Thomas's worth, but who always had (as he must) at least one eye on placating his party - hesitated. Just at this point, however, the Washington papers published the words Thomas had used at the council of war. ‘No Better Place to Die’ had an even greater public impact, during that discontented February of 1863, than ‘Unconditional Surrender’ had had a year earlier...


*

One bitter cold morning - in fact the last day of the month - General Thomas entered General Palmer's tent to confer with him. After some talk of promotions, furloughs, intelligence, and logistics, their talk passed to the recent rumours coming out of Washington.

'That headline in the Post had a most fortuitous effect,' said Palmer.

Thomas showed no sign of feeling, but by this time Palmer had come to interpret his stony silences well. 'I did not pass that phrase on. I do not consider anyone else had the right to do so either,' said the Virginian eventually. By Thomas's standards, it was a volcanic eruption of temper. It was clear enough that he had been, for a time, intensely angry that anyone had taken such a liberty as to report what he had said in a council of war. 'It made me look like a player of these Washington games,' he concluded.

'But we could find no-one to blame, sir. There were a dozen men in the tent on that occasion. For my part, I suspect that Englishman.'

'It is too late now. General Palmer, I believe you have the right to know that I am considering replacing General McCook, as I would like to give his corps to Sheridan. What do you think?'

Palmer shook his head. 'Sir, McCook has a family, as I believe you know.'

Thomas shrugged his immense shoulders. 'He has allowed himself to be surprised in the field twice. We might not be lucky a third time.'

'The time is not right, sir. Your own position is not strong enough to take the risk. The McCooks are numerous, well-connected, and unlikely to take it lying down.'

Another silence ensued. 'Well, we must do our duty, and do our best,' said Thomas, and left.

Once left in private, General Palmer looked again at the headline in the Post, and smiled to himself.


*​


Bruce Catton, A Short History of the Civil War, excerpt

...Although it did not show in the papers, Thomas was using the time. He had no superior and few rivals in the training of men. One day during the pause, he unbent for a while to explain his training philosophy to his officers.

'Put a plank six inches wide five feet above the ground and a thousand men will walk it easily,' he said. 'Raise it five hundred feet and one man of the thousand will walk it safely. It is a question of nerve we have to solve, not dexterity. It is not to touch elbows and fire a gun but how to do them under fire.'

His staff were listening with surprise to this, the longest speech they had ever heard from their chief.

'We are all cowards in the presence of immediate death,' he went on. 'We can overcome that fear in war through familiarity. Southerners are more accustomed to violence and therefore more familiar with death. McClellan's great error was avoidance of fighting. He once made a congratulatory report "all quiet along the Potomac". The result was a loss of morale. His troops came to have a mysterious fear of the enemy.'

He paused, and his normal taciturnity reasserted itself. 'Well, gentlemen, we will defer bragging till we have Bragg.'

Thus it was that the blue divisions near Murfreesboro grew in skill and confidence day by day. That was just as well, for there would be much hard marching and fighting ahead. By the time May came in, the Army of the Cumberland was perhaps the best-trained body of men, of its size, ever assembled on the American continent.

Its chief rival for that accolade was also going to be affected – albeit indirectly – by the strange providence that had struck down General Rosecrans.


*​


(OOC: Extended quote re training: Peter Cozzens, This Terrible Sound, pp.422-3)
 
Chapter 3. Move by the Flank

Evening of May 2nd 1863: W of Chancellorsville, Va.

For months Lieutenant Burford had been subject to nightmares. He was no stranger to violent death, of course. Growing up in the antebellum South, he had seen plenty, even as a boy. In Louisiana he had seen runaway slaves beaten to death or hanged; as a youth he had seen more than one acquaintance killed in duels. And since 1861 he had seen more dead men than he could ever have dreamed of, in the woodlands near Manassas and a dozen battlefields in the Shenandoah Valley. But oddly the accounts of the fight at Murfreesboro had made a greater impression on him than anything.

'It was the way it happened,' he said to his comrade-in-arms, Lieutenant Henson, as they rode along behind General Jackson, junior members of his staff. 'One moment, he commanded an army, the next a corpse, food for worms, mangled beyond recognition, so they say.'

Henson spat out his tobacco. 'And good riddance to a Yankee, I say,' he said.

'A Yankee dies as easy or as hard as we do,' said Burford. 'And our General exposes himself in too many hot places.'

'God watches over him,' said Henson. He gazed at their great commander. 'Did you not see him at Sharpsburg?'

Burford followed his gaze. 'And there is no man more worthy of His grace,' he said. 'Yet even the souls of the greatest of men may be required for His purposes, in any moment.'

The conversation ebbed as they followed along behind their chief in the darkness. It had been a glorious day. They had found the enemy's flank and they had seen an entire enemy corps routed and fleeing, but they knew that the victory must be pressed to become complete, and daylight had run out. To fight at night was almost unheard of, it was asking for trouble. Yet here they were, stumbling through the woods, General Jackson trying to re-ignite the battle by sheer force of will. The young lieutenant had a very uneasy feeling, and now he rode forward to remonstrate with the General.

He found several other staff officers already doing likewise. 'Sir, we might blunder into the enemy in this darkness, we cannot see fifty yards,' said Henson.

'Lieutenant Henson is right, sir,' said Burford.

Jackson showed little concern. 'Our times are in His hand,' he said. 'If it please Him to lead us to victory, he will, and if not, I care little what happens.'

Burford - by now feeling a very strong premonition of trouble - might have returned to his place, but instead took the opportunity to ride forward a little way, ahead of the main party. General Rosecrans' fate will not be Stonewall's, if I have anything to do with it, he thought.

He thought no more, for in that moment a volley of shots crackled and he fell dead from his horse.

'Got the damned Yankee!' came a cry, and Henson - who now galloped up too late to aid his friend - realised what had occurred.

'Yankee nothing!' he shouted, 'cease fire!'

In later years, one of the North Carolina men who had done the deed wrote: 'General Jackson himself came up to survey the melancholy scene of fratricide. He gazed at us with his bright blue eyes. His silent stare was far more terrible than any tirade from a lesser man. All of us, in that moment, resolved rather to die than be the cause of such calamity again.'

Jackson looked at the fallen figure of Burford on the ground. ‘Is he dead?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ came the reply.

‘Very commendable,’ was Jackson’s only comment. He then punished the over-eager riflemen by making them dig Burford's grave.

Though Jackson's spirit was fiery, it could not compensate for his lack of reserves. The sheer mass of the enemy was too great to destroy entirely. Within a few days the Army of the Potomac - utterly baffled and weaker by twenty thousand men - was back north of the Rappahannock, and glad enough to be no worse hurt.

By now both sides were coming to think that the Army of Northern Virginia was invincible – on home ground at least. The war was not going to be decisively won or lost in the Eastern theatre. The West was a different story.



*

A flashback: Willard’s Hotel, Washington DC, 30 April 1861

Senator John Sherman of Ohio and his elder brother were waiting in their room for a visitor; the past few days had been so busy that the man’s name had slipped his mind. ‘Remind me again who this fellow is – an old comrade in arms?’

Colonel William T. Sherman fought down momentary irritation. ‘George Thomas, we roomed together at West Point,’ he said.

‘I remember now. Did you not say he is Virginian?’

‘He is, but I have vouched for his loyalty to the Government and I will do so every day till Doomsday if they wish. The country has no more loyal and solid servant.’

A heavy step outside announced Thomas’ arrival.

‘Colonel Thomas, how d’ye do? This my brother John.’

‘Good day, Senator.’

‘Good day, Colonel.’ The men sat, an awkward silence ensued. William Sherman realised that Thomas was uneasy in the presence of a politician.

‘So what news from the war, Thomas?’ he asked at length.

‘I’m going south,’ said Thomas.

William leapt to his feet. ‘What the devil, Thomas, I’ve vouched for you up and down the Avenue! This puts me in a hell of a position!’

Thomas smiled. ‘I’m going south at the head of my men,’ he said. The Senator laughed.

‘He has you there, Cump,’ he said. ‘So, Colonel, what brings you to Washington?’

‘They told me I had to swear the oath of allegiance again,’ said Thomas. ‘I have done so.’

‘Again? Didn’t you do that last month?’

‘So I did, and I’ll do it every day if they want me to.’

The ice now being broken, they began to discuss the prospects.

‘So, what do you think, gentlemen?’ asked the senator. ‘The cry is "On to Richmond". I would value your professional opinion.’

The two soldiers exchanged a look. Drinks were brought in, and a large map of the whole country.

‘None of these tables is big enough,’ said the Senator. ‘This place never thought it would be a council-room of war. What are you doing?’

The two soldiers had cleared a space on the floor and unrolled the map, disturbing as they did so a small table. The Senator moved quickly and seized the whisky bottle before it toppled. He poured himself a double, and watched quizzically as he saw his brother and Thomas opening a backgammon set and removing the counters. He moved closer.

‘So, then,’ said Thomas.

To the senator’s surprise, the soldiers ignored Virginia. Colonel Sherman placed a counter on Nashville, and glanced at Thomas, who nodded. Thomas placed a counter on Knoxville. Now it was William’s turn to nod. He placed another counter on Vicksburg, and emphasised the placement with his finger. Colonel Thomas smiled, and placed another counter on Chattanooga.

The Senator realised he was learning something.

(OOC: the map scene is based on an account in Freeman Cleaves, Rock of Chickamauga.)



*

Bruce Catton, A Short History of the Civil War, excerpt


The reverse in the East made the calls for action in the West still louder. As May of 1863 turned into June, the Army of the Cumberland began to move forward, with its sights set on Chattanooga. The first move was to force Bragg's army back from Tullahoma. Thomas, like Jackson, had learned one great lesson from his studies at West Point, which was: find the flank. Easier said than done – but great commanders had the knack. He had employed the lesson at Logan's Cross Roads the previous year, and now he employed it again. In a few weeks, with much more marching than fighting, Bragg found himself forced to choose between being cut off or falling back across the Tennessee River. By the end of August, further flanking moves had forced him out of Chattanooga itself.

(OOC: The story of these manoeuvres – itself an epic tale of endurance, skill and courage – is well told in chapters 1-3 of Peter Cozzens’ This Terrible Sound.)

However, by that time, the changing situation in the East had a knock-on effect in the West.



*​

July 1st 1863: Cemetery Hill, S of Gettysburg, Pa.

No-one had really planned it, but that was perfectly to General Thomas J. Jackson's liking. Once again the God of Battles had been with him amidst the storm and the smoke, and had guided his hand where he might smite the foe. His corps had caught the enemy in the flank and shattered them – it was unlucky XI Corps again, that he had previously routed at Chancellorsville – and had pursued aggressively, making flank movements that made Cemetery Hill untenable, but becoming badly disorganised in doing so. Now he stood atop Cemetery Hill and watched as the blue formations retreated southwards on the Taneytown turnpike.

‘They have found it too hot for them, General,’ said Henson.

‘The Lord blesses our arms with victory once more,’ said Jackson. ‘Send my compliments to General Lee, and inform him we have taken 4,000 prisoners. These Yankees can withstand us no better on their own soil than on ours.’

‘It is a miracle, sir. Gettysburg will be another bright name in the annals of the South, sir,’ said Henson, and galloped off.

General Lee was pleased enough with the performance, but it did not solve his fundamental problem. Routing a Federal corps was satisfying, but they had done that before. In order to win the war, they must either destroy the entire Army of the Potomac, or capture Washington. To do the former, the least that was required was for Jackson to pursue aggressively now, and wipe out those Federal formations – I Corps and XI Corps – that they had worsted. But an exchange of messages revealed that this was impossible: Jackson’s men had already done all that men could be expected to do, and they had taken thousands of casualties themselves. As night fell they bivouacked on Cemetery Hill, utterly spent.



*

Bruce Catton, A Short History of the Civil War, excerpt

The following day, the Army of Northern Virginia marched southwards again, and in the afternoon of July 2nd the forward elements were reporting renewed contact with the Yankees, at a stream called Big Pipe Creek south of the Pennsylvania – Maryland border. General Meade – appointed to command the Army of the Potomac only days earlier - had chosen the position as a fall-back if the fighting at Gettysburg went badly, and was not at all surprised to hear that it had. Swiftly he put his defences in order, keeping XI Corps in the rear to begin rebuilding its shattered morale.

Lee and Jackson took a look, and concurred in waiting for the whole army to move up before trying conclusions. General Lee called his corps commanders to a council of war. Longstreet expressed concern about the enemy’s strength. Jackson expressed confidence in the Lord. Lee was weakened by illness, and had a healthy respect for Meade's abilities, so he did not feel safe in making any more risky manoeuvres. He also believed that he might have decisive victory within grasp, a victory that might finally free Virginia from the scourge of war. He declared: ‘the enemy is here and we will fight them here.’ The battle – Big Pipe Creek to the North, Taneytown to the South - would take place the next day, July 3rd.

The fighting was marked by the same characteristics as Antietam the previous year – though with the postures reversed, as the Union was defending and the Confederates attacking. The greycoats knew that Baltimore was less than thirty miles beyond the Union line and that to take the city would be as good as to win the war, and the Union men knew they were up against it. ‘The enemy fought with greater ferocity than I ever knew,’ wrote General Meade later.

But Baltimore ‘might as well have been on the moon’, in the words of Longstreet. As night fell, the two armies rested on the field, each much weaker than they had started the day. But the Army of Northern Virginia had suffered the worse, and had been smaller to start with. The dream of victory faded, and on the 4th Lee ordered a withdrawal to Frederick and then by the familiar road across the Potomac at Harpers Ferry.

The North saw little reason to celebrate. Lee had won a tactical success overall in the campaign, invading the North, inflicting heavier losses overall than he had sustained, and withdrawing successfully taking his wounded and prisoners with him. In Washington, there was little confidence in General Meade – but less in anyone else. With the east stabilised, and the west roiled by the fall of Vicksburg, Richmond concluded it could risk sending Longstreet and his corps to reinforce Bragg, who would thus be in the rare situation, for a Confederate general, of having a slight numerical advantage, perhaps 65,000 men against Thomas’ 60,000. Chattanooga was too valuable to be lost without a fight.

Having taken Chattanooga, Thomas had decided it was time to go firm. Once again logistic challenges loomed, and he wanted to feel out the hilly country before advancing into it. This was poorly received in Washington, where once again accusations of dilatoriness flew freely. One egregious example of the communications from Halleck must serve for many: 'if you do not move promptly,' it said, 'Bragg may be able to menace your line of supplies.' This prompted an exasperated comment from Thomas to the skilled young cavalry commander, James Wilson: 'Wilson,' he said, 'the Washington authorities treat me like a boy.'

Wilson - who had not been with the army long, but already adored his chief - replied: ‘I think you have cause to feel aggrieved, sir.’

‘Feel? General Wilson, I have been at some pains to teach myself not to feel.’ He meditated a minute, and then added: 'Nonetheless, once we are ready we will lick them.'
 
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I am really enjoying your changes to the TL and I look forward to where you go with it from here. Stonewall alive and Thomas in charge, this is going to be great!
 
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