“It’s a frog strangler out there,” the general greeted them as he returned his officers’ salutes and stepped into the parlor. He grinned. “The next requisition I send to Richmond, I’m asking for horses with gills and fins.” He slapped rain-soaked white gloves against his pants. “Since they’re not providing us with arms, munitions, or equipment as it is, their refusal won’t come as a surprise.”
That brought a laugh from the assembled officers. The joke that was circulating among Johnston’s command staff was that Jefferson Davis and the Confederacy had given the good general everything he needed to succeed in the west, except for an army, arms and artillery, munitions, and supplies.
Albert Sidney Johnston dazzled Butler every time he was in the general’s presence. The man looked like a human lion with a mane of white hair rising from a widow’s peak, steely blue eyes, and—unlike so many of his subordinates—a clean-shaven jaw, though water beaded on his full white mustache.
General Hardee had poured another glass of brandy, handing it to the commanding general before seeing to his staff. As he did, he stated, “We were surprised by your courier, sir. This isn’t a night fit for man or beast, let alone riding up to see us. I sincerely hope your motivation isn’t a lack of good company in Bowling Green. If so, I’m afraid you’ll be terribly disappointed as we’re a poor substitute for gentlemen and scholars.”
Hardee hesitated, glancing at Butler. “Well, all but Lieutenant Hancock, here, who is so much better read in the classics and doesn’t mispronounce his Greek the way the rest of us do.”
Butler flushed at the recognition, having stepped back into a corner in an attempt to stay out of his superiors’ way.
General Johnston gave Butler a slight nod of recognition as he sipped his brandy, which added to Butler’s fluster. Then the general added, “I regret, gentlemen, that as much as I admire your fine companionship, conviviality isn’t on my mind.”
He stepped over to the table, limping slightly, the chill having seeped into the old dueling wound General Felix Huston’s pistol ball had inflicted when they had squabbled over control of the Texas army back in 1836.
“Surely the Federals aren’t moving in this soup,” Hindman scoffed. “Our pickets and scouts would have informed us. We’ve had a couple of Texans spying on Buell’s camps. We’ll have good warning if they try to march.”
“I could only wish,” Johnston said softly.
“Dear God, it’s Fort Donelson, isn’t it?” Hardee, more astute, read Johnston’s expression.
Johnston rubbed a hand over his head, as if the red line where his hat had impressed his forehead itched. “Last night I received word that on the Tennessee River, Fort Henry has fallen. This same damnable storm has raised the Cumberland to the point the Federal gunboats are bombarding the works at Fort Donelson. It is reported that General Grant’s troops have taken control of the land approaches. In short, gentlemen, it would take a miracle to keep Fort Donelson from capitulating given the strength arrayed against it.”
He pointed to the map. “With Zollicoffer’s defeat outside of Knoxville last month, and the imminent loss of Fort Donelson, our first line of defense is in shambles. Strategically, gentlemen, our best choice is to abandon Kentucky and fall back to Nashville while we await the Federals’ next move.”
Hardee’s back seemed to stiffen. “Surely there is some alternative, sir.”
Johnston’s lips thinned in despair. “We could move on Fort Henry, pull Grant’s strength from Donelson, but if we did Buell would push aside any force we left behind to hold this line. He’d be sleeping in your bed and drinking your brandy before we were halfway to Fort Henry.”
Hindman smiled sadly. “If we move on Fort Henry, Buell will hit us from behind, probably after he burns Nashville and circles around to crush us between his forces and Grant’s.”
Johnston took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled. “To my dismay, our best hope lies in falling back. We need to see what General Halleck does. If he sends Grant west, he can flank the Mississippi River defenses at Columbia. If he swings east, he can easily hit the Army of Central Kentucky from the rear, smashing it against the anvil of Buell’s command.”
“Are you thinking of holding the line at Nashville, sir?” Hardee asked, thoughtfully stroking his beard as he looked down at the map. “We’ll need engineers, some way of creating fortifications. Situated as the city is in the loop of the Cumberland River, and with all the pikes approaching from the west, south, and east—”
“We have no way of stopping the Union gunboats,” Johnston told him. “Yes, we can dig in, turn the city into a fortress against infantry, but to take out those gunboats? We need heavy artillery. Columbiads and Dahlgren shore batteries. If Fort Henry teaches us anything, it’s that shooting at an ironclad with a field piece is like using your thumb to flick gravel at a snapping turtle’s shell.”
“Then what are you thinking, sir?” Hardee braced his arms on the table, brow lined, mouth pursed.
Johnston straightened. “I fought in Texas, gentlemen. Sometimes, to beat a superior force, you draw him in, retreat while his strength dissipates, and strike him hard on ground of your own choosing when he is at his weakest and most vulnerable.”
“And you don’t think Nashville is the place to draw that line?” Hindman asked.
“I don’t have enough men or guns, General. We’ll delay the Federals, fight a rear guard, bleed him on the way south, but it means abandoning Nashville. Finding a place of our choosing. Perhaps like Sam Houston did with Santa Anna at San Jacinto. A place where
