to try the nerves of veterans.
Then, less than a mile from the battleground, General Thomas appeared out of nowhere. One of his aides, Kellogg, was with him. Thomas stood straight in the saddle, his head slowly turning to take in the entire scene. I was no more than thirty feet from him on his right; he must have come up from behind. He always rode so quietly. He had not even seen me, I thought, but out of the blue he turned and said, “Colonel Swain, put your regiment in line of battle across the field on the left of this road, and I’ll put that Pennsylvania regiment of infantry on the right, and somehow, persuasion, reasoning, or threats, we’ll stop this stampede.”
And he was gone, to some other spot, directing some other regiments he already knew.
We did what he said. Veering again to the left, we made our way through fields of corn stubble and thickets of cedar bushes. Out of a line of thickets we arrived within sight of one of those grand and terrific struggles that characterized all the great battles of the war, where foes met in an almost hand-to-hand fight, with a determination to conquer amounting nearly to desperation. Across a large field, drawn up in a semi-circle, long lines of mounted troops stood opposed to each other, firing their carbines and revolvers with a rapidity that caused a constant roar, over which thundered and reverberated the frequent discharge of artillery.
Suddenly, however, the firing in a great measure ceased, and our cavalry, my regiment included, with a terrific shout charged upon the enemy lines but were met with a firm stand and withering fire, before which our line reeled and was compelled to retire, which they did, however, in good order. It was just a feint of sorts to slow down the enemy, and it only worked for a few minutes.
General Thomas had moved his mass of infantry and cavalry gradually to the left, and up a small rise that approached the railroad line from Nashville to Chattanooga. Stone River and the Nashville Pike came in there as well, so he could oversee all movements of all troops, Union and Confederate, and the natural barriers that might halt them. Stone River was not deep, you could ford it on foot, but it would slow up the troops who crossed it. By nine o’clock the battle was in full swing, and you could not tell how our side was doing. Fleeing soldiers from our right side, McCook’s division, were pouring into our lines, but they were meeting and joining new regiments, like mine, that were calm and ready, and placed just where General Thomas wanted us. So we somehow were not affected by the fear on their faces. It was as if they finished a race and were embraced by the officials who would tell them that it was all right, they tried.
The 14th Indiana, my regiment, was fighting on foot, firing over the heads of our on-rushing men when we thought we saw a gray uniform. With the tremendous smoke, though, it was hard to see clearly. You usually guessed how far behind the running blue uniforms the running gray uniforms would be. They still were not close, so we tried not to use up too much ammunition. Perhaps twenty thousand men, up and down a line in front of the pike and railroad, were facing the oncoming Rebs. This time it was Negley’s and Rousseau’s divisions, with the remnants of McCook’s corps, rushing through the line and reforming behind it as best they could. The Confederates had already pushed back McCook’s troops at least a mile. Sheridan’s men resisted the most, but even they gave way and tried to join the end of Negley’s division where the river bent north.
The river, shallow as it was, acted like a barrier in front of that end of the line, across which the Confederates would have to come, and the Pike, behind our lines, gave us the escape route we might need to get back to Nashville. As I rode around my men and positioned them at the far right to keep our troops from being outflanked, I could understand Thomas’ thinking. He was giving his soldiers the best chance they could have in the worst of circumstances. And he was everywhere along the line, paying particular attention to the placement of his batteries above and behind the infantry and cavalry. It was no surprise to me that he paid such attention to his cannons: his training at West Point was in artillery, and he had proved himself in the Mexican War.
But once he had placed those guns, he got down off Ashes, his majestic horse, and stood in the midst of the privates doing the fighting, directing and supervising them along with their own officers. Wherever the fighting was thickest that day, Negley and Rousseau saw him, all of us did. Coolly giving orders in his dress uniform, he even told his men to lie down to steady their aim, then refused to lie down himself. The shot, shell, and canister came thick as hail, hissing, exploding, and tearing up the ground around us. You had no way of knowing where the next shell was going to land. But Thomas continued to walk up and down the line, watching the approaching enemy. I heard him say, distinctly, when the men begged him to get down, “No, it is my time to stand guard now.”
Until that day, his men told me later, he was considered unnecessarily strict about the enforcement of orders, and was not especially liked. But on December 31, 1862, at Stone River, he captured an entire corps of men, his own, every one of whom would die for him from then on. It was a remarkable sight, because we were losing the battle after all. But that line he formed never broke as wave after wave of Hardee’s and Polk’s rebel troops poured across the field toward us, up the gradual incline from the river. Thomas just stood there in his new uniform with his newly minted brigadier general’s stars and gold braid. He wanted to make certain that every man in the corps knew he was in the forefront, sharing their danger, and the full-dress uniform was a reminder they could not miss. Most generals save those uniforms for dances and ceremonies; Thomas used it for his men.
The roar of guns sounded like the pounding of a thousand anvils. Even that cannot explain the noise, because anvils are familiar. The sound of a battle of this magnitude is like nothing else. It is not constant, every moment is not like the last. The explosions and gunfire may come in waves but they are not regular waves. When it is loudest, you can see enemy soldiers, coming across the cotton fields, stuffing the cotton they have picked on the run into their ears. Absolutely everything is unpredictable, and most of all who is going to be hit or killed with the next sounds. You throw all fate to the winds because it is the only thing to do. And there is no point in running—Old Thomas will disapprove.
We did not retreat because there did not seem to be anywhere to go. With the Nashville Pike not a hundred yards behind us, it might as well have been five miles. The cloud of noise and smoke and flying men enveloped everything; none of us thought there was any place else to be. And the cedar thickets that concealed most of our infantry made us feel even more enclosed.
Finally, after a five-minute lull in the fighting late in the afternoon, General Thomas ordered, of all things, a bayonet charge! He rode up and down the line getting the men ready, and it was clear that they would go forward out of those woods, as long as the general said it was the thing to do. The remainder of Hardee’s divisions, stalled in the middle of the long field down to the river, were completely startled by the charge and gave ground for a half mile to the base of the slope and their own cedar thickets.
We never regained our original positions from the morning. But we had the last word that day, and it proved to be prophetic. The Army of the Cumberland formed a new defensive line, still parallel with the railroad and pike, collected its wounded, and buried its heads in weariness behind breastworks thrown up in darkness.
That night there was a generals’ council at Rosecrans’ headquarters. We all heard that Thomas intensely disliked councils of war; he believed generals should be left to their own courage and ingenuity. All they needed to know was where everyone else was supposed to be. “Too much talking weakens the resolve of any army,” he said. I learned only later that most of the generals were counseling retreat since we had lost so much ground. Thomas, with an assist from Sheridan, was roused from a catnap and stated his case clearly: “This army does not retreat,” and that was the end of the meeting. He was forty-six but looked at least sixty that night, and no one, not even Rosecrans, was going to dispute his wisdom. The West Point Thomas was like a grandfather among the younger officers, so many of whom owed their rank to political appointments.
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Forty thousand of our men, many in their first battle, lie stretched beside their guns on the field. The night is cold and gloomy, but our spirits, unaccountably, are rising. We all glory in the stubbornness with which Rosecrans, with Thomas in charge, has clung to our position. Once my horse has been tethered and settled