The Railroad War (9 page)

But Hawken knew that Sherman wanted to fight Johnston sometime during the next couple of days. Hawken’s job in Jackson was
to discover ways to prevent, or at least delay, a Joe Johnston movement to the east or south.

“I’ve just come from the train yards,” Hawken went on. “But it’s not clear whether there is movement away from here. If there
is to be a withdrawal, we must know about it. And we must know when it will come.”

She looked at him for a long while without speaking. Then she turned away. “Johnston won’t fight Sherman in Jackson,” she
said in her small voice, still facing away from him. “He plans to move out. He had hoped to complete his move tonight, but
that has proved impossible. There aren’t enough locomotives and cars to acomplish the job, even with pack animals and wagons
moving whatever they can handle. He is now hoping to accomplish his action by early tomorrow morning, but it appears that
noon tomorrow is the earliest it can be done.”

“Amazing!” he whispered, more at her accomplishment in obtaining the information than at the information itself. “And you’re
sure of that?” he asked, as he considered the implications of her information. It was not good news.

“Of course,” she said quietly. “Have my other reports proved accurate?”

“In every detail,” he acknowledged after a time. Then he shook his head angrily. “Damn!” he said. “I don’t like what you’ve
told me. Johnston’s acting too soon for us! And that makes problems for me.” Problems that might require him to take action
on his own, he thought, and he had no idea what actions he could possibly take.

He caught her eye.

Her expression was altering now. Her face was sadder, grimmer, with a touch of pleading in it.

“But tell me,” she asked, louder, “why do you need to know when Johnston is making his move? Isn’t it enough that he is leaving
at all? Does General Sherman require another battle? Poor Jackson doesn’t require another fight, nor another occupation by
the Yankee army,” she added.

“I’m not sure why these things matter to you,” he said carefully.

“I think it should be obvious why these things interest me,” she said. “You see where I live. And you can understand my interest
in my own safety.” She smiled a peculiar little smile as she said this. “So it very much behooves me to know when General
Sherman plans his major assault.”

He looked out the window, gaining time. He didn’t want to tell her what she wanted to know. Even though there was some risk
to her in ignorance, she had no need to know what General Sherman’s purposes were. At the same time, he needed her—as long
as she had information that General Sherman desperately needed. It would not do to set her against him.

“I can well understand that you are reluctant to speak to me of military matters,” she said, beginning to look pitiable. “But
I am anxious about my own position in Jackson.”

“We will, of course, arrange for your safety,” he said. He took a breath and continued, “This war will drag on as long as
the South has armies that are capable of putting up a fight. At the same time, the South is outmanned, outgunned, and outproduced.
And that means that the southern armies will eventually lose just about every fight they engage in—as long as the North can
catch them. If the Confederate armies keep moving and avoiding battle, then the hope is that the North will grow tired of
chasing them and will give up. We have to try to catch and beat the southern armies until they are not capable of fighting
anymore. That’s what Sherman is trying to do now.” He paused. “Or else we have to destroy their capability to fight in ways
that do not require battles.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We destroy factories and railroads and food.”

“Even if ordinary people are hurt by that, not just the soldiers?”

“Even if all the people are hurt by that.” He leaned closer to her. “That’s the way of war, Miss Featherstone.”

She nodded.

“That’s why what you have to tell me is so important. You could conceivably make the war shorter.”

Her mild look seemed a reproach. “But when will Sherman enter Jackson?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” he answered. “That’s why I’m here now talking to you—in order to find the information that will make that
decision possible.”

A most curious woman, he thought. He was beginning to see what made her a successful spy.

“You must be very thirsty,” she said, breaking the uncomfortable moment. “I’m afraid all that I can offer you is plain water.
But I can promise that it will be cold.”

“Then I will take that gratefully,” he said.

“Francoise?” she called out. When Francoise appeared, she instructed her to bring a pitcher of water and glasses.

After Francoise had returned with the water and then left, Hawken began asking Jane Featherstone particulars about the military
situation in Jackson, about the disposition of General Johnston’s troops, and about his timetable for departure.

As he and she discussed these things, he came to a conclusion about what he had to do to prevent Johnston’s departure—or at
least to hinder it for a couple of days, long enough for Sherman to complete the flanking movement he had already begun.

Sherman’s Thirteenth Corps, under Ord, had taken the rail line that ran south toward New Orleans. And his Ninth Corps, under
Parke, had done the same for the line that ran north to Memphis. So Johnston would have to move east.

A cavalry attack, if it could be mounted, would probably do the job. But the question was whether there was time to return
to Sherman’s lines and arrange that. Hawken doubted it.

The railroad line to Meridian had to be cut.

It was well past noon when Hawken finally stood to leave.

When Jane Featherstone rose to lead him out, she said, “Will I see you again?” Her face was as expressionless as usual, but
now for the first time Hawken caught flickers of vivaciousness—and steel—in her eyes.

“Yes, if it’s possible, I’d like to see you again,” he said, meaning it. She excited his curiosity. But there was also an
undertow of passion and recklessness beneath her mildness.

“And I, too,” she said with her half smile and soft voice. In addition to the glimmer of gaiety in her eyes, there was something
else—eagerness? “You’re quite handsome, you know. And interesting.”

He nodded.

“Until we meet again?” she said, offering her hand.

“Until then,” he said, and turned to leave.

Once outside in the blazing heat, he sighed. Jesus! he said to himself. That’s one hard lady. Never mind her softness and
her silence. I’ve never been kept so off balance by a woman. At least, he added, not since Miranda Kemble.

And then he remembered where he had seen a cock of the head like hers before. It was at West Point, the day before he graduated.
And the woman—the girl—he’d noticed doing it was Miranda Kemble herself—so very different from this strange women. She was
so much more open and direct and spirited. And yet…

He wondered about Miranda. He hadn’t heard from her since the start of the war. Before that, there had been letters, but he
had not seen her since she was fifteen.

He shook his head sadly.
Damn the war!

A Confederate major—a genuine Confederate major—was directing and organizing the trains at the Jackson, Mississippi, train
yard for General Joe Johnston. Major Noah Ballard stood on the edge of the yard where the tracks converged toward the bridge
over the Pearl. A few yards away a locomotive had just been attached to a fourteen-car load. And while Noah was waiting for
it to start, he glanced up at the sky. It was a few minutes after one o’clock by his watch, and already huge summer rain clouds
had started to pile up in the west. How long will they hold off? he thought to himself, grim-faced, worried about his already
desperately perilous schedule.

Though he was an engineer and not a railway manager, he did what he was told, and he went where he was sent. And of course,
railroads were in his blood. His father was still president of the Atlanta and Western, a line that the war had made more
vital than ever.

Noah had been at this job for ten days. Before that, he had planned the fortifications around Jackson, then directed their
construction.

A leather pouch slung around his neck and perched on his hip was stuffed full of papers indicating where and what had to be
moved, and what he had available to move it in. But the information in the papers scarcely began to approximate the reality
he was facing in the job General Johnston had given him: to move an army of over thirty thousand with all its baggage and
equipment and impediments out of Jackson by noon the following day, and to do it under the noses of a larger Federal army
that had every intention of stopping them.

If he failed, and if Sherman defeated or captured Johnston’s army, then there would be only one weak Confederate force, Braxton
Bragg’s army in eastern Tennessee, between Grant and Atlanta.

And meanwhile, Noah had 18 usable locomotives, and somewhere between 130 and 150 cars, depending on luck and the always precarious
final stages of wear and tear. Each car might carry as much as sixteen thousand pounds of baggage or equipment, and each locomotive
could pull, with yet more luck, trains of up to 15 cars.

And he had hundreds of thousands of tons to ship.

The railroads of northern and eastern Mississippi showed on their books three to four times that number of engines and cars.
Noah had no idea where the hell they had gotten to. And he didn’t have time to find out.

How many angels can dance on a pinhead? he asked himself, shaking his head. That’s an easy one compared with, How can I in
one day move an army of thirty thousand with 18 locomotives and 130 cars?

It was an impossible situation, and he knew it. On top of that, he had only one way out by rail: the rickety Southern Line
that ran between Jackson and Meridian, ninety miles to the east. All the other lines out of Jackson—the New Orleans and Jackson
to the south, the Great Northern to the north and Memphis, and of course the Vicksburg and Jackson to the west—had all been
taken by the Federals.

He became aware of the engine he’d been waiting for. It was puffing mightily, straining to move its unaccustomed load.

“All right, Noah, we’re moving it,” a voice called out. The voice belonged to Gar Thomas, the superintendent of the Southern
Line. As with many other short rail lines in the South, the Southern’s superintendent for all intents and purposes ran the
line, handling all the work usually performed by both the president and the general manager of other, longer roads. Thomas
was in his early forties, round faced, balding, mustached but beardless, and like most southern railroad superintendents,
he was not especially effective at his job. Still, Gar was a good sort, friendly, eager, pleasant, and Noah was glad to have
him around, for his companionship if not for his competence.

All the same, Noah sorely missed having someone with skill and experience to help him manage his task. It wouldn’t take much
of a mishap to bring the whole operation to a halt.

He made this last observation as, with considerable effort, he manhandled the tall lever that brought a switch into its closed
position. Slowly the rails swung and closed, and the locomotive Noah had been listening to started to move. Groaning and struggling,
with huge gouts of black smoke surging out of its great, bulbous smokestack, it strained and jerked forward.

Noah moved back as the train approached, and he waved in response to the waves of the engine driver and the fireman. But he
didn’t watch as the train crossed the narrow, single-track bridge over the Pearl. He didn’t have time.

He drew a pencil out of the pouch and searched until he found the paper he wanted. After that he checked off the number of
the train that had just passed, and then he lifted his head and searched for Gar Thomas.

He now had nine trains running on the single track between Jackson and Meridian. Three should have recently arrived in Meridian,
and six more were loading. They’d move out of Jackson during the next hours. Once these trains reached Meridian, a six-hour
trip if all went well, they’d be turned around and sent back to Jackson. The last train out of Jackson was due to leave at
four this afternoon. That meant the first trip out of Meridian back to Jackson could not leave there until at least ten tonight.

“What’s next?” Noah said to Gar when he found him.

“Over there,” Gar said, indicating the spot with a tilt of his head. A hundred yards away three horses with riders were waiting.
One of the horsemen was shouting at Noah and Gar and making a come-hither motion with his arm.

The smallest of the riders was General Joseph Johnston. The other two would be his aides.

“Let’s go, then,” Noah said, and started moving toward the general.

When Noah and Gar drew near, General Johnston dismounted. Standing near his horse, he waited for Noah to approach and salute.

Johnston, a West Point graduate, was then almost fifty. He was a small man, but every inch a general. With his well-fitting
gray cloak, his well-tended pepper-and-salt mustache and goatee, and his intense personal magnetism, no one would mistake
him for anything but the commanding officer.

He was popular among the troops. Few generals watched more carefully over the safety and well-being of their troops, and fewer
still were as ready to help with the labor. There was a famous story about Johnston dismounting and wading—polished boots,
gold braid, and all—into a mud hole to help push a mired cannon back onto solid ground.

Johnston’s popularity, however, did not extend to Richmond—or at least to that part of Richmond occupied by the President
of the Confederacy, Jefferson Davis. Davis, though himself a West Point graduate, had no use for Johnston. As far as Davis
was concerned, Johnston wasn’t the fighter he needed. He wasn’t aggressive enough to suit the President. He was too afraid
to lose men. Even more important, Johnston refused to keep Davis informed of his plans and actions. He kept his own counsel,
executed his own strategies, and gave scarcely more than lip service to Davis’s wishes.