A Blaze of Glory (11 page)

Calling for as many as three hundred thousand reinforcements, Sherman’s panic became an unpleasant distraction, but when the newspapers latched on to the story, the distraction became Sherman himself. In the fall of 1861, he was granted a leave of absence by Henry Halleck, a generous move considering Sherman’s loud and indiscreet claims of Southern military superiority. Though George McClellan was making much of the same show closer to Washington, Sherman’s behavior was singled out by one newspaper in particular as a manifestation of insanity. Even with Halleck’s supporting claims to the contrary, the story began to spread, and what could generously be described as Sherman’s bouts with a deep moodiness, and a tendency to exaggerate the peril of his troops, now became far more dangerous to his career. But Halleck continued to support him, claiming that Sherman was more than fit for command of troops in the field, and Washington, so far removed from the increasing crises in the West, had no choice but to take Halleck’s word for it. There was, after all, a desperate need for qualified commanders, West Pointers in particular, and so, after weeks of recuperation from the strain of his command, Sherman was put back into the field. But Halleck had learned his lesson. Sherman knew he would have to accept any command he was given, and Halleck put more distance between Sherman and those who sought his head. He was now subordinate to the more senior generals in the theater, Grant and Don Carlos Buell in particular. At the very least, Halleck assumed they could manage Sherman’s talents while also keeping him under control. Sherman had learned his lesson as well, one in particular. He had acquired a healthy and vigorous hate for newspapermen.

O
n the journey southward, the broad, sweeping meanders of the Tennessee River had taken them past villages and outposts where people mostly stared out from the riverbank in silent boredom. At first glance, it seemed as though the people were oblivious of any war, as though the army in blue were just another casual visitor that passed along the waterways. But to Sherman there was nothing boring about the fat guns that pointed their black eyes toward the landscape of Tennessee, guns that Sherman often stood behind, as though guarding himself from some unknown weapon that might be pointed at
him
. The gunboats were necessary protection for the transports, which were heavy with soldiers who knew they were driving deeper into the heart of their enemy. So far that enemy hadn’t shown the kind of fire that ran rampant through the hearts of their Southern speechmakers, the politicians and newspapers condemning these boys in blue to a fiery hell for their shameful invasion of sacred soil.

H
e rode with a slow bouncing rhythm, his fingers on the brass buttons, his brain aching for a cigar. There was nothing different about the countryside, or the dismal weather that soaked them all, and Sherman found solace in that, allowed his mind to wander. He thought now of Donelson, the final surrender, a very good day, and he remembered the prisoners, legions of filthy rebel troops marching away knowing of failure. It was the same kind of failure Sherman carried from the summer before, and he focused on that, thought, we must know how to be
leaders
. We give a man a musket and tell him to kill that boy over there, and if the man believes we are worth following, worth respect, incredibly enough, he’ll do it. Damndest thing. The young … and they are so young … they’ll do what a commander tells them to do, even if it’s the wrong thing, even if they don’t know that the commander is an idiot. If that officer panics and runs like hell, well, then it’s over. It all collapses. The illusion of respect disappears. But you can’t be surprised by that. That’s what West Point is for, after all. Teach a man how to stand tall and give the order, and do it so those young boys will obey it. Not much more complicated than that.

No matter how many times you give the orders, you don’t show them that you know damn well what’s going to happen next. Doesn’t matter if these boys are illiterate mudkickers or college boys. They’ll still aim that musket and do their best to kill that scoundrel over there who might be trying to do the same thing back. And afterward, whoever took the better shot goes back to the camps, talks to the new recruits, tells them all about it, and so more illiterates and college boys pick up
their
muskets, and by damned, they get all excited, and can’t wait to do the same thing. That’s how a war gets fought. And by God, that’s why you can’t fall apart again. Making those boys pick up a musket and doing the job is a
good
thing, the
right
thing, no matter that a bunch of mamas back home think otherwise. Sorry, ma’am, but we need a big damn army right now, and there’s no better way to make one than to gather up a bunch of boys and tell them how much fun they’re going to have killing their enemy. Yep, that’s how armies are made. We’ve got a good one, too. No doubt about that. The generals … well, that’s a whole different thing. Damn shame. But by God, it won’t be me. Not again. I can’t … run. I can’t.

He brought himself back to the rain, still the rhythm of the saddle, the horse’s hooves slurping through mud a half foot deep. Beside him, the engineer had come up close, McPherson, riding in sullen silence. They had not expected the rains to continue, not for so many days, and Sherman knew that McPherson had something to say. Sherman waited, thought, yep, I know just what he’s going to tell me. No matter how good our plan might be, out here, in this kind of mud, it doesn’t much matter. In this mess, even a good engineer’s got nothing he can do.

Their mission had been sound, the orders definite, and Sherman knew that General Smith had a pretty clear grasp of what was going on around Corinth. Sherman’s men had already made one attempt to shove southward, up the river, several hundred troops on the transports, led by Sherman’s staff officer, Major Dan Sanger. That mission had been escorted by gunboats commanded by men who were eager to blast any rebel target on the shoreline, but the targets were few and fleeting, observers and cavalry patrols mostly. The mission had been to drive into Mississippi east of Corinth, hitting the railroad line at Eastport. They knew there was a bridge, and if it could be taken down, Sherman’s men would slice a gaping hole in the Confederate supply line that the Federal commanders knew was pouring rebel troops and equipment into their growing strongholds around Corinth. It was similar to the tactic Grant had used at Fort Donelson. It was one moment of glory that Sherman embraced, knew that Grant embraced it as well. Days before, at Fort Henry, the Federal naval gunners had earned perfect confidence that they could destroy any kind of strong point the rebels placed along the rivers. But Donelson was not Henry, and when the navy made their grand attack, the results had been catastrophic for the same gunboats that had been so successful at Fort Henry. It was Grant who had understood flexibility, and Sherman appreciated that, had seen that Grant learned the lesson that had cost the navy so many casualties, and so many good boats. Fine, Johnny Reb, you did good. Now try it again. You point your cannon and your muskets at that big river, and wait for us to do the same kind of attack. You might believe we’re the stupidest enemy in the world, and so we’ll float up to your front door again, right where you want us to be, and maybe we’ll even stand up tall, hold the Stars and Stripes high for you to see, give you another fleet of perfect targets.

Sherman had studied enough tactics to believe as Grant did, that the best way to grab an enemy by the throat was to do it from the side, or maybe even from behind. At Donelson, with a naval assault useless, Grant had sent the troops overland, had hit the rebel works with a mass of infantry. It had worked, though Sherman knew what they all knew. The rebels at Donelson didn’t just fold up, there was no mass panic, nothing of the inglorious retreat the boys in blue had shown at Bull Run. The rebel earthworks and fortifications had been planned with care, the wisdom that comes from a good engineer. He glanced at McPherson, wondered if he knew who the rebel engineers were, if there was a single man with good sense who had constructed Fort Donelson. Artillerymen, too, he thought. They had some big guns there, and some of their people knew how to use them, something the navy boys had learned the hard way. Sherman slapped at a whining insect that danced around his ear, thought, it was a tough damn fight, and they were killing our boys worse than we were killing theirs, but Grant knew he could bring in more, could keep at ’em, while the rebs had nobody else. It was good tactics and good work, but make no mistake. They handed Grant the fort because they had jackass generals. No shortage of those in either army, apparently.

Beside him, McPherson spoke for the first time in a half hour.

“General, with all respects, sir, this is as bad a mess as I’ve seen. Major Sanger couldn’t get his people close enough to Eastport to do the job, and we won’t do any better out here. Doesn’t matter what route we take. Even if the men can swim across these flooded creeks, there’s no way to take the heavy equipment, no way the guns or the wagons … well, you try to drag artillery across some of these overgrown ditches, you’ll never see them again. Pardon me for saying so, sir.”

Sherman had enormous respect for McPherson, knew the man had taught engineering at West Point. Every commander McPherson had served had allowed him to advance only with reluctance, no one wanting to lose such a capable man. But advance he did, serving the Federal commanders in the West all the way to the top. The top now of course was Henry Halleck, but Sherman had been impressed that somehow Ulysses Grant had managed to convince Halleck that McPherson should leave those cozy offices at St. Louis, and come out here where the army was. Sherman had wondered why any good commander would think the best place for a crack engineer should be any other place but the field. He watched McPherson’s gloom, thought, did Halleck ever think he might need a bridge built somewhere around his headquarters? All right, Sherman, no use trying to think like Halleck.
No one
thinks like Halleck, not in this part of the world, anyway.

“You saying this is a waste of time, Colonel?”

McPherson peered at him from under the dripping brim of his hat, his hand wiping water from his face.

“I am in your service, General. You want to ride further into these woods and wear out your men and horses in the mud, hoping we’ll find some kind of magic passageway to someplace we can do some good …”

“That’s enough, Colonel. You might be the expert, but I’m in command. Keep your sarcasm to yourself. I’d rather be anyplace else than wandering out in enemy territory on some nameless roadway.… ” He stopped, kept the rest of the thought to himself. He turned now, held up his hand, the horsemen behind him knowing the signal, stopping abruptly. Sherman saw misery on a dozen faces, and behind the horsemen, the column of infantry, their brogans smothered by the soft roadway, their uniforms splattered with oozing mud. Sherman thought of General Smith, knew that their goal had been useful, important. But sarcasm or not, McPherson was right. He said nothing for a long minute, the faces starting to find him, no one showing a flicker of enthusiasm. Close by he saw Major Sanger, his aide, and said, “Major, we’re not doing any better here than you did yesterday. Give the order. Turn these boys around and march them back to the river. Let’s get on those damn boats and find a dry place to put our feet up. If General Smith wants that railroad busted up, he’ll have to find another way.”

SAVANNAH, TENNESSEE
MARCH 17, 1862

Sherman saw the festering wound on Smith’s leg, the doctor wiping it with some kind of stinking ointment. The general was grimacing, said, “By damned, Treadwell, you might as well stick my leg in a keg of your Aunt Sally’s corn liquor.”

“Sir, I don’t have—”

“Oh, shut up, Doctor. Just be done with it. It hurts like … it hurts. What more do you need to know?”

Smith looked up at Sherman.

“Someone’s trying to do me in, Cump. I scrape my leg bone jumping onto the deck of a steamboat, and you’d think I’d been struck by lightning. Now it’s all blown up and these doctors are flocking around me like pigeons on a parade ground.” He paused, and Sherman saw a hint of fog in the clear, unsmiling eyes. “I do miss that, you know. Every minute of it. Lovely place, West Point. Lovely time. Young minds are the most fun. Nothing
closed
, no
conclusions
dropped into them like bricks in a flowerpot.”

Sherman had heard this before, knew that Smith had been as respected and admired at West Point as any commandant in memory. It was something of a mystery why, now, he was outranked by a half dozen of the generals who had once been cadets in his classroom.

“I’m afraid, sir, I was more likely one of those bricks.”

“Bah! I remember you. All of you. Worst thing that happened to
you
was that you missed out on Mexico. The whole lot of them learned something of soldiering there. Me too, I suppose. Scott and Taylor … good men, good generals. These young bucks learned from that, Cump. They learned about war, and they learned how to
win
.” He paused. “Get out, doctor. I promise, I’ll summon again when we’re through here.” Smith waited for the doctor to leave the room, curled his nose at the smell from his leg that Sherman was trying desperately to ignore. “Got a message today from Halleck. Excuse me,
General
Halleck. He’s had a change of heart. Or brain. Or his breakfast agreed with him. Whatever the reason, he’s decided that General Grant is
not
an incompetent, lying, insubordinate fool after all. Didn’t much matter that Halleck was the only one who believed that nonsense. But, the wire said, um, in different words of course, that Halleck has suddenly developed an unexpected dose of wisdom. He has reinstated General Grant to his command of this army. I am once again his subordinate.”