A Blaze of Glory (19 page)

Johnston said nothing, sat in his usual position in the opening of the tent, a small field desk to one side. He had no energy for Bragg’s ranting, hoped Beauregard would point out the obvious. The Creole obliged, said, “General, we could never have moved this entire army up the railroad in a short amount of time. The enemy would have detected that and destroyed us in detail. With all respect, the plan now in effect is a good one. The cavalry reports—”

“Bah! Cavalry! The glorious horsemen who ride in great parades with the sole priority of inflicting a blush on the pretty cheeks of the local females. The information they bring us is either too obvious to be of any use, or is simply wrong!”

Beauregard rubbed a tightly clenched fist across his chest, and Johnston could see he was too weary for this, would certainly have no patience for Bragg’s absurd objections to a plan that was already in motion. Beauregard made another effort to straighten himself, coughed loudly, said, “That is hardly accurate. Without the cavalry, we would know nothing at all, and our plans depend on the complete knowledge of the enemy’s position and his movements. You know that. The latest report tells us that the vanguard of General Buell’s forces are no more than forty miles from Crump’s Landing. The opportunity, our advantage, if there is one, is diminishing.”

Johnston knew those reports, and he spoke now, the first time since Bragg had launched his verbal tantrum.

“There is still time. The Federals are encamped and show no sign of movement. We have cavalry patrols far to the north and east, and they continue to do all they can to slow General Buell’s march. We must recognize the usefulness of that. I have received reports that General Grant’s communications to General Buell have not displayed any sense of urgency.”

Bragg spun around, faced him, lowered the tone of his voice just enough to demonstrate some awareness that Johnston was in command.

“May I be allowed to tell you about
urgency
, sir?”

Johnston nodded.

“We are ordered to begin our assault on the enemy at dawn tomorrow, is that not correct?”

“It is.”

“We will not be prepared. I have units I still cannot locate. I have no doubt that General Polk is hopping mad at the delays he is facing. His troops had to halt their march while we were trying to clear our way through that infernal Michie’s place. We should not have made contact with General Polk at all! We sent people up to the intersection and continued the march as ordered, moving out to the east. But there were gaps in my lines, and before I could reach that place, General Polk had arrived, and sent his wagons through to the north. But not all of them! The intersection was jammed solid, like a rat in a drainpipe. And so, my corps is scattered, General Polk’s Corps is scattered. And we are supposed to sort all of this out by nightfall, so that we may continue our proper placement, according to orders, to make our attack at first light! With all respect to both of you, until I can gather my forces into a command that I can actually organize, it is unlikely there will be an attack at all. To order men in such a state to move forward … well, sirs, it is folly.”

Johnston felt an increasing gloom spreading through him, had always believed that Bragg’s fury was most useful directed toward the enemy. He looked at Beauregard, who had slumped again against the tree, with apparently nothing to add. He heard hoofbeats now, a shout from his staff, saw a rider coming up the muddy road. There were aides trailing the man, but not many, someone’s efficient journey, the only sign of urgency Johnston had seen all day. The men dismounted now, and Johnston saw the familiar flag. It was John Breckinridge.

Johnston stood, was surprised, moved away from the tent, Bragg close behind him.

“General, I did not expect to see you so quickly. Are your troops closing up?”

Breckinridge saluted him, and Johnston saw the clear blue eyes, the sharp mustache shading a frown. Breckinridge said, “I regret, sir, the reserve corps is having some difficulty making progress. Many of my men are still near their camps near Farmington. The wagon train is the worst problem. Most are buried hard in the mud. We are working as energetically as we can, but the going is slow. I report this, sir, with sincere regret.”

Breckinridge had always shown the talents of the politician, and unlike Isham Harris, Breckinridge’s sins against the North were magnified in the Northern papers as the worst kind of black deed, a traitorous abandonment of the U.S. Senate, and a direct slap at the sanctity of the high office he had once held. If anyone in Johnston’s army had reason to agonize over the decision to join the Southern Cause it would be the former vice president. But Breckinridge was here now, in command of the invaluable reserve corps, and obviously, any conflicts he had were neatly cast away.

Johnston absorbed his report like a spreading disease.

“Do you believe you can have your people in their designated position by tonight?”

“I will make every effort, sir. I will toss aside my horse, and march them on foot, if it inspires them to quickness.”

“That would not be prudent, General. But please make every effort to march your men forward. I do not have to tell you the importance of your reserves to this campaign.”

“Certainly not, sir.”

Johnston felt a sharp breeze, looked up now, the blue skies erased by a thickening gray haze. He stared, others following his gaze, and now the first drops came, slapping the ground with small patters that drooped his shoulders, that settled into his brain like one more sickening failure.

“Gentlemen, it appears the rain has returned.”

SHERMAN

NEAR SHILOH CHURCH APRIL 4, 1862, 3:00 P.M.

W
ith the good weather that morning, the sounds had carried easily through the expanse of woods, and the Federal picket lines, and even the camps themselves had begun to hear noises that could only come from a gathering of men. From out of the west, shouts were heard, laughter, the clank and squeal of wagon wheels. Rumors had begun, spreading along the picket lines with mindless energy, the rebel cavalry pushing closer, more aggressively, some insisting that the sounds were just echoes from other Federal camps. But there were more inspiring rumors, that the noises had to come from something much larger, that in the distant fields and roadways, surely there was danger from the approach of the enemy.

The most untested soldiers were the first to feel the edge of panic, and even their officers could not hide their fears, some of them reporting with nervous certainty that they would likely be attacked. But higher up the chain, where experienced men had faced the enemy before, orders were issued that took the sting from the rumors, comforting words that cavalry patrols were a nuisance but little more. So many of those patrols had already been observed by the pickets, some by Federal cavalry, making their own forays into the enemy’s land. There had been clashes, most of them minor, but the rebels seemed intent on avoiding any real confrontation, their patrols mostly glimpsed from great distances, a fleeting burst of activity across a wide field, the enemy horsemen quick to withdraw. When the horsemen had met, it was usually a surprise to both sides, hoofbeats disguising the same sounds coming toward them from down the curving road. Often the two columns of horsemen were suddenly facing each other with no choice for the surprised officers but to give the order to attack. The firefights were usually quick affairs, but there were casualties, the unlucky, men struck by musket balls, or the chance firing of a recklessly aimed carbine. Few among the Federal cavalry commanders were inspired to push out seeking greater confrontations. There was no surge of revenge for fallen comrades, or even for saving face. Rather, the Federals probed the woods and trails with more caution, and it seemed that the rebels were doing the same. The primary mission for the bluecoated horsemen was to prevent the rebel patrols from drawing too close to the camps, no careless loss of prisoners, no intelligence that someone far away in rebel headquarters would find useful. The Confederates seemed willing only to harass, to test the willingness of the Federals to make any kind of fight at all. This day had begun no differently, cavalry probes, observation, sometimes with a casual wave from great distance, men watching their counterparts with amusement, contests with marksmanship, the company’s best shot trying to knock down someone
over there
.

In the camps of the infantry, the sounds of any confrontation rolled back to them as hollow echoes, dull thumps, scattered and distant. But there were officers who were not comfortable sitting blind, and so some of the regimental and brigade commanders had ordered more patrols, men on foot, to follow the trails, pushing beyond the static picket lines, to see more of what the cavalry saw, to test the bravado of whoever might be testing them.

But then the rains had returned, and the sounds and the enthusiasm were erased by the steady hiss from the downpour through the tall trees. The men from the 70th Ohio were like so many others, the order simple and direct, to move out westward, probing, scouting what might lie farther out in front of the pickets. One squad moved in familiar misery, the unlucky half dozen who were chosen to leave behind the comfort of their tents, their fires, a mission most thought was an enormous waste of time and dry clothes. They kept their slow march on a wide trail, a wagon road, thick mud that soaked their shoes, the wet slime soaking their pants legs. The rain hid any noise, but still they pressed forward, following their lieutenant, a man as miserable as the men he led. The mud had deepened to the point of absurdity, and the frustrated lieutenant dragged his men off the trail, pushed them through the woods, wet leaves slapping the men’s faces, heavy drips of rainwater rolling into coat collars and cartridge boxes. They moved mostly in blindness, their greatest concern that the lieutenant would get them lost. The woods had been a curse, vines and low branches, and they welcomed a patch of open ground, moving more quickly, a hint of tension, competing with the sense of futility, every man thinking more of dry socks and coffee than any glimpse of the enemy. Like so many of the open fields, this one was punctuated by a small farmhouse, and whether its occupants were there or not, the lieutenant made a beeline for the marvelous sanctuary of a dry space.

When the rebel cavalry came, they came knowing that the Federals liked their shelter, and so the horses moved with stealth. Their officer had seen this before, Federal troops too comfortable, and so the horsemen kept as silent as possible, approached the house from behind, or what might be a blind spot, finally emerging from the closest stand of dense trees. In a few seconds the farmhouse was surrounded by horsemen now on foot, and though there was musket fire, the rebels had every advantage. The success was complete, the Federal troops facing the muzzles of two dozen of the enemy, their lieutenant understanding his fate, that he and his six men had no choice but to surrender.

“
W
ho?”

“A squad of pickets from the 70th Ohio, sir. They’re just … gone. We have to assume they were taken by the enemy.”

Sherman crushed the cigar in his teeth, tried to pull smoke through it, useless now, tossed it out into the rain, grabbed another from his pocket.

“Captured by
who
, Captain?”

“Unknown, sir. We assume it was one of the rebel cavalry patrols. They seem to be everywhere. Our own cavalry continues to report frequent confrontations.”

Sherman paced the small space inside the meetinghouse, what the locals had told him was their church. The building was rough-hewn timbers, barely large enough for his staff.

He had heard too many of these reports, some of them caused by the panic of the untrained, some by officers who seemed anxious to build their own reputation by being so much more vigilant than the next man down the line. One of those had been Colonel Thomas Worthington, who commanded the 46th Ohio, and who had made himself such a thorn in Sherman’s side that he was banned from Sherman’s headquarters. Worthington was a much older man, had brought his regiment to Pittsburg Landing nearly three weeks prior, and demonstrated a wholly inappropriate eagerness for taking command of the entire operation. Once in camp, Worthington had plagued Sherman with his predictions of certain disaster, had insisted his men be supplied with near a hundred axes, to throw an abatis into place, defying the orders that came from Grant, which of course had come from Halleck. Worthington had even bypassed the chain of command, had gone straight to General Smith, had asserted his own supposed expertise on just what the army should be preparing for. After several such visits, even the patient Smith had tossed Worthington from his floating headquarters.

“Are you certain of this, Captain? By any chance is this report coming to you from Colonel Worthington?”

The captain smiled, then corrected himself, shook his head.

“No, sir. Colonel Buckland spoke to me himself, sir.”

“By damned, I am sick of the enemy’s little games. Has Buckland done anything to investigate this?”

“Yes, sir. The colonel reports he has ordered his picket lines strengthened and has ordered a full company forward, in effort to pursue whatever enemy is responsible.”

“I thought you said it was cavalry, Captain. Does Buckland think his foot soldiers can catch a cavalry patrol?”

The young man glanced downward.

“I cannot answer that, sir.”

“Well, I have my own answer. The 5th Ohio Cavalry is camped just out to the northwest of here. Order Major Ricker to lead a hundred of those men out west of Buckland’s camp. Have Ricker investigate the placement of Buckland’s picket line and determine what the hell is happening out there. Send a courier to Buckland so he’ll know I’m not going to tolerate this kind of nuisance anymore. I’ve been listening to that chatter all day long, musket fire and whatever else is going on. Half the time it sounds like a damn barn dance, complete with banjos and fiddles, and squalling house cats. If there are rebel cavalry who think they can dance their way close enough to spit on us, I want them driven out of here. Tell Major Ricker if he finds them to kill every damn one of them. These men might be green, but they are capable of following orders and keeping some kind of military discipline. I’m more convinced that all that racket we’re hearing out there is coming from our own people. This isn’t a damn hunting party. I’m sick of hearing all this talk, all this blasted panic caused by a few enemy cavalry. You have your orders, Captain.”

The man saluted, moved out quickly into the rain. Sherman struggled with shaking hands to light a new cigar, felt the soggy tobacco limp in his hands, the spray of rain infesting even his most simple pleasure. To one side, two of his staff officers sat in the church’s only remaining chairs, and he saw them studying papers, assumed they were pretending not to hear him. More of his aides were gathered inside one of the headquarters tents, and he called out to them, his tone of voice unmistakable. He waited, tapped his foot noisily on the plank floors of the small church, glanced at the soggy cigar again, tossed it angrily out into the rain. Men were coming toward him quickly, and they stopped short, stood at attention, seeming not to mind the rain. He shook his head.

“Get in here. I don’t need anyone on my staff drowning. Ridiculous damn weather.”

The staff crowded into the church, water flowing down and across every surface, the musty smell of stinking uniforms curling his nose. Sherman stood back, waited for them to get completely inside. “Damn. You boys need to take a hike back to the river, douse those clothes in some clean water. Maybe douse you, too.” He stood with his hands on his hips, couldn’t prevent his annoyance with what seemed to be the chaos of his own front lines. “You got the water out of your ears? Good. Now listen. Send my order to every regiment that I want the picket lines to be strengthened across our entire position. Have the commanders put some fresh men out there. I don’t know how much longer we’re going to be holed up in this godforsaken swamp, but I’m through having my brigades panicked by ghosts. If I have to order a full-scale drill formation I will. We’ve got some boys out there who seem to have forgotten why we’re here. Tell every company commander I want the miscreants sent to the river. I’ll not have the unruly affecting the rest of this command.”

His orderly had kept to one corner of the small church, the man expectant, ready for anything Sherman needed of him. Sherman turned to him now, said, “Mr. Holliday, will you please locate some dry cigars. There is a box in my trunk, at the foot of my bed. The ones in my coat have been made useless by this damnable weather. Locate some matches as well. I never should have tossed away that flint box.”

Holliday moved quickly, disappeared back out into the rain, splashing his way to one of the nearby headquarters tents.

“The rest of you … Captain Hammond, send an inquiry to General Prentiss. See if he is experiencing the same kind of supposed harassment from the rebels, or are his men hearing ghosts as well. If he’s got rebels to his front, kindly suggest he drive those damn mosquitoes away. Major Sanger, stay close to me. If Ricker’s cavalry doesn’t do the job, I want you to be ready to lead somebody out there yourself. Or find somebody who can. How blessedly difficult can it be to clear these woods of a few damn rebels?”

SHILOH CHURCH
APRIL 4, 1862, 6:00 P.M.

Ricker was dripping wet, a pool of brown water forming at his feet, a smear of dirt across his face. Sherman could see he was obviously pleased with himself.

“It was a brisk affair, sir. We took their measure, and gave back plenty.”