A Blaze of Glory (20 page)

“How brisk?”

“I must admit, sir, that the infantry had beaten us somewhat to the chase. When Colonel Buckland learned his men had been captured, he ordered forward a full regiment. Begging your pardon, sir, but I thought that to be somewhat excessive. But we reached the correct field by following the sounds of a fight. With all credit due Colonel Buckland, his infantry had been successful in locating the rebel horsemen. It is possible, of course, that it was the other way around. The rebel cavalry could very well have set an ambush, in case any of us took umbrage at their capture of Colonel Buckland’s squad. But there was a scrap, sir, and we determined quite quickly that Colonel Buckland’s men were in something of a pickle. The reb cavalry were giving it to them pretty hard, but our arrival took care of the problem. Those rebs weren’t looking for a fair fight, and it was apparent that when we drove toward them, we put the fear of God in them. They fled the field. I have not heard if Colonel Buckland recaptured his lost squad, sir, but I am pleased to report that we were able to grab a few of those rebels in return. They’re outside.”

“How many?”

“Ten are here, sir. We left wounded in the field. They’re being cared for.”

Sherman had a burst of curiosity, moved to the doorway of the small church, peered through the thickening darkness, could see the rebels sitting in a mass under a fat oak tree.

“Bring me one. Pick the one who looks the most scared.”

Ricker motioned to one of his men, and Sherman kept his stare outside, the rain light and misty now. Ricker’s cavalrymen spread out down one of the trails that led away from the church, a loose column of weary troopers, those who saw him sitting straight in the saddle, a clear sign that they knew the day was theirs. He nodded toward one of the officers, thought, yes, good. We need more of you out there. Ricker’s right. They’re not looking for a fair fight. Just … bullying us, picking at us like fleas on a dog. Well, enough of that.

He felt a gust of wind, a light spray on his face. The rain had nearly stopped, but the trees near the church were giving up the wetness in their leaves, and he cursed to himself, backed away from the door. Across the open yard, one of the rebels was pulled toward him, no sign of a uniform, a thick patch of greasy hair matted across his forehead. The man was escorted by two of Ricker’s men, and Ricker followed, stood behind the prisoner, said, “Get inside, secesh. You get to meet a real general.”

Sherman tried to look imposing, glanced around, the chairs in the church too small, undignified. All right, I should stand anyway, stare at him eye to eye. He crossed his arms, tried to ignore the aching need for a cigar.

The prisoner climbed the short steps into the church, was in front of him now, held tightly in the grip of two of Ricker’s horsemen. Sherman studied the man, very young, a wisp of a beard on his chin, his homespun clothes stained with days of mud. He didn’t seem frightened at all.

“So, boy, what’s your name?”

The prisoner puffed out his chest, made a good show of defiance.

“That would be Micah Goolsby.”

To one side, one of his escorts jerked him hard.

“You say
sir
to the general!”

“Reckon not. You done caught me. That means I ain’t a soldier no more.”

Sherman was fascinated more by the man’s deep drawl than by his attitude. He had rarely heard such a pronounced accent since Louisiana.

“You’re right, boy. Your war is over. So, you’ve got no more secrets to hide. Where are you from, Mr. Goolsby?”

“Brooksville. That’s Mississippi. Down south of here.”

“Don’t know the place. I doubt you’ll be seeing it for a while. So, who was it sent you out here in this infernal weather, just so you could take potshots at my boys?”

The young man weighed the question, seemed to debate whether to respond, but after a long moment the debate was settled.

“Reckon you’ll find out soon enough. Colonel Clanton. He rode us up here mad as a hornet. Seems we lost a couple of our men to one of your picket posts down toward the river a ways. The colonel don’t take kindly to Yankees stealing his men. We decided to get a little of that for ourselves. Did, too. But … well, it weren’t my lucky day. We was about to round up a whole passel of Yankee infantry when your horsemen showed up.”

Sherman glanced at his staff officer, Major Sanger, who nodded, said, “Heard of Clanton. Not sure who commands him.”

“And you ain’t gonna know nothin’ more about that, neither. Not till he rides right in here and grabs the whole lot of you!”

Sherman admired the man’s spark, said, “Well, now, we’ll be certain to give our regards to your Colonel Clanton.”

“Oh, you’ll be doin’ more than that,
General sir
. There’s gonna be a full out beatin’, right here. When it’s over, you’ll be tossed in the river, or driven to hell. Either way, you fellas is gonna learn that we ain’t takin’ none of this from you Yankees. You best git back on those steamboats right now.”

Sherman said nothing, thought, so, if he knows about the boats, he’s been close enough to the river to see or hear them. They might have been watching the landing ever since we got here. Crafty bastards.

He had heard all the man’s boasting he needed, said to Sanger, “Major, I’m returning to my tent. There’s a box of cigars in the bottom of my trunk, and one of them requires my attention.”

Ricker said, “What do we do with these prisoners, sir?”

Sherman thought a moment, looked around the small church.

“Stick ’em in here. I’m not wasting time or men to haul them back to the river. They can sleep dry for tonight, and they’ll be easier to guard.” He looked at the boy in front of him, still defiant, but there was a small crack in the boy’s bravado, a hint of a tear in his eyes. Sherman smiled to himself, thought, that’s more like it. Now you understand. Take a good look around you, Mr. Goolsby. This is the United States Army you’re playing with.

“Thank you for speaking with me, Mr. Goolsby. You get a good night’s sleep. Then, tomorrow, we’ll send you back to where we keep the cannibals. They do like Southern meat.”

He didn’t wait for a reaction, clamped his hat hard on his head, moved out into the rain, turned toward the larger tent, the urgent need for a cigar all he could think about.

SEELEY

SOUTHEAST OF SHILOH CHURCH APRIL 4, 1862, 9:00 P.M.

T
hey pushed through the dark muddy trails, kept the horses as quiet as they could, no one speaking, no orders shouted out. He was one of nearly two hundred horsemen, a snaking line that kept back far enough from the Federal camps so they would not be detected. He knew that some of the other cavalry had pushed too hard, were more aggressive than they were supposed to be. The result had been a scattering of engagements, brief and manic fights with a few casualties, but Captain McDonald’s company had not yet fired a shot. There had been Yankees, and throughout the day, Seeley and the others had caught their brief glimpses of bluecoated horsemen. Most were across a ravine, or far up ahead on the same road. But so far, those men wanted no part of a fight, and Seeley took some pride in that, was beginning to accept what Colonel Forrest had drilled into all of them. They were better men, better at the job, and even if the Yankees had better weapons, talk of repeating rifles, or carbines that required little time to load, it was the spirit of Forrest’s men that Seeley believed gave them every advantage. That no Federal seemed interested in standing up to them now was just more evidence.

Their mission had been to screen the advance of the infantry, primarily Bragg’s Corps, the men who were to spread their combat formation out toward the river. But the bulk of Bragg’s infantry had not come up, just a scattering of advance units, men who called themselves lucky, who had made most of their march before the new rains had come. For most of the afternoon, orders had come to McDonald, and they expressed what had to be the entire command’s aggravated frustration, that no one had kept to their schedule. Their mission had been unchanged, move discreetly, stealthily, continue to serve as a screen to prevent Federal cavalry from gaining any real intelligence about just what Johnston’s army was trying to do. But so far, Johnston’s army had accomplished very little, no great lines of foot soldiers hunkering down in vast formations, preparing for the great assault that would come at dawn. And if there was any need for a screen at all, the Yankees showed no sign of testing it. Patrols were seen, and the crackle of the fights had echoed through the fields and woodlands, but it was obvious to McDonald, to every cavalry commander, that the Yankees weren’t really seeking much in the way of intelligence at all. With the darkness, the rains had nearly stopped, and even from a mile away, Seeley could see the glow of the campfires, the Yankees going about their routine as though no cavalry were in these woods at all.

M
cDonald halted them, a harsh whisper spread back along the column, the only way to communicate in a darkness that was dense and oppressive. Seeley kept his position in line, had passed along the order to the sergeant behind him, that man doing the same. The night was growing thick with sounds, insects mostly, frogs and crickets that Seeley had heard all his life. But there were other sounds as well, voices, and the halt in the column had come so that McDonald could estimate the distance. Seeley stared into dense trees, knew they had passed this way in the daylight, a steady march that covered a very specific piece of what was supposed to be Bragg’s front lines. But the voices they were hearing now were not Confederate, and Seeley made his own judgment, guessed the men to be no more than two hundred yards away. A horse sidled up close to him, and he heard the growling whisper of Sergeant Gladstone.

“Bluebellies having a party, eh? Like a camping trip with my young’uns. They’ll be building fires out here, next thing you know.”

Seeley had no idea Gladstone had children, tried to visualize that in his mind, what kind of father this crusty and crude man would be. The voices were mostly from one place, a hilltop beyond the black trees, and suddenly there was the crack of a musket, a loud whoop, more laughter. The words were disguised, but the mood certainly was not, and now there was commotion in the brush, pushing out toward the road, away from the Yankees. Seeley felt his heart jump, but Gladstone said, “Deer. Dumb bluebellies are huntin’ deer. Well, shootin’ anyway. Bet they been shootin’ rabbits, too. Not a care in the world. Guess that’ll make the colonel happy.”

Gladstone eased his horse away, and the column kept still, Seeley staring toward the voices, the laughter quieting. They have no idea we’re here, he thought. And even if they do, they don’t seem to care much one way or the other.

He heard a rustle of horses, a rider coming back toward him, knew from the man’s gait it was McDonald. The captain whispered, “Officers!”

Seeley spurred the horse lightly, moved to one side, away from the others, and McDonald was there now, others coming up from the rear of the column. There were four lieutenants, and Seeley looked around, saw them all gathering close.

“Listen here! We need to backtrack to that creek we passed a mile or so behind us. Good water, and we can hold tight there until dawn. I’ve gotten no orders since sundown, and our job hasn’t changed. We’re to screen the advance of General Bragg’s right flank, and that’s what we’re gonna do. I have no idea where that flank is right now, but it sure ain’t where I was told. But I’m not taking any chances of stumbling into a bunch of General Bragg’s worn-out soldiers who’re nervous about what they’re supposed to do next. We’ll dismount, put up shelter halves, and wait for dawn. If the attack happens when it’s supposed to, we’ll be ready to help. That’s all I know, and that’s all we can do tonight. Turn your squads around, march back to that old bridge. We’ll spread out in those woods, on the west side of the road … the right. I’ll send a courier back to the south, try to locate someone in charge, let ’em know where we are. Let’s go.”

The order passed along the column, the men turning their mounts, the column beginning to move. Seeley was more toward the rear now, eased his horse forward in the sloppy mud. He thought of the shelter half, a piece of canvas he hated, what was supposed to be protection from rain. But so far, the storms that had blown past the cavalrymen had swirled rain right through any kind of protection, the chilling weather soaking through the wool coats, boots, anything else a man hoped to keep dry. It had gone on for so long now that when the daylight had broken that morning, with dry blue skies, the men had stood for long moments, staring up in perfect fascination. With the men quickly in motion, the sunlight had sliced through the soggy woods in a glorious display that drained the men of their misery. But the clear weather had brought Yankees, and the skirmishes had come, and Seeley knew that the joy of dry weather had put both sides into motion. By mid-afternoon, when the skies darkened yet again, word had reached them of the delays, and Seeley had already seen the mud on the roads that had so plagued the foot soldiers, and worse, had sucked down the wagons and limbers of the teamsters and artillerymen. But the cavalrymen kept their enthusiasm for the job at hand, no one expecting that delays on the march would change anything, that by tomorrow morning, the great assault, what might be the final assault, would drive the Yankees straight back into the river.

T
hey pitched their individual shelters, some using the canvas beneath them, keeping the wet ground away. No one had complained, no one protesting the order that would keep them out here, so close to the enemy, so deep into the constant misery of the weather.

Seeley found a stout tree, piled wet leaves into a soft mattress. He moved out from his shelter, checked on his men, on Gladstone, everyone doing what he had done. The men were spread all along the road, set into place by the captain to be in the best position to ambush anyone who happened to stumble past. Seeley had wondered about that, McDonald’s certainty that they would know the enemy from their own men, but the captain had perfect confidence that his patrol was the only one designated in this stretch of roadway. Seeley had to accept that McDonald knew what he was talking about. If horsemen came, they would be Yankees.

He slipped into his shelter now, the whining of mosquitoes immediate, joined by the background of chirping crickets, croaking frogs. The Yankees had quieted, for now, or else had gone into shelters of their own. Even the enemy needs sleep, he thought. They’re not devils or godless beasts. Just poor dumb volunteers, sent down here to conquer people who won’t be conquered. Simple as that. Just as simple what we’re gonna do to them.

He pulled his coat up around his face, tried to escape the mosquitoes, the only remedy there was. The sounds were muffled now, and he tried to calm his heartbeat, to find some way to sleep. He felt the cold turn in his chest, thought of the Yankees he had seen that day, scattered bursts of musket fire, but nothing like he had hoped. He let out a breath, stuffed his hands into his wet coat pockets, lay motionless, the softness of the leaves not nearly soft enough. It would have been wonderful, he thought, a hard charge right into those bluebellies, scattering them to the hills. He had practiced waving his sword high over his head, alone of course, making the piercing scream they had repeated in their drills. The mock fury had come, too, but he knew it would never be like that, that when it was time to face those bluebellies, when the sword went up, it was serious and deadly, and a man had to prove himself better than his enemy. I
am
better, he thought. We are all better. They won’t even stand up to us when we’re right in front of them. They take their potshots and scamper away. Scared rabbits. Not what I expected. Not a bit. He thought often of the man he had captured back at the Duck River, the terrified Yankee whose only mistake was that he was a good swimmer. Wonder where he is now? They send him home with a parole? Not an officer, so maybe he’s in one of the prisons. Not me. Nobody’s gonna catch me. I got a good horse … good commanders. He stopped himself, didn’t want to think on that, on what it would mean if he had to
escape
. Nope, I don’t plan on running away from anybody. I’m going home a hero. Maybe we all are.

He knew there would be no sleep, his thoughts roaring through his head, fantasies of what would happen tomorrow, what kind of confrontation they would find. It didn’t happen today, he thought. Maybe not my time yet. But the Almighty has a plan, no doubt about that. All I ask, Lord, is you let me at ’em. Let Katie and everyone else back home know that when I come riding down the street in Memphis, people will stop and wave and say, now by God, there goes a soldier.