A Blaze of Glory (27 page)

“Good … good. Now drive them back! Whoever they are, whatever they are. Cavalry, I hope. Chase those scoundrels to hell!”

“Sir …”

It was Sanger, and Sherman ignored him, thought of Appler, the woods …
that way
. The wrong way. You should be out there with your men, damn you! He held the glasses locked to his eyes, chewed the cigar with a manic anger, Sanger again, “Sir … an officer …”

To the right, a man ran close, shouting, and Sherman heard the words, the panic in the man’s voice.

“General … look to your right!”

Sherman lowered the glasses, saw the man pointing, looked out toward the woods that way. The trees were fifty yards away, and through the gaps emerged a line of men, muskets high, bayonets, none of the men wearing blue. He stared at them for a long second, the soldiers seeming to absorb the scene as he was. Now they responded, the muskets coming up, and Sherman raised his hand, instinctive gesture. The burst of fire blew past him, and he heard the sickening crack, Holliday falling close beside him with a sharp grunt. Sherman felt a sting in his hand, looked at it, a bloody puncture in his palm, the blood flowing in a stream onto his pants, onto the horse. He looked down, saw his young orderly on the ground, motionless, the young man’s horse dancing to the side. Sherman looked again at the gray troops, his brain surging into focus, and he made a fist with the wounded hand, clamped down on the blood, said, “My God … they are attacking
us
!”

“Sir … this is no place—”

Sherman didn’t need the words of caution, wheeled his horse in a tight arc, a loud order to his staff, “Move!”

He spurred the horse hard in the flanks, the animal responding, the men following at a gallop. There was another volley from the rebels, but the shots were wild, their opportunity missed. He searched the trees, guided the horse through narrow openings, saw a cluster of officers, some directing blue troops into line, sending them toward the fields, saw now it was Appler. Sherman jerked the reins, wheeled the horse that way and Appler stared toward him with eyes that showed a man desperately afraid. Sherman’s mind was already in motion, far beyond the single moment, the single line of rebel troops.

“Colonel, hold your position! No retreat here! Do you understand?”

Appler seemed dumb with shock, did not respond. Sherman was already moving past him, knew there was no time for this, to soothe one man’s panic.

“I will send assistance! Hold here! Do not retreat!”

Sherman slowed the horse, a manic surge of thought, the face of Hildebrand, old man, useless. Where the hell is he? The others … Buckland, good man, Buckland should be here. He will hold any line. Appler still watched him, said nothing, and beside Appler, a man was pointing, a hard shout.

“The men are pulling back! It’s the rebels!”

Sherman turned, halted the horse, and he saw now the woods filling with Appler’s men, a hundred or more, others flowing back farther to the right. Sherman felt a cold sickness, the scene too familiar, a stab of memories from Bull Run. The musket fire drew closer, the men running past him now, unstoppable, and behind them, out in the broad field, the slow and steady pursuit, a vast, dense line of gray.

BAUER

SOUTHEAST OF SHILOH CHURCH
APRIL 6, 1862, 8:00 A.M.

H
e ran, stumbled, his feet slurping through mud, tried to push through the deepest part of the gulley. Around him, the others were moving past, some staggering through the dense woods, wrestling through tangles of vines and small trees. He fought past the mud, began to climb, the trees giving way, more open ground. He stopped, gasping, stared at the rows of tents, so familiar, realized they had made it back to their own camp. Others kept coming up from the ravine, pausing to catch their breath, others not stopping at all. One man ran straight into the side of a tent, seemed swallowed by the white canvas, punched his way through, screaming, terrified. Bauer wanted to stop the man, but his legs were heavy, frozen in place, his lungs burning with the remnants of smoke. He turned away from the crazed man, suddenly didn’t care, stared instead at where he had come from, the tree line that fell away. More of the Wisconsin men were climbing up, some without muskets, some with small wounds, one man holding his arm, crying as he ran past Bauer. The name came to him, Billy Walbridge, another of the men from Company A, and Bauer shouted to him, the man slowing, recognizing him, a single word through the sobs.

“Dutchie!”

“Stop running! This is our camp! Safe here!”

The man looked back to the trees, seemed to calm, looked now to his own wound, blood seeping through his fingers, a hard grip on his forearm.

“I’m shot, Dutchie! I’m gonna die!”

“No, you’re not! Just your arm. There’s a lot worse. The docs’ll fix you up for certain!”

Walbridge seemed to believe him, and Bauer tried to be reassuring, took the man’s arm, looked toward the tents, some place there might be bandages.

“Come on, we’ll find something to wrap that.”

“I’m gonna lose it, Dutchie! They’ll cut it off!”

“No they won’t. It’s just a small wound.”

He pulled Walbridge with him, pushed into the closest tent, searched frantically for anything to tie around the man’s arm. Walbridge yanked away from him, the man’s panic returning.

“We gotta keep moving, Dutchie! The
secesh
were right behind us! Can’t stay here!”

Bauer released the man’s arm, bent low to pull a shirt from a pile of clothes, and immediately, Walbridge was gone, out of the tent. Bauer felt a wave of despair, held up the shirt, useless gesture.

“This’ll work.”

He stepped out of the tent, more men running past, but there were officers now, a man on horseback, the sword high, and Bauer saw the red face, the hard shouts of Colonel Allen.

“Line up here! Form a line right here! Wisconsin men! Fight for your homes! For your families!”

Allen spun the horse, tried to head off some of the running men, others obeying him, the panic seeming to pass for some. There was a lieutenant, Smith, another man from the company, and he took up the colonel’s call, ran hard, grabbing men, turning them around. Some escaped him, but others stopped, seemed to regain something, as though they only needed someone to tell them what to do, someone in command. Bauer moved that way, close to Allen, who watched him briefly, pointed to him, shouted out, “Yes! Move up here! Form a line alongside this man!”

Bauer realized the colonel was talking about him, and he felt the weight of that, stood with the musket across his chest, others falling in beside him, the line growing. Men still surged up from the woods, most of them exhausted, more wounds, but there were muskets, and they responded to Allen, the man motioning with his sword, pulling his regiment together.

Bauer looked at the musket in his hand, suddenly had no idea if it was loaded. He had fired a half-dozen rounds, mostly wild, targets too far away, or no targets at all. Many had done the same, the massed line of rebel soldiers pressing into them in a wave far more powerful than anything Colonel Peabody could put in their way. Bauer looked at Allen, thought of Peabody, riding with a mad rush along the lines, doing all he could to form up some kind of stand against the rebel attack. They were too many, he thought. How could we do that? Just … stand there?

He had watched them come with stunned amazement, neat lines, the orderly march forward, flags and horsemen and drummers. The order had been passed down the line, one organized volley, but that had just made them blind, the smoke hiding the rebel advance. Some of the men had reloaded, one of the lieutenants, the same man he saw now, Smith, ordering them to fire at will. When the smoke began to clear, the rebels were that much closer, relentless, a volley of their own blowing through the thin lines of the men from Wisconsin and Missouri and Michigan. Some of the men close to him had returned fire, but the strength of the enemy was overwhelming, pushing closer step by step, another volley, vast sheets of flame and smoke and the sounds of musket balls whistling by, the sound of cracking bone. The line could not stand for long, and Bauer had tried to reload one more time, saw the faces of the enemy, ragged, filthy men, no uniforms but for the men on the horses. It was the faces that took away the last bit of courage, and he had turned with most of the men around him, every soldier sharing the sudden desperate need to run.

And now, he thought, we’re here. Like it never happened. He glanced back, his mind not quite believing that they had reached their own camp, strange, bizarre chance. He was convinced now, the musket was not loaded, no time, the last shot into smoke, blind and foolish and desperate. He pulled out a cartridge, the routine, the paper in his teeth, poured the powder down the barrel, realized that others were doing the same, following his lead. In front of him, more men came up from the woods, one dragging a bloody leg, helped by another man with a bloody face. Others came wearing unfamiliar insignia on their hats, and Bauer knew what that meant, that a great many men had separated from their units, the woods too thick for any kind of order. The colonel kept up his shouts, guided them into the thickening line, more lieutenants down the way, no one calling to their companies, no one concerned with who was in charge of what men.

The line stretched most of the way across the camp, some men down on one knee, trying to breathe, to gain control. The sergeants were taking position, following the calls of the officers, spreading out behind the men. But there were not many of either, and Bauer thought suddenly of Sergeant Williams, a very bad man, a dangerous man. Gone. He could not avoid the image of Captain Saxe, tumbling back from the horse, a horrible flash of memory he would never forget. His brain held to the sight of the horse, turning, as though surprised, his head down, poking the body of his master. Tears came now, Bauer trying to keep it away, the loss, the grief … even for the horse. What happened to him? Dead probably. And Patterson. The look of surprise there, too, wide eyes. This was
fun
to him. Maybe to some, it still is. He looked down the line, searched for Willis, had not seen him since they had run. He scanned the line, some men doing the same, staring back at him, searching faces, men calling out to one another. Allen kept up his shouts as well, hoarseness in the man’s voice, moving back and forth along the tree line, still pulling his men out of their panic. Now another horseman rode clear of the trees, one of the captains, Pease, Company D, and he moved up close to Allen, a brief, harsh conversation, Pease moving away quickly, to the far end of the line.

Bauer felt his breathing slow, the pounding in his chest not as frantic. He realized for the first time that the sounds had not stopped, that the steady roar of musket fire was still there, mostly to the right, the thunder of the artillery coming in rumbles, like the hard sounds of a storm. With the calm in the men around him, they all seemed to hear it, men looking that way, some asking aloud who that was, one lieutenant saying something about General Sherman. Allen rode past again, the line steady, prepared, and Bauer saw the blue soldiers still coming back through the woods, saw grim faces and hatred, the panic not so pronounced now. He knew, some instinctive voice inside him, that these men were different. He watched the faces, staring back at the line, and there was disgust and outrage, the men who stood together moving slowly toward this new line, Colonel Allen’s line with a look that put the words into Bauer’s mind. They didn’t run. They stayed out there and fought … and now they had to pull back … because we didn’t stand with them.

He saw another horseman, another of the commanders, his men following him up from the ravine in a column.
Orderly retreat
. Bauer said the words to himself, felt suddenly sick, dropped his head. What did you do, Fritz? You ran like a damn rabbit. He looked at those men, who filled in behind Allen’s line, adding strength, no one speaking but the men in charge. And now he saw Willis.

The small, thick man moved out of the trees holding another man under the arm, came toward the line with slow steady steps, moved toward Bauer, didn’t seem to see him, kept walking, through the line. Bauer turned, wanted to say something, to call out to him, watched as Willis laid the man down beside one of the tents. Then Willis stood, seemed to appraise the line, a glance at Colonel Allen, and then a glance at Bauer. His expression never changed, barely a hint of recognition, and Willis came toward him with slow steps, falling into line just behind Bauer. Bauer nodded to him, but there were no smiles, and Bauer was suddenly consumed by shame, knowing without asking him that Willis had stayed
out there
, had stood facing the enemy as long as anyone could. And Willis would know that Bauer did not.

He watched as Willis loaded his musket, then turned again to the front, saw Colonel Allen holding the horse steady in front of his men, and Allen said aloud, “Hold this line! This is your camp. In these tents are your belongings, your letters, everything you brought to this field. No one shall get through here! You men from Missouri, Michigan. You stand now with Wisconsin men. We welcome you, welcome your courage. We will get you back to your proper place in time. For now, we need you here. Until I am ordered to march you elsewhere, this is where we shall stand. The enemy could come at us from those trees … or from either end of this field. Be ready. Check your cartridge boxes. And keep your aim low!”

Allen turned suddenly in the saddle, drawn by something in the trees. Bauer felt his heart leap, heard a steady hum, but different, not musket fire. Just … men.

Allen spurred the horse, moved down to the far end of the line, seemed to know exactly what was happening. Bauer stared at the trees, nothing to see, but the noises were more distinct, and from close beside him, a voice, low words.

“Drums.”

Bauer felt a shiver, checked the percussion cap on his musket, glanced down the line at the lieutenant closest to him, saw the man drawing his pistol, turning toward the line, a quick shout, “Be ready, men!”

There was a nervous rumble from the men, anticipation, the drums still seeming to be far away, no kind of threat. But Bauer had already learned about sounds on this ground, that the woods and the hills masked and distorted everything. His breathing came in short, hard surges, his heart beating heavily, and he felt sweat on his face, stinging his eyes, had not paid any attention to the skies, not since the stars had gone away. He glanced up now, blue and beautiful, the sun on his back, and climbing higher above the distant trees at the far side of the camp. His brain made a note of that, west … we’re looking west. That’s where the enemy is. The river … is east.

The motion in the tree line was sudden and surprising, a flag first, then hats and faces, and slowly, the chests and legs coming up as well. The rebels were climbing up from the ravine Bauer had crossed, seemed to rise up from the earth itself. They were tired, angry men, suffering the same weariness as the men they pursued. Down the line, a musket fired, then another, one rebel returning fire. The lieutenants shouted out, stopping it, making the effort to hold the men as one, keeping control. In a few seconds the rebel line had emerged up from the woods, had gathered itself, facing the men in blue less than a hundred yards apart. Bauer stared at them, staring back at him, and now the drums were louder, driving more of the rebel troops before them. Bauer felt the panic again, the weakness, helplessness, the musket too small, useless, and now the order came, from both sides, the muskets rising up, a massive eruption of fire and smoke across the narrow space.