A Blaze of Glory (28 page)

The rebel volley took away pieces of the line around him, but there was no time to look, the order coming to reload, while the line of men behind Bauer fired their volley in quick succession. The routine was automatic, and he didn’t notice any of it, knew only that his musket was reloaded. Across the flat ground, the rebels still held their line, but many men were down, some twisting in the short grass. The volleys had no rhythm now, scattered bursts, and Bauer raised the musket, frantic, his hands shaking, fired again, heard the shouts of the lieutenant, “Aim low! Fire at will! Aim low!”

Bauer heard the hard concussion in his ears as the muskets behind him fired, the muzzle blasts too close, deafening. He flinched, struggled to load the musket again, dropped the cartridge, fumbled through the box, grabbed another, the routine repeated. He raised the musket, thick smoke, no targets, waited, the musket heavier in his arms. The smoke was drifting, thinning, and he saw an opening, aimed, thought,
low
, saw legs, pointed there, fired, more smoke blinding him. There were shouts down the line, and the lieutenant was moving closer to him, a strange cheer.

“They’re pulling back! We drove them off!”

The musket fire continued, but it began to slow, scattered pops, the smoke drifting away again. He caught a glimpse of men, dropping down, hidden by the slope, the rebels pulling away into the trees. Men began to cheer, hats in the air, but Allen was there, his shouts drowning them out.

“Stand ready! They’ll be back! See to the wounded! Make sure every man standing has a musket!”

The colonel spurred the horse, moved farther down the line, repeated the order. Bauer looked to the ground on both sides, a half-dozen men down, a bloody scalp, one man holding his shoulder, soft cries. Another man dropped low, tending to the wound, and he ripped the man’s shirt from his back, swift efficient motion, wrapped the wound. Bauer looked at the others, another man motionless, two men rolling him over in the grass, then backing away, the wound obvious and deadly.

Now the drums came again, startling him, and the lieutenants resumed the shouts, Allen again, moving past quickly, and suddenly Allen was down, tumbling, rolling on the trampled ground. Bauer felt a hard shock, but the colonel pulled himself up, an aide, others, rushing to him. Bauer saw the horse now, blood in a gush from the horse’s chest. From somewhere behind, another horseman came, jumped down, handed the reins to the colonel, and in a few seconds, as though the change of mounts had been rehearsed, Allen was up again, in the saddle, slapped his hat against his legs, jammed it back on his head.

There was no need for orders, the woods coming alive with movement again, but more this time, not just in front, but down to the left, more flags, horsemen. In front of Bauer, the flags came as well, the figure of a horseman, and immediately muskets began to fire near Bauer, the horseman falling away. But the rebels came as before, rising up in a heavy line, and Bauer glanced down to the left, more rebels coming from that way, many more. There was scattered firing from that end of the blue line, the rebels too far away, a voice in his head guiding his eyes straight ahead. He looked again to the front, toward the rebels coming up closest to him, ignored the lieutenant, watched until they were in full view, raised the musket, aimed at legs, slow and steady rhythm, and he saw muddy boots stepping toward him, fired. The others around him did the same, more of the blinding smoke, but there was no return fire, and quickly the second line opened up behind him, more smoke and the sharp ringing in his ears, but still no response from the rebels. He hurried the reloading, furious at the smoke, raised the musket, waited for a target, painful seconds, and now a man was there, close in front of him, running hard toward him, a sharp scream, the bayonet …

Bauer pulled the trigger, the man tumbling down, but the smoke could not hide the others. They moved toward the blue line in a rapid wave, and now there was a new sound, rising above the roar of the muskets, a high scream rolling over them from an enemy who had different orders, who did not form up and fire their volleys in neat succession. Bauer saw another man running at him, a knife in the man’s hand, huge and deadly, and Bauer dropped down, the man’s momentum carrying him over, and Bauer stood quickly, the man falling hard behind him, screaming out suddenly with a hard cry, and Bauer saw a bayonet in the man’s chest, the grim face of Willis pinning the man down. The bayonet emerged now, a squirting fountain of blood, Willis staring down, red fury in his eyes, and Willis jammed the bayonet into the man again, pressed his foot into the man’s stomach, pulled it out once more. The lieutenant was there now, moving past, a hard shout into Bauer’s face, “Too many of them! We’re flanked! We have to pull out!
Retreat!
”

The screams were close and manic, rebel troops lunging straight into the blue line, while to one side, another battle line rose up from the ravine there, a surge of bayonets pouring hard into Allen’s left flank. The orders came in hot shouts, but to the men in blue who had tried to stand tall, to hold their ground, the orders meant nothing at all. The weight that came over them crushed and dissolved the blue line, and those men who could run began flowing back through their camp, their own tents, moving eastward, toward the hot glare of the sun.

SHERMAN

NEAR SHILOH CHURCH APRIL 6, 1862, 9:30 A.M.

H
e understood now just what was happening. The high-pitched scream of the rebel troops was everywhere, rising up from every low place, spreading through the fields and thickets of trees across his entire division. Almost immediately, Appler’s 53rd Ohio had broken, streaming past him in a panic that brought more of the terrible memories of Bull Run. Their eyes told the story, madness infecting every man as though each one felt his own devil in close pursuit. As the rebel attack pressed closer, Sherman sent his couriers all along the lines, trying to keep some sort of communications with his brigade commanders, but very quickly the front line was no line at all. For an hour or more, the roar of the firing seemed to surge in and out like the twisting body of some great bloody snake. He had heard nothing at all from Hildebrand, but the chaotic scamper of men from that part of the field was a message all its own. He had always known that Hildebrand was no leader, a gasping frustration that Sherman knew he could have changed, that there had been time and enough doubts for him to replace a man who had no business on the line. From all that Sherman could gather, Appler’s regiment had fled the field completely, led by Appler himself, a gaping hole in Hildebrand’s line that was spreading panic through that entire brigade, a brigade that was supposed to hold the center of Sherman’s position.

He kept three staff officers close to him, rode quickly through the trees, emerging into another of the smoky fields, stopped, stared, nothing to see but masses of troops, sheets of flame from a thousand muskets, his ears ringing from the hard thunder of his own batteries. He saw one of them now, a cluster of six cannon spread out among a stand of tall trees, shouted back to his staff, “That way! We need every battery up here! Anchor them in line with those men! Move!”

The courier moved away, orders Sherman could only trust, had no idea himself where more of the batteries would be. But someone would know, someone farther down, someone who had not yet tasted the panic of the forward lines. They rode toward the trees through smoke that made him cough, the steady clip and zing of the musket balls in the air, like so many deadly bees. Out of the smoke came a horse, riderless, as panicked as the men who followed it, scampering back through the battery Sherman was trying to reach. The horse nearly collided with his own, seemed to be blind, bloody eyes, sickening, his own horse rising up, as though sharing the beast’s agony. Sherman pulled hard on the reins, slapped the horse’s neck, forced a low voice, “Easy. We’re good here. I need you to do the job.”

The horse seemed to calm, responding to his control, the one hand holding tight to the reins, his wounded hand wrapped in a bloody white handkerchief. He tried to ignore that, felt no pain, the bandage a bulky inconvenience, little else. The staff was close behind him, and he avoided their faces, did not want to see any sign of panic, knew that even the veterans, Sanger, Hammond, any one of the couriers could suddenly come apart, unable to hold away the terror from the men who continued to run in scattered chaos across the open ground. He searched the smoke for the battery again, saw the guns firing in unison, good work, men standing together, no panic there.

“This way!”

He led them into the trees, the artillerymen oblivious to him, focusing instead on some target Sherman couldn’t see. He saw their officer, a very young lieutenant, the man off his horse, running back and forth, orders shouted to his men, the officer obeying his own commands, assisting his men, the guns loaded quickly, erupting again. The lieutenant saw Sherman now, no salute, just a sharp nod, fire in the man’s eyes. Sherman knew he had to keep moving, to find the other commanders, their couriers, but something held him, the power of these guns, the efficiency of the men who worked them. He moved the horse behind the battery, halted the animal, the horse leaping upward when the guns fired again. Smoke blanketed the open ground, but through the gaps he could see movement, a thick cloud of dark forms, coming toward them through the smoke. He said aloud, to no one, “It’s them. They’re coming.”

He shouted now, caught the attention of the artillery officer, who turned to him, impatient, work to be done.

“Keep up your fire! I will find you reinforcements … infantry! You must hold here!”

“We will hold!”

The lieutenant spun away, the gun crews loading again, ramrods and bags of powder and iron shoved hard into red-hot barrels. The lanyards came up now, each gun with a man at the breech, waiting with desperate impatience, no one needing the order. The guns erupted one more time, near-perfect rhythm, a vast sea of flame and gray smoke blowing out into the oncoming rebels. Sherman was blind again, stared into nothing but screams, but the sounds were closing, the enemy still advancing. There was a fresh chorus of the sharp, high yell, what could only be an all-out charge. He searched for the lieutenant, saw him manning one of his guns, standing over the body of his own bloody crewman, the lanyard in the officer’s hand. The rest of his crew worked furiously to reload their gun, and Sherman could feel the man’s impatience, urged them on in his mind,
Hurry up, damn you
, couldn’t help a furious anger even at these men, men who had done nothing but fight. The crewman with the ramrod stood aside, the gun ready, the lieutenant tightening the lanyard, and the man seemed to shudder, curling over, falling, still gripping the lanyard, his fall pulling it taut, the gun erupting. Sherman stared for a long second, absorbed the scene, the man’s crew pausing, motionless, one man bending low, a corporal, touching the officer’s shoulder, a brief look, disbelief, shock, then the corporal was up again, shouted to the crews, taking command, more of the orders they already knew.

Through the smoke, the rebels were closer, and Sherman saw a dense line of men no more than fifty yards away, advancing toward the guns. They seemed to pause, uncertain, stepping over their own dead, and Sherman stared at them, orders racing through his mind, what should be done, if only there was infantry … order them forward, right now! The enemy is shaken, exhausted, afraid, maybe their officers are down. But the guns in front of him fired again, a jolting surprise, and the mass of rebels vanished, their high-pitched yell suddenly silent. He stared through the smoke, ordered it away with hard profanity, had to see,
must
see … and now, the air clearing, and all across the muzzles of the guns there was a mass of filth, heaps of shattered men, some squirming, many others in pieces. Yes! Damn them! We will kill every damn one of them!

The gun crews kept to their duty, men scampering back to the limbers behind Sherman, bringing up more of the powder, more lead, and now a new sound, off to one side, coming closer, faster. It came from far down in the woods, a place he couldn’t see, no time to look, the shriek coming down with a shimmering whistle, a shell toppling downward, impacting behind him, the limber igniting, a hard blast that threw Sherman forward, jolting his horse. The horse dropped to its forelegs, and Sherman reacted with instinct, knew to jump aside, that the horse was going to topple. He rolled away, the horse coming down close beside him, a thick blotch of blood on its torn flank. Sherman looked away, would not see the death of the animal, felt hands under him, helping him up, shouts from his aides. Several of the horses from the limbers were loose now, and quickly one was snatched close, one of the couriers jumping from his mount, climbing up on the horse without a saddle. The man’s own horse was given to Sherman now, and he nodded a sharp
thank you
, saw the man fumbling with the leather straps of the draft horse, making do. Sherman looked again to the gunners, fewer now, some shot down, others simply … gone. Those who were left began to back away, one man grabbing the horses at another of the limbers, yanking hard on the bridles, pulling them forward, closer to his gun. Sherman knew what it meant, that the man was trying to hitch the lone cannon, a desperate attempt to save at least one of the artillery pieces. Sherman looked to his staff … help him … but the man stared out toward a new line of rebels, advancing quickly, and Sherman felt a stab of fear, the same fear that had spread through the gun crews.

The artilleryman seemed to understand his own helplessness, the danger immediate, and so the man released the horses, disappeared as well, a quick scamper back into the trees, making his escape. Sherman pulled back on the horse’s reins, nothing else to do, a last glance to the front, empty cannon pointing at ground spread thick with the bodies of the enemy. But still more were coming, stepping past their own, some of them stopping, one group staring at the cluster of bluecoated officers. Many more could see only the guns, were energized by the prize, made a glorious dash toward the precious cannon that were theirs for the taking. The musket fire blew past him, and Sherman turned the horse, spurred hard, the animal responding, the staff following as he sped into the cover of the trees. They climbed a narrow rise, a vantage point, and he halted the horse, spun around, the others reaching him, gathering. He ignored them, more fury in his brain, thought of Buckland, now the center of his division. He will hold. He
has
to hold. But Hildebrand … the left …

“How far to General Prentiss?”

No one responded, and Sherman looked at them now, Sanger reacting.

“A half mile or more, sir! If he’s holding!”

Sherman stared that way, blind again, trees and ravines and brushy thickets, no vantage point good enough.
Prentiss
. Good man, I hope. If you break … we are flanked completely.

“Sir! A rider!”

Sherman ignored the call, had seen too many riders, most of them moving the wrong way. But the man reined up close to him, dirty sweat on the man’s face, a young captain.

“Sir … respects from General McClernand. He has ordered a brigade to fill the gap to your left. The general believes you require assistance in maintaining a solid front. There is an opening between your left and General Prentiss—”

“Shut up, Captain! I know where we are, and I know what’s happening on my left!”

He was angry at everyone, everything, hated McClernand for so many rumors of the man’s drunkenness. But his brain absorbed the young captain’s words, and he forced himself to understand, had no idea what was happening with Buckland, where Prentiss’s flank began. The words rolled through his brain, a flash of clarity. McClernand was doing exactly the right thing.

“Where is General McClernand?”

The captain flinched at the fury in Sherman’s voice, as though expecting Sherman to hit him.

“I don’t know, sir! Back … there! He has observed the collapse of your lines …”

The words struck Sherman like a heavy fist.

“My lines are holding, boy! You tell McClernand that we will make our stand or die trying.” He paused, realized he was shaking, his hands pulling hard on the reins, the horse protesting with a hard shake of its head, a stab of pain piercing Sherman’s wounded hand. He glanced at his staff, saw his own couriers, said to Sanger, “Send word to General Prentiss! Make sure he knows we have secured his right flank!”

He saw uncertainty, questions, knew what was coming.

“I don’t know where the hell he is! Just find him!”

He turned again to the captain, saw the man looking past him, toward the sound of the fight, louder now, and Sherman looked that way, could not help staring into the spreading roar of a new assault. Damn them! Damn them to hell! He looked to the captain again, said, “Return to General McClernand. Offer him my respects and tell him …
request
that he maintain his vigilance. We may require more … assistance.” He paused, the roar of the battle still growing, closer, massive noise. “Tell General McClernand he should prepare to receive the enemy.”

The man saluted him, Sherman returning it, already looking away, searching for something, getting his bearings, a glance at smoky sky.

“We will return to the church! There may be couriers all over these damn woods looking for me. That’s where we have to be, the headquarters.” The words came fast in his brain. That’s where we
have
to be. It’s where we
have
to hold.