The Bozeman Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Yes, sir, indeed it is, sir,” the sergeant said. “Would the lieutenant like some coffee?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Abner replied. Abner turned back the cloth and selected a drumstick. He had just taken a bite when he heard a commotion in the living room of the house. He nodded toward the sound. “What’s going on out there?”

  “The general has called all the other generals to a meeting,” the sergeant said. “I don’t know what it’s about, though, because I didn’t get invited.” The sergeant laughed at his own joke.

  “Well, I didn’t, either, but I think I’ll just take a peek,” Abner said.

  Holding his coffee cup in one hand and his piece of chicken in the other, Abner stepped into the open door frame, then stood there, just out of the way, watching as Generals Beauregard, Bragg, Polk, Hardee, and Breckinridge attended General Johnston’s conference.

  There were not enough places for all the generals and their executive officers to sit, so Beauregard, who was second in command only to Johnston, disdained a chair or a place on the sofa, to sit on the floor near the fireplace. When several officers of lesser rank offered their own seats, Beauregard waved them off, insisting that he was quite comfortable where he was.

  “Gentlemen,” Johnston said when all were assembled, “while I have guarded against an uncertain offensive, I am now of the opinion that we should entice the enemy into an engagement as soon as possible, before he can further increase his numbers.”

  “General, I think we should strike at Pittsburg Landing right now, while the Yankees are engaged in off-loading their boats,” Bragg suggested. “They haven’t built any fortifications, and my scouts tell me they’ve set up tents, just as if they were on parade.”

  “An attack of the kind you propose is exactly what the Yankees are counting on,” Beauregard said.

  “What do you mean?” Bragg asked.

  “Think about it, Braxton,” Beauregard replied. “Why are they setting up tents? Why have they built no fortifications? Because they are hoping to draw us out in a bold and foolish attack.”

  “Do you think boldness is inappropriate?” General Johnston asked.

  “Not at all, General,” Beauregard replied. “But I think boldness should be tempered with caution. I prefer a defensive offense.”

  “You talk in riddles, sir,” Bragg said, and the other generals laughed.

  “Yes, General, perhaps you would share with us what you mean,” Johnston said.

  Beauregard stood up, brushed off the back of his trousers, and cleared his throat. “I think we should take up a position that would compel the enemy to develop his intentions to attack us. Then, when he is within striking distance of us, we should go on the offensive and crush him, cutting him off, if possible, from his base of operations at the river. If we could then force a surrender from such a large army, the North would have no choice but to sue for peace. We could win the entire war, right here, right now.”

  The others all began speaking at once, and Johnston had to hold up his hand to quiet them.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, I appreciate your suggestions and ideas, but as I am in command here, the ultimate responsibility rests with me. General Beauregard, your contention that we could win the war right here is a good one. That is why we must not let the opportunity slip out of our grasp. But I believe General Bragg’s suggestion offers us the greatest chance for success. I believe it is imperative that we strike now, before the enemy’s rear gets up from Nashville. We have him divided, and we should keep him so if we can.”

  Johnston’s word was final, so there was no further argument on that subject. The discussion then turned to the plan of battle, and in this, Johnston decided to form the army into three parallel lines, the distance between the lines to be one thousand yards. Hardee’s corps was to form the first line, Bragg’s the second. The third would be composed of Polk on the left and Breckinridge on the right.

  “As second in command, General Beauregard will coordinate your efforts. Gentlemen, please have your elements in position by seven o’clock in the morning. We shall begin the attack at eight.”

  There was a buzz of excited conversation as, for a few moments, the generals discussed the orders with each other.

  “And now, I am certain that you all have staff meetings to conduct, so I release you to return to your units,” Johnston said by way of dismissal.

  The assembled officers stood and saluted as one. Then they trooped outside, clumped across the porch, and mounted their horses to return to their units. Beauregard stayed behind.

  Abner had watched it all from his position in the doorway, so fascinated by being a witness to the actual battle plans that he forgot all about being hungry. His half-eaten piece of chicken was still in his hand, and the coffee in his cup was getting cool.

  Johnston stayed in the front door for a long time after the others left. He hung his head, almost as if praying, and during that time Beauregard said nothing. The only sound in the room was the popping and snapping of the wood fire burning briskly in the fireplace.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the sergeant said quietly, and Abner stepped out of the way as Sergeant Cooper, carrying coffee, moved into the living room to give each of the generals a fresh cup.

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” General Beauregard said.

  The sergeant left and Abner realized that he, too, should leave. After all, this was a private moment between the two top commanders in the field. Yet it was that very thing, the fact that he was an observer to such a private moment, that kept him glued to his position in the doorway. His presence was either not noticed, or was unobtrusive enough to cause no problem, for neither Johnston nor Beauregard indicated that he should leave.

  The coffee was hot, and Johnston sucked it noisily through extended lips.

  “Gus, I’ve drunk coffee around hundreds of fires on dozens of campaigns over the years, but I tell you now, tomorrow will be my last,” Johnston finally said.

  Beauregard looked up with a startled expression on his face. “Why, General, whatever do you mean?”

  “I fear I will not survive the battle tomorrow.”

  General Beauregard tried to dismiss Johnston’s statement with a laugh. “General, you’ve been in battle before. You know that every man, be he general or private, feels fear.”

  Johnston shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. The funny thing is, I have no fear. I am certain that I shall be killed, and with that certainty has come the biblical ‘peace that sur passeth all understanding.’ I can’t explain it to you, Gus. It is something you must feel, though you can’t feel it until you are facing the same situation.”

  “But you can’t know with a certainty,” Beauregard argued. “The hour of his death is known to no man.”

  “Until it is upon you, Gus. Then you know. Then you know,” Johnston repeated quietly, as if talking to himself.

  Beauregard made no further efforts to dissuade General Johnston. Instead he just put down his coffee and left quietly by the front door. Abner felt now that he, too, was somehow intruding upon a very private moment, so he turned and walked back into the kitchen, leaving General Albert Sidney Johnston alone with his thoughts.

  “Sergeant Cooper, where does the general’s aide sleep?” he asked.

  “He generally just finds a place, Lieutenant,” Sergeant Cooper said. He pointed to one corner of the kitchen. “If I was you, I’d just throw down a bedroll over there.”

  “Thanks, I guess I will,” Abner said.

  As Johnston’s army maneuvered into position early the next morning, an abrupt April thun derstorm broke over the winding columns. The rain filled hat brims, flowed down the soldiers’ backs, and drummed into puddles on the dirt trails. Wagon and artillery wheels cut through rain-soaked roads, turning them into muddy quagmires that caked up on the wheels and gathered in great mud balls on the shoes of the marching soldiers, making every inch of progress most difficult. The army moved, when it moved at all, in jerky, halting operations. Periodic
ally they would stop for long periods of time while the men stood, made miserable by the falling rain. Then the army would lurch into movement that would inevitably cause the trailing columns to have to break into a difficult and exhausting trot just to keep up.

  Scattered on both sides of the road during all this were the discarded items of soldiers on the march: overcoats, shovels, rain-soaked playing cards, letters, newspapers, and even Bibles.

  Finally the army was called to a halt so that General Johnston’s orders, which by now had been transcribed into a score or more copies, could be read to the various regiments. Abner had delivered a copy to Colonel Culpepper and he stood in the rain with the others listening, as Culpepper read them aloud, shielding the orders from the rain by holding his hat over the piece of paper on which they were written.

  “Soldiers of the Army of the Mississippi,” the colonel read. Then clearing his voice, he moved into the body of the orders:

  “I have put into motion to offer battle to the invaders of your country. With the resolution and disciplined valor becoming men fighting, as you are, for all worth living and dying for, you can but march to a decisive victory over the agrarian mercenaries sent to subjugate and despoil you of your liberties, property, and honor. Remember the precious stake involved; remember the dependence of your mothers, your wives, your sisters, and your children on the result; remember the fair, broad, abounding land, the happy homes, and the ties that would be desolated by your defeat.

  “The eyes and hopes of eight millions of people rest upon you. You are expected to show yourselves worthy of your race and lineage, worthy of the women of the South, whose noble devotion in the war has never been exceeded in any time. With such incentives to brave deeds, and with the trust that God is with us, your generals will lead you confidently to the combat, assured of success.”

  After finishing reading, the colonel looked up. “And it is signed by A.S. Johnston, General.”

  “Hip, hip!” someone shouted.

  “Hoorah!” his call was answered.

  Having delivered the orders to the commanding officer of his old regiment, Abner exchanged a few pleasantries with his friends and returned to General Johnston’s headquarters.

  Although it had been General Johnston’s intention to have the men in position by seven and begin the attack by eight, eight o’clock came and passed with the Southern columns still bogged down in the stop-and-go marching that had thus far marked their progress on the muddy arteries that were the roads.

  General Bragg, a West Point graduate and hero of the Mexican War, was beside himself with consternation. One of his divisions was lost somewhere in the rain on the jammed, muddy roads, and the lateness of his corps was causing the entire operation to dissolve.

  Beauregard was riding him mercilessly, and though Bragg had done everything within his power to keep to the schedule, he made no excuses to General Beauregard because he knew that the ultimate responsibility lay with the commander. And as Bragg must suffer the tirade from Beauregard, so too would Beauregard hear from Johnston, who, in turn, was ultimately responsible to the governors of Tennessee, Mississippi, and Alabama, as well as to Jefferson Davis and the Confederate Congress.

  As the men began reaching their positions, the sun finally came out. By the time it made its first appearance, however, it was already high in the sky, for the eight o’clock deadline had long since passed. The men, fearful that the rain may have dampened the powder in their rifles, began testing the powder by snapping the triggers. As a result, all up and down the line their muskets popped and banged, well within earshot of the Union outposts.

  In addition, the untrained and untested men who made up the Confederated army had their spirits so invigorated by the warming sun that, excited at the prospect of the battle and glory that lay before them, they began giving a series of Rebel yells. Some started shooting rabbits and doves to cook for their lunch, justifiable in their minds because most had eaten their three days’ of rations in the first day.

  For two more dragging hours, Generals Johnston and Beauregard stood by as Bragg continued to bring up his corps. By now the sun was straight overhead, but the rear division was still nowhere to be seen.

  “General Bragg,” General Johnston said, “we are waiting.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Where is your division?”

  “I’m not certain, General,” Bragg said. He pointed south. “It’s back there, somewhere. The mud, the crowded roads . . .” He stopped in midsentence. Since the others had had to put up with the same conditions, the excuse sounded feeble, even to his own ears.

  General Johnston took out his watch and looked at it.

  “It is twelve-thirty,” he said. He snapped the watch shut and put it back in his pocket. “This is perfectly puerile! This is not war!”

  It took two more hours for Bragg’s lost division to come up front, and two more hours beyond that for it to be put into position. By that time it was four-thirty in the afternoon and the shadows were growing longer.

  Suddenly there was the unmistakeable sound of a drummer giving the long roll. General Beauregard put his hand to his head in consternation. “Is there to be no respite from the bungling?”

  Looking around, he saw Abner.

  “Lieutenant Murback, would you please find the idiot who is beating that drum and silence him?” he commanded.

  “Yes, sir,” Abner replied.

  Once mounted, Abner rode down the line toward the sound of the beating drum. When he reached a point quite near it, he stopped and summoned a sergeant.

  “Sergeant, I want you to find whoever is banging on that drum and have it stopped at once,” he ordered.

  To his surprise, the sergeant, and several of the men around him laughed.

  “What is so funny?” Abner asked, irritated at the unexpected response.

  “Don’t rightly know how I’m goin’ to get that drum stopped, Lieutenant,” the sergeant replied. “Seein’ as it’s over to the Yankee camp.”

  “The Yankee camp?”

  “Yes, sir. I can walk over there’n tell the little feller to stop, but like as not he won’t pay no attention to me,” the sergeant joked, and again the men laughed.

  “Never mind, Sergeant,” Abner said, laughing with him. He looked across the woods toward the sound of the drum. “I doubt he would even pay attention to General Beauregard. Very well, men, carry on as you were.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, still smiling at the joke.

  Abner returned to General Beauregard to give him the news that they were listening to a Yankee drum.

  “Well, that does it, then,” Beauregard said. “If we can hear them, there’s no doubt they have heard us.”

  General Johnston was speaking with General Polk. Polk had been Johnston’s roommate at West Point. More recently he had been ordained an Episcopal bishop; as a result, he was referred to as “the Bishop” fully as often as he was called General.

  “There is no longer any chance of surprise. By now the Yankees will be entrenched up to their ears,” Beauregard said.

  “So, what are you telling me, Gus?” Johnston asked.

  “I’m suggesting that you might want to reconsider the attack order, General. Perhaps we would be better served by withdrawing to Corinth to strengthen our own defenses and let the Yankees bring the fight to us.”

  “No, no, I strongly disagree,” General Polk said. “Our troops are most eager for battle. Consider this, gentlemen. They left Corinth to fight, and if they don’t fight, they will be as demoralized as if they had been whipped.”

  “I totally agree,” General Bragg said. “We can’t even consider withdrawal now.”

  “Funny you should say that, General Bragg, as it was your delay that has put us into this situation,” Beauregard reminded him.

  “I apologize for the disruption in plans my corps caused,” Bragg said. “I make no excuses, but I do apologize.”

  General Breckinridge rode into ca
mp then and, when he dismounted, was surprised to learn that the impromptu war council he had happened upon was even contemplating withdrawal.

  “What is your opinion, General?” Johnston asked Breckinridge after outlining the situation for him.

  “Gentlemen, I say we attack. Speaking for myself, I would as soon be defeated as retire from the field without a fight.”

  “Well, that leaves us only Hardee to hear from,” Beauregard said.

  Breckinridge chuckled. “Hell, Gus, you know where Bill stands on this. He’s already deployed and eager for battle. If he were here, he would vote to attack.”

  “Then it looks to me as if the vote is in,” Jonshton said, “and there’s no doubt as to the way it has gone. The attack is still on.”

  “Now? With darkness nearly upon us?” Beauregard asked. “Do you intend to launch a night attack?”

  “No, we would have no means of control during such an attack. We will go at first light tomorrow,” Johnston said. “Gentlemen, once all your troops are in position, put them at ease and have them sleep on their arms in line of battle. At least tomorrow we will have no unexpected delays in arrival.”

  “General, there is one more thing you should consider,” Beauregard said, not yet ready to give up his argument.

  “What is that?” Johnston asked.

  “General Buell,” Beauregard said, referring to the Union general arriving from Nashville. “He has, in all likelihood, joined with the others by now, and if so, that would bring the number of men arrayed against us to nearly seventy thousand or more.”

  “The attack order stands,” Johnston replied.

  “Very good, sir. I will see that everyone gets the word,” Beauregard said. The decision having been made, Beauregard was, once more, the loyal subordinate.

  Beauregard and the other generals left to attend to their various duties. Johnston watched them ride away, then he turned to Abner, who had listened with great interest to the entire discussion. Abner could see the look of determination in General Johnston’s eyes.