The Bozeman Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “You were listening to our conversation?” Johnston asked Abner.

  “Yes, General.”

  “You understand, don’t you, Lieutenant Murback? We have no choice but to attack. We have given away too much ground as it is, and now the Yankees are on our very doorstep. If we don’t stop them here, they will occupy all of the South within six months including . . . where is it you are from? Texas?”

  “Yes, sir. Bexar County, Texas.”

  “Then you understand why we must stop them here. General Beauregard is worried because their numbers may be seventy thousand? Hell, I would attack if they were a million.” He was silent for a moment longer, then, inexplicably, he chuckled. “But don’t worry, my young friend. Ultimately, the numbers are unimportant. Like us, the Yankees are spread out between Lick Creek and Owl Creek, and they can present no greater front between those two creeks than we can. In fact, the more men they crowd in there, the more difficult it would be for them to maneuver, and the worse we can make it for them.”

  Johnston was silent for a long moment, then he looked at Abner. “All the boys from your county came, I suppose?”

  “No, sir,” Abner said. “We had some who stayed back, some of my closest friends in fact. They’re not cowards, either, because I’ve seen them fight against Mexicans and outlaws. It’s just that, they say they don’t believe in this war.”

  “But you came,” Johnston said. “You believe in this war?”

  “I don’t know if I can answer that question, General. If I thought I was just fighting so rich men could keep their slaves, why, I don’t think I would be here, either. I think it’s more than that, maybe something like honor and duty, and love of one’s land. It’s more complicated than I can understand, but . . . here I am.”

  “Were there bands playing, flags flying, and pretty girls waving when you left?” Johnston asked.

  Abner grinned broadly. “Yes, sir, there surely was that,” he said proudly.

  “I’m glad,” Johnston said. He was quiet for a long moment before he spoke again. “After this battle, the country’s mood is going to change. Never again will men go off to war with bands playing, flags waving, and women throwing flowers at marching troops. We are in for a day or two of bloodletting the likes of which this nation has never seen. It will change our way of looking at war forever.”

  Johnston wandered off several steps, and Abner knew that he wanted to be by himself. Respecting the general’s need for privacy, Abner pulled some cold jerky from his saddlebag, walked over to an exposed root, and sat down to have his supper.

  Chapter Six

  San Antonio, Texas

  Saturday, April 5, 1862:

  The Oasis was much less crowded now than it had been before the regiment left. That was understandable since business had been exceptionally good over the last several weeks. Young men had come, not only from the surrounding ranches, but also from all over Texas to be a part of the regiment. Consequently, as the regiment was forming, the new recruits spent many evenings in the saloon, talking loudly of deeds of daring as yet undone.

  With the departure of the regiment, most of the saloon’s customers were gone. There remained only those men who were too old to serve, and a few young men who, for one reason or another, had refused to go with the others.

  On this particular day, four of the young men who did not leave with the regiment were sitting around a table in the Oasis Saloon. The four were James Cason, Bob Ferguson, Billy Swan, and Duke Faglier. Although Duke had arrived in San Antonio only a few months earlier, he had already formed a friendship with James, Bob, and Billy.

  Nobody knew much about Duke, for he was a very quiet-spoken young man. James was curious about his new friend’s past, but would never presume to question him.

  “Has anyone heard from the regiment?” Billy Swan asked.

  “Pa said that Mr. Murback got a letter from Abner,” James said. “The letter came from somewhere in Louisiana.”

  “Are they fightin’ in Louisiana?” Bob asked.

  “According to the letter they hadn’t seen any fighting yet. They were just marching every day. He said he thought they might be going up to Tennessee.”

  The men were silent for a long moment, then James spoke again.

  “This is turning out to be a lot harder than I thought it would be,” James admitted.

  “What is?” Bob asked.

  “Staying behind while all our friends have gone to war. Knowing that they are facing dangers while we are safe at home.”

  “You aren’t having second thoughts, are you?” Bob asked.

  “I don’t like the way others look at us, or what they think of of us. And I don’t fault them for their opinions. But as for the war? No, I’m not having second thoughts. No good can come of this war, and I don’t want to have anything to do with it.”

  “I agree that no good can come of this war,” Bob said. “But I must confess that I feel a little like you. I feel guilty about being at home while all the others our age, and some much older, are doing our fighting for us.”

  “That’s just it, though,” James said. “I don’t really feel that they are fighting for me. This isn’t my cause.”

  “True. But it is our state. Also, there is something to be said for the glory of battle.”

  “There is no glory in battle,” Duke said, emphatically. It was his first comment on the subject, and he punctuated his statement with a swallow of his beer.

  In the few months the others had known him, this was the most resolute statement Duke had ever made.

  “Oh, come, Duke, are you saying you weren’t just a little stirred by the flags and drums and excitement?” Billy asked. “I don’t have any personal stake in this war, but I would be lying if I said I had absolutely no desire to test myself on the battlefield.”

  “Your first test would be to keep from soiling your britches,” Duke said.

  “Wait a minute!” Billy bristled. “Are you saying I would be afraid?”

  “That’s not what I mean by soiling your britches. It’s just that by the time the fighting starts, nearly everyone is suffering from camp diarrhea, and many a man embarrasses himself when the shooting begins. But yes, I’m sure you would be afraid. Although I’ve only known you a short time, you don’t strike me as a fool, Billy Swan, and anyone who isn’t afraid is a fool.”

  The others were quiet, giving way to Duke’s observations. He continued.

  “Then, when the fighting does start, you feel completely alone, even though you are in the middle of thousands of men. You think that every bullet, every exploding shell, every cannonball is coming straight for you.

  “But you learn you aren’t the only target when you have to step over the dead and dying; men lying on the ground with their guts spilling in the dirt, or with bloody stumps twitching uncontrollably where arms and legs once were. Finally, you realize that all the dead on that field are the same. It doesn’t matter whether they are Yanks or Rebs, they all speak the same language, pray to the same God, and die in the same mortal agony. They are your neighbors, friends”—Duke paused for a moment before he added softly—“and brothers.”

  Duke took a swallow of his beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, knowing that he had the complete attention of the others. “No, my friends,” he finished. “There is no glory in battle. And believe me, any guilt you may have about avoiding that madness is misplaced.”

  James, Bob, and Billy were totally shocked by the intensity of Duke’s comments. But if they were waiting on him to elaborate, they were disappointed, because he said nothing else.

  “So, you reckon Abner is going through all that, now?” Bob asked.

  “I reckon he is,” James said. He held up his glass. “To Abner,” he said.

  “And to everyone else caught up in this war,” Duke added.

  They drank the toast, then James sighed. “I agree with everything you said, Duke. Still, it’s going to be hard to hang around here and face our neighbors
. And as the war goes on, it’s going to be even harder.”

  “It won’t be hard if we aren’t here,” Billy suggested.

  “If we aren’t here? What do you mean? Are you suggesting that we should go somewhere?”

  “Yep,” Billy replied.

  “Where?”

  “Dakota Territory.”

  “Why do you want to go there?”

  Billy smiled, clasped his hands together, put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Gold,” he said, simply.

  “Gold?”

  “I got the news from a whiskey drummer this morning,” Billy said. “They’ve recently discovered gold in the Dakota Territory. They say it’s as big a strike as what happened in California a few years ago. Only thing is, the whole country is so caught up in this war that hardly nobody is paying attention to it.”

  “If that is true—” James started.

  “It is true,” Billy interrupted. “The drummer swears to it. In fact, he said he was giving up his sales job and was going up to Dakota himself.”

  “What do you think, James?” Bob asked. “You think maybe we ought to go up there and have a look around?”

  “Well, if you want my opinion,” Duke said before James could answer, “I think we would be fools not to. Think of how many people got rich out of the California strike, and who knows how many went out there. If everyone back here is caught up in the war, there won’t be that many people out there. That means our chances of getting a piece of that gold pie would be much better. And more importantly, the fewer the people, the larger that piece of pie will be.”

  “What do you say, James?” Bob asked again, his voice now hopeful.

  Though no one had elected James to the position, he was the unquestioned leader of the little group and everyone waited now to see what his response would be. They knew that, without his support, the adventure would be stillborn.

  James smiled broadly. “I say let’s do it,” he said.

  “Yeah!” Bob said, and the boys laughed and shook hands as they contemplated what lay before them.

  “Lord, wouldn’t Abner like to go with us, though?” James said.

  Corinth, Mississippi April 5, 1862:

  Though the day had begun with rain, it was ending now with a clear, red sunset, shining through oaks that were green with new growth. The moon, in crescent, rose in a dark blue twilight, then, finally, the sky darkened and the stars came out.

  Standing out on the porch of the house, Abner could hear faint bugle calls in the distance, and he looked toward the dark woods that separated the two armies. On the other side of the woods was the enemy. There, men dressed in blue were bedding down for one last night before the killing began.

  Whippoorwills called from the woods, and as Abner looked out across the field where the Confederate army was bivouacked he could see the glow of campfires around which men in gray, sharing the same language, culture, religion, history, and, in some cases, family as those in blue, waited for the events of tomorrow.

  Abner thought about what General Johnston had said with regard to the great bloodletting that was about to take place, then he thought about James Cason, Bob Ferguson, and Billy Swan, back home in Texas. They refused to come to war because they didn’t want to kill their own kin, or be killed by their own.

  Abner had a first cousin who lived in Illinois. Cephus Murback was the son of Abner’s father’s brother. Cephus and Abner were within a few weeks of being the same age; they were of the same name and same blood. Was Cephus on the other side of the line tonight? Could it be possible that, tomorrow, he would kill one of his own kin? Or be killed by one of his own kin?

  “God,” Abner prayed under his breath. “How have we let it all come to this?”

  The next morning, on Sunday, April 6, 1862, on the Mississippi-Tennessee border, near a small church meeting house called Shiloh, General Johnston commenced the battle that would, ever after, bear the name of the little meeting house.

  The attack met with immediate, initial success as the Union lines sagged and crumpled and Union troops fled to safety under the bluff along the river. A few brave Union soldiers held on at a place called the “Hornet’s Nest,” though at a terrible cost in terms of lives lost.

  The Shiloh campground had been General Sherman’s place of bivouac during the night before, but now General Beauregard made the little log church his personal headquarters. From it, he issued orders and dispatched reinforcements where they were needed, thus affording General Johnston the freedom to move up and down the line of battle, giving encouragement to the men.

  Abner was with Johnston, who was at that moment on the extreme right end of the battle line. To those who needed a calming influence, Johnston spoke quietly. “Easy, men, make every shot count. Keep calm, don’t let the Yankees get you riled.”

  To those he felt needed more spirit, he injected a note of ferocity to his words: “Men of Arkansas, you are skilled with the Arkansas toothpick, let us use that skill with a nobler weapon, the bayonet. Use it for your country! Use it for your state! Use it for your fellow soldiers! Use it well!”

  General Johnston was well mounted on a large, beautiful horse, and his presence among the men, whether he was speaking or not, was all the inspiration they needed. His progress along the line could be followed easily through the rippling effect of hurrahs shouted by the soldiers.

  “Hey! Lookie here!” a soldier shouted as they came across what had been a Yankee camp. “These damn Yankees left their food still a-cookin’!”

  “Yahoo!” another shouted, and to Abner’s surprise and frustration, nearly half the army broke off its pursuit of the fleeing Union soldiers to sit down and eat the breakfast the Yankees had so recently abandoned.

  “You men!” Abner shouted. “Leave that be! We’ve got the Yankees on the run! Let’s finish the job, then you can come back to it!”

  “Are you kiddin’? There won’t be nothin’ left,” a corporal said, grabbing a couple of biscuits and a hunk of salt pork.

  “Lieutenant, let the stragglers be,” General Johnston shouted to Abner. “We have more important things to do! We’re losing cohesion here!”

  Abner could see what Johnston was talking about. The underbrush, gullies, twisting roads, and pockets of stiff Union resistance had disrupted the orderly progress of the attack. The three lines of battle, so carefully sketched out on the battle map, had become terribly disjointed. Divisions, brigades, and regiments became so intermingled that men found themselves fighting side-by-side with strangers and listening to commands given by officers they didn’t even know. Over it all was the cacophonous roar of battle: thundering cannon, booming muskets, shrieking shells, screams of rage, curses of defiance, fear, and pain, the whole enshrouded in a thick, opaque cloud of noxious gun smoke.

  “Lieutenant Murback, get back to Beauregard as quickly as you can. Tell him I wish to reorganize into four sections, Hardee and Polk on the left, Bragg and Breckinridge on the right!”

  “Yes, sir,” Abner replied. “Where will you be, General?”

  “I? I will be here, right in front of this . . . this hornet’s nest,” Johnston said, referring to the ferocious fighting that was going on in front of them.

  Abner galloped back to Shiloh Church. Some of the wounded had straggled back as far as the church and many were sitting or lying around on the ground, attended to by doctors and their orderlies. Beauregard was in conversation with two colonels when Abner reported to him.

  “General Johnston’s compliments, sir,” Abner said, saluting.

  “Yes, yes, what is it, Lieutenant?” Beauregard asked, obviously displeased at being interrupted during this critical time.

  “The general wishes you to reorganize into four sections, Hardee and Polk on the left, Bragg and Breckinridge on the right.”

  “Reorganize in the midst of battle?” Beauregard replied. “And how am I supposed to do that, did the general say?”

  Abner shook his head. “I’m sorry, General, he didn’t s
ay. He just said to reorganize into four—”

  “—Sections, Hardee and Polk and the left, Bragg and Breckinridge on the right—yes, yes, I heard that,” Beauregard said. Sighing, he stroked his Vandyke beard, then looked at the two colonels. “Colonel Livingston, you get through to Polk and Hardee, Colonel Virden, you see Bragg and Breckinridge. Tell them to reestablish the integrity of their divisions, then continue in a coordinated attack.”

  “Very good sir,” both colonels replied, saluting.

  Beauregard turned to Abner. “Very well, Lieutenant, you may tell General Johnston that I am complying with his order.”

  “Yes, sir,” Abner said saluting, then remounting for the ride back.

  When Abner returned from his mission, he saw General Johnston heading toward a peach orchard that was occupied by several pieces of Confederate artillery. The trees were in full bloom, and each time one of the guns would fire, the concussion would cause the flower petals to come fluttering down in a bright pink blizzard.

  Across the way from the peach orchard a little band of Yankees stubbornly held onto a piece of elevated ground. Twice they had repelled the charges made by the Bexar Fusiliers. On the second charge, Colonel Culpepper and two of his officers were killed, and now the Texans were milling around, as if wondering what to do next.

  “Come on, boys!” Johnston shouted to the Texans. “We must dislodge them from that position! Do it for your fallen commander! I will lead you!”

  Holding a tin coffee cup he had just liberated as if it were a saber, Johnston rode at a gallop toward the Yankee defenders. With a Rebel yell, the men in gray surged after him. This time the Yankees gave way, and the small hill was captured. Johnston came riding back, smiling broadly, his uniform torn and one boot-sole shot away.

  “They didn’t trip us up that time,” he said. “We carried the day, boys. We carried the day. Tonight, we will water our horses in the Tennessee river.”