A Blaze of Glory

by Jeff Shaara

  Johnston turned to the others, said, “Do we know where General Beauregard is?”

  Major Hayden spoke up, another of the volunteer aides.

  “I was with him briefly this morning, sir. Colonel Jordan advised me that General Beauregard was feeling well enough to ride, and would most certainly join us on the journey.”

  Johnston felt some relief from that, nodded his silent appreciation to Hayden. He saw Harris looking at him, unsmiling, the governor measuring it all, learning as he observed, trying to understand the flaws of the army, and what anyone could do about repairing them. Johnston seemed to read the question in Harris’s face, said to them all, “Well, then, I suppose we shall sit in this place for a while and see if General Beauregard can locate us. I do not intend to be difficult to find.”

  The cavalry patrols had continued to spread out everywhere the Federals were thought to be moving, and in nearly every report, the horsemen had insisted that around the camps of the enemy, nothing at all was happening. Nothing.

  There had been one exception, but rumors infected even the men who saw the enemy firsthand. Johnston knew that Lew Wallace’s Federal Division had been positioned at Crump’s Landing, several miles north and west of the main body of Grant’s army. The cavalry scouts up that way had observed what seemed to be Wallace’s entire force suddenly moving west, away from the river, driving out toward the town of Purdy, which would be the most logical place to stage a raid against the north-south rail line farther west at Bethel Station. Despite the urgent call to intercept the Federal forces from several of the cavalry commanders, Wallace’s force turned out to be a minor shove, a probe that was stopped by Wallace himself, which resulted in no significant engagement, and no real threat to the railroad.

  But the cavalry’s initial panic had seemed to infect Beauregard as well, who suddenly latched on to the belief that the Federal forces were intending to capture that part of the railroad, and possibly drive farther west toward Jackson, Tennessee. The edge of panic in Beauregard’s reaction had disturbed Johnston, and once the Federal troops in that area were clearly identified, and their intentions understood as little more than an exploratory probe out from Wallace’s headquarters at Crump’s Landing, Beauregard’s attention had thankfully returned to the original plan. Johnston had no doubts at all that Grant was still at Pittsburg Landing, still waiting to be reinforced by Don Carlos Buell, and once the two armies joined, they would drive hard toward Corinth. The plans hashed out for a hard strike against Grant were, to Johnston, the only plan that had any chance of a major success. It was the kind of common sense that Johnston had observed in every theater of combat he had experienced: When the enemy sat motionless in front of you, and you had any possibility of surprising him with a hard-charging assault, the advantages were all yours.

  MONTEREY, TENNESSEE

  APRIL 4, 1862, 3:00 P.M.

  Beauregard had arrived barely an hour after Johnston, his staff trailing behind him in a formation that seemed to Johnston to be a longer tail than any kite required. But Beauregard’s work had been essential to this campaign, and Johnston would not criticize the man’s efforts, and the necessity of a large staff, even if, now, those plans were becoming distressingly unraveled.

  Johnston had ordered his aides to erect the headquarters tent, the work done as efficiently as usual. He stared at the dingy canvas now, already missed the comforts of Rose Cottage. He tried to push that from his mind, knew that out here, with the army driving closer to the enemy, hospitality was not something he should be thinking about. The headquarters tent held one other meaning, which he absorbed with growing frustration. He had not expected to spend this night so far from what he had hoped would be the point of attack. Monterey was barely halfway between Corinth and Pittsburg Landing, and still miles below the army’s primary point of rendezvous, the intersection that brought the two primary roads together at a place called Pebble Hill, occupied by a house that the maps showed as Michie’s.

  The only corps commander to the front who had appeared at Monterey was Braxton Bragg, whose troops had marched out of Corinth along the same route Johnston and his staff had followed. The road was not nearly as well traveled as the parallel course to the west, where Hardee’s and Polk’s troops were designated to march. All three corps were to converge on the intersection at Michie’s, where they would diverge again, Bragg moving more to the east on another parallel route, while Hardee and Polk continued to move to the north. According to Colonel Jordan’s original plan of march, this would put Bragg on the right flank of the army, with Polk and Hardee to his left, once the entire force reached their stopping point, close to the enemy camps. To Johnston’s enormous dismay, Bragg’s troops had made no such progress, and even now, some were blocking the route where Polk was to be passing through, with various regiments from both corps spread out in several disconnected locations along the entire route. It was becoming clear to Johnston that the intersection that held so much value for the advance of the army had instead become a bottleneck of the worst kind.

  “We should have hit them a week ago … maybe before then! Now I am mired in a sea of mud. This is unacceptable!”

  Bragg was pacing, his energy draining everyone else. Beauregard showed the effects of the ride, sat on a small camp chair, leaning slightly, his back against a small oak tree. He straightened up, an obvious struggle, said, “Braxton, there was never any chance of mounting an organized assault until this army was in place. We had to gather every available unit, and the commanders to go with them. Surely you understand that. You were a great part of the accomplishment. I for one am grateful for all you have done.”

  Bragg didn’t seem calmed by Beauregard’s compliment, still fumed, stared down as he paced in the wet grass, a furious frown.

  “The weather. The cursed weather. Have you seen the roads? Well of course you have. Rivers of mud a half foot deep! We could have avoided all of this. Driven northward on the railroad and come at the enemy from the west.”

  Johnston said nothing, sat in his usual position in the opening of the tent, a small field desk to one side. He had no energy for Bragg’s ranting, hoped Beauregard would point out the obvious. The Creole obliged, said, “General, we could never have moved this entire army up the railroad in a short amount of time. The enemy would have detected that and destroyed us in detail. With all respect, the plan now in effect is a good one. The cavalry reports—”

  “Bah! Cavalry! The glorious horsemen who ride in great parades with the sole priority of inflicting a blush on the pretty cheeks of the local females. The information they bring us is either too obvious to be of any use, or is simply wrong!”

  Beauregard rubbed a tightly clenched fist across his chest, and Johnston could see he was too weary for this, would certainly have no patience for Bragg’s absurd objections to a plan that was already in motion. Beauregard made another effort to straighten himself, coughed loudly, said, “That is hardly accurate. Without the cavalry, we would know nothing at all, and our plans depend on the complete knowledge of the enemy’s position and his movements. You know that. The latest report tells us that the vanguard of General Buell’s forces are no more than forty miles from Crump’s Landing. The opportunity, our advantage, if there is one, is diminishing.”

  Johnston knew those reports, and he spoke now, the first time since Bragg had launched his verbal tantrum.

  “There is still time. The Federals are encamped and show no sign of movement. We have cavalry patrols far to the north and east, and they continue to do all they can to slow General Buell’s march. We must recognize the usefulness of that. I have received reports that General Grant’s communications to General Buell have not displayed any sense of urgency.”

  Bragg spun around, faced him, lowered the tone of his voice just enough to demonstrate some awareness that Johnston was in command.

  “May I be allowed to tell you about urgency, sir?”

  Johnston nodded.

  “We are ordered to begin our assault
on the enemy at dawn tomorrow, is that not correct?”

  “It is.”

  “We will not be prepared. I have units I still cannot locate. I have no doubt that General Polk is hopping mad at the delays he is facing. His troops had to halt their march while we were trying to clear our way through that infernal Michie’s place. We should not have made contact with General Polk at all! We sent people up to the intersection and continued the march as ordered, moving out to the east. But there were gaps in my lines, and before I could reach that place, General Polk had arrived, and sent his wagons through to the north. But not all of them! The intersection was jammed solid, like a rat in a drainpipe. And so, my corps is scattered, General Polk’s Corps is scattered. And we are supposed to sort all of this out by nightfall, so that we may continue our proper placement, according to orders, to make our attack at first light! With all respect to both of you, until I can gather my forces into a command that I can actually organize, it is unlikely there will be an attack at all. To order men in such a state to move forward … well, sirs, it is folly.”

  Johnston felt an increasing gloom spreading through him, had always believed that Bragg’s fury was most useful directed toward the enemy. He looked at Beauregard, who had slumped again against the tree, with apparently nothing to add. He heard hoofbeats now, a shout from his staff, saw a rider coming up the muddy road. There were aides trailing the man, but not many, someone’s efficient journey, the only sign of urgency Johnston had seen all day. The men dismounted now, and Johnston saw the familiar flag. It was John Breckinridge.

  Johnston stood, was surprised, moved away from the tent, Bragg close behind him.

  “General, I did not expect to see you so quickly. Are your troops closing up?”

  Breckinridge saluted him, and Johnston saw the clear blue eyes, the sharp mustache shading a frown. Breckinridge said, “I regret, sir, the reserve corps is having some difficulty making progress. Many of my men are still near their camps near Farmington. The wagon train is the worst problem. Most are buried hard in the mud. We are working as energetically as we can, but the going is slow. I report this, sir, with sincere regret.”

  Breckinridge had always shown the talents of the politician, and unlike Isham Harris, Breckinridge’s sins against the North were magnified in the Northern papers as the worst kind of black deed, a traitorous abandonment of the U.S. Senate, and a direct slap at the sanctity of the high office he had once held. If anyone in Johnston’s army had reason to agonize over the decision to join the Southern Cause it would be the former vice president. But Breckinridge was here now, in command of the invaluable reserve corps, and obviously, any conflicts he had were neatly cast away.

  Johnston absorbed his report like a spreading disease.

  “Do you believe you can have your people in their designated position by tonight?”

  “I will make every effort, sir. I will toss aside my horse, and march them on foot, if it inspires them to quickness.”

  “That would not be prudent, General. But please make every effort to march your men forward. I do not have to tell you the importance of your reserves to this campaign.”

  “Certainly not, sir.”

  Johnston felt a sharp breeze, looked up now, the blue skies erased by a thickening gray haze. He stared, others following his gaze, and now the first drops came, slapping the ground with small patters that drooped his shoulders, that settled into his brain like one more sickening failure.

  “Gentlemen, it appears the rain has returned.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SHERMAN

  NEAR SHILOH CHURCH APRIL 4, 1862, 3:00 P.M.

  With the good weather that morning, the sounds had carried easily through the expanse of woods, and the Federal picket lines, and even the camps themselves had begun to hear noises that could only come from a gathering of men. From out of the west, shouts were heard, laughter, the clank and squeal of wagon wheels. Rumors had begun, spreading along the picket lines with mindless energy, the rebel cavalry pushing closer, more aggressively, some insisting that the sounds were just echoes from other Federal camps. But there were more inspiring rumors, that the noises had to come from something much larger, that in the distant fields and roadways, surely there was danger from the approach of the enemy.

  The most untested soldiers were the first to feel the edge of panic, and even their officers could not hide their fears, some of them reporting with nervous certainty that they would likely be attacked. But higher up the chain, where experienced men had faced the enemy before, orders were issued that took the sting from the rumors, comforting words that cavalry patrols were a nuisance but little more. So many of those patrols had already been observed by the pickets, some by Federal cavalry, making their own forays into the enemy’s land. There had been clashes, most of them minor, but the rebels seemed intent on avoiding any real confrontation, their patrols mostly glimpsed from great distances, a fleeting burst of activity across a wide field, the enemy horsemen quick to withdraw. When the horsemen had met, it was usually a surprise to both sides, hoofbeats disguising the same sounds coming toward them from down the curving road. Often the two columns of horsemen were suddenly facing each other with no choice for the surprised officers but to give the order to attack. The firefights were usually quick affairs, but there were casualties, the unlucky, men struck by musket balls, or the chance firing of a recklessly aimed carbine. Few among the Federal cavalry commanders were inspired to push out seeking greater confrontations. There was no surge of revenge for fallen comrades, or even for saving face. Rather, the Federals probed the woods and trails with more caution, and it seemed that the rebels were doing the same. The primary mission for the blue-coated horsemen was to prevent the rebel patrols from drawing too close to the camps, no careless loss of prisoners, no intelligence that someone far away in rebel headquarters would find useful. The Confederates seemed willing only to harass, to test the willingness of the Federals to make any kind of fight at all. This day had begun no differently, cavalry probes, observation, sometimes with a casual wave from great distance, men watching their counterparts with amusement, contests with marksmanship, the company’s best shot trying to knock down someone over there.

  In the camps of the infantry, the sounds of any confrontation rolled back to them as hollow echoes, dull thumps, scattered and distant. But there were officers who were not comfortable sitting blind, and so some of the regimental and brigade commanders had ordered more patrols, men on foot, to follow the trails, pushing beyond the static picket lines, to see more of what the cavalry saw, to test the bravado of whoever might be testing them.

  But then the rains had returned, and the sounds and the enthusiasm were erased by the steady hiss from the downpour through the tall trees. The men from the 70th Ohio were like so many others, the order simple and direct, to move out westward, probing, scouting what might lie farther out in front of the pickets. One squad moved in familiar misery, the unlucky half dozen who were chosen to leave behind the comfort of their tents, their fires, a mission most thought was an enormous waste of time and dry clothes. They kept their slow march on a wide trail, a wagon road, thick mud that soaked their shoes, the wet slime soaking their pants legs. The rain hid any noise, but still they pressed forward, following their lieutenant, a man as miserable as the men he led. The mud had deepened to the point of absurdity, and the frustrated lieutenant dragged his men off the trail, pushed them through the woods, wet leaves slapping the men’s faces, heavy drips of rainwater rolling into coat collars and cartridge boxes. They moved mostly in blindness, their greatest concern that the lieutenant would get them lost. The woods had been a curse, vines and low branches, and they welcomed a patch of open ground, moving more quickly, a hint of tension, competing with the sense of futility, every man thinking more of dry socks and coffee than any glimpse of the enemy. Like so many of the open fields, this one was punctuated by a small farmhouse, and whether its occupants were there or not, the lieutenant made a beeline for the marvel
ous sanctuary of a dry space.

  When the rebel cavalry came, they came knowing that the Federals liked their shelter, and so the horses moved with stealth. Their officer had seen this before, Federal troops too comfortable, and so the horsemen kept as silent as possible, approached the house from behind, or what might be a blind spot, finally emerging from the closest stand of dense trees. In a few seconds the farmhouse was surrounded by horsemen now on foot, and though there was musket fire, the rebels had every advantage. The success was complete, the Federal troops facing the muzzles of two dozen of the enemy, their lieutenant understanding his fate, that he and his six men had no choice but to surrender.

  “Who?”

  “A squad of pickets from the 70th Ohio, sir. They’re just … gone. We have to assume they were taken by the enemy.”

  Sherman crushed the cigar in his teeth, tried to pull smoke through it, useless now, tossed it out into the rain, grabbed another from his pocket.

  “Captured by who, Captain?”

  “Unknown, sir. We assume it was one of the rebel cavalry patrols. They seem to be everywhere. Our own cavalry continues to report frequent confrontations.”

  Sherman paced the small space inside the meetinghouse, what the locals had told him was their church. The building was rough-hewn timbers, barely large enough for his staff.

  He had heard too many of these reports, some of them caused by the panic of the untrained, some by officers who seemed anxious to build their own reputation by being so much more vigilant than the next man down the line. One of those had been Colonel Thomas Worthington, who commanded the 46th Ohio, and who had made himself such a thorn in Sherman’s side that he was banned from Sherman’s headquarters. Worthington was a much older man, had brought his regiment to Pittsburg Landing nearly three weeks prior, and demonstrated a wholly inappropriate eagerness for taking command of the entire operation. Once in camp, Worthington had plagued Sherman with his predictions of certain disaster, had insisted his men be supplied with near a hundred axes, to throw an abatis into place, defying the orders that came from Grant, which of course had come from Halleck. Worthington had even bypassed the chain of command, had gone straight to General Smith, had asserted his own supposed expertise on just what the army should be preparing for. After several such visits, even the patient Smith had tossed Worthington from his floating headquarters.