by Jeff Shaara
“Are you certain of this, Captain? By any chance is this report coming to you from Colonel Worthington?”
The captain smiled, then corrected himself, shook his head.
“No, sir. Colonel Buckland spoke to me himself, sir.”
“By damned, I am sick of the enemy’s little games. Has Buckland done anything to investigate this?”
“Yes, sir. The colonel reports he has ordered his picket lines strengthened and has ordered a full company forward, in effort to pursue whatever enemy is responsible.”
“I thought you said it was cavalry, Captain. Does Buckland think his foot soldiers can catch a cavalry patrol?”
The young man glanced downward.
“I cannot answer that, sir.”
“Well, I have my own answer. The 5th Ohio Cavalry is camped just out to the northwest of here. Order Major Ricker to lead a hundred of those men out west of Buckland’s camp. Have Ricker investigate the placement of Buckland’s picket line and determine what the hell is happening out there. Send a courier to Buckland so he’ll know I’m not going to tolerate this kind of nuisance anymore. I’ve been listening to that chatter all day long, musket fire and whatever else is going on. Half the time it sounds like a damn barn dance, complete with banjos and fiddles, and squalling house cats. If there are rebel cavalry who think they can dance their way close enough to spit on us, I want them driven out of here. Tell Major Ricker if he finds them to kill every damn one of them. These men might be green, but they are capable of following orders and keeping some kind of military discipline. I’m more convinced that all that racket we’re hearing out there is coming from our own people. This isn’t a damn hunting party. I’m sick of hearing all this talk, all this blasted panic caused by a few enemy cavalry. You have your orders, Captain.”
The man saluted, moved out quickly into the rain. Sherman struggled with shaking hands to light a new cigar, felt the soggy tobacco limp in his hands, the spray of rain infesting even his most simple pleasure. To one side, two of his staff officers sat in the church’s only remaining chairs, and he saw them studying papers, assumed they were pretending not to hear him. More of his aides were gathered inside one of the headquarters tents, and he called out to them, his tone of voice unmistakable. He waited, tapped his foot noisily on the plank floors of the small church, glanced at the soggy cigar again, tossed it angrily out into the rain. Men were coming toward him quickly, and they stopped short, stood at attention, seeming not to mind the rain. He shook his head.
“Get in here. I don’t need anyone on my staff drowning. Ridiculous damn weather.”
The staff crowded into the church, water flowing down and across every surface, the musty smell of stinking uniforms curling his nose. Sherman stood back, waited for them to get completely inside. “Damn. You boys need to take a hike back to the river, douse those clothes in some clean water. Maybe douse you, too.” He stood with his hands on his hips, couldn’t prevent his annoyance with what seemed to be the chaos of his own front lines. “You got the water out of your ears? Good. Now listen. Send my order to every regiment that I want the picket lines to be strengthened across our entire position. Have the commanders put some fresh men out there. I don’t know how much longer we’re going to be holed up in this godforsaken swamp, but I’m through having my brigades panicked by ghosts. If I have to order a full-scale drill formation I will. We’ve got some boys out there who seem to have forgotten why we’re here. Tell every company commander I want the miscreants sent to the river. I’ll not have the unruly affecting the rest of this command.”
His orderly had kept to one corner of the small church, the man expectant, ready for anything Sherman needed of him. Sherman turned to him now, said, “Mr. Holliday, will you please locate some dry cigars. There is a box in my trunk, at the foot of my bed. The ones in my coat have been made useless by this damnable weather. Locate some matches as well. I never should have tossed away that flint box.”
Holliday moved quickly, disappeared back out into the rain, splashing his way to one of the nearby headquarters tents.
“The rest of you … Captain Hammond, send an inquiry to General Prentiss. See if he is experiencing the same kind of supposed harassment from the rebels, or are his men hearing ghosts as well. If he’s got rebels to his front, kindly suggest he drive those damn mosquitoes away. Major Sanger, stay close to me. If Ricker’s cavalry doesn’t do the job, I want you to be ready to lead somebody out there yourself. Or find somebody who can. How blessedly difficult can it be to clear these woods of a few damn rebels?”
SHILOH CHURCH
APRIL 4, 1862, 6:00 P.M.
Ricker was dripping wet, a pool of brown water forming at his feet, a smear of dirt across his face. Sherman could see he was obviously pleased with himself.
“It was a brisk affair, sir. We took their measure, and gave back plenty.”
“How brisk?”
“I must admit, sir, that the infantry had beaten us somewhat to the chase. When Colonel Buckland learned his men had been captured, he ordered forward a full regiment. Begging your pardon, sir, but I thought that to be somewhat excessive. But we reached the correct field by following the sounds of a fight. With all credit due Colonel Buckland, his infantry had been successful in locating the rebel horsemen. It is possible, of course, that it was the other way around. The rebel cavalry could very well have set an ambush, in case any of us took umbrage at their capture of Colonel Buckland’s squad. But there was a scrap, sir, and we determined quite quickly that Colonel Buckland’s men were in something of a pickle. The reb cavalry were giving it to them pretty hard, but our arrival took care of the problem. Those rebs weren’t looking for a fair fight, and it was apparent that when we drove toward them, we put the fear of God in them. They fled the field. I have not heard if Colonel Buckland recaptured his lost squad, sir, but I am pleased to report that we were able to grab a few of those rebels in return. They’re outside.”
“How many?”
“Ten are here, sir. We left wounded in the field. They’re being cared for.”
Sherman had a burst of curiosity, moved to the doorway of the small church, peered through the thickening darkness, could see the rebels sitting in a mass under a fat oak tree.
“Bring me one. Pick the one who looks the most scared.”
Ricker motioned to one of his men, and Sherman kept his stare outside, the rain light and misty now. Ricker’s cavalrymen spread out down one of the trails that led away from the church, a loose column of weary troopers, those who saw him sitting straight in the saddle, a clear sign that they knew the day was theirs. He nodded toward one of the officers, thought, yes, good. We need more of you out there. Ricker’s right. They’re not looking for a fair fight. Just … bullying us, picking at us like fleas on a dog. Well, enough of that.
He felt a gust of wind, a light spray on his face. The rain had nearly stopped, but the trees near the church were giving up the wetness in their leaves, and he cursed to himself, backed away from the door. Across the open yard, one of the rebels was pulled toward him, no sign of a uniform, a thick patch of greasy hair matted across his forehead. The man was escorted by two of Ricker’s men, and Ricker followed, stood behind the prisoner, said, “Get inside, secesh. You get to meet a real general.”
Sherman tried to look imposing, glanced around, the chairs in the church too small, undignified. All right, I should stand anyway, stare at him eye to eye. He crossed his arms, tried to ignore the aching need for a cigar.
The prisoner climbed the short steps into the church, was in front of him now, held tightly in the grip of two of Ricker’s horsemen. Sherman studied the man, very young, a wisp of a beard on his chin, his homespun clothes stained with days of mud. He didn’t seem frightened at all.
“So, boy, what’s your name?”
The prisoner puffed out his chest, made a good show of defiance.
“That would be Micah Goolsby.”
To one side, one of his escorts jerked him hard.
“Reckon not. You done caught me. That means I ain’t a soldier no more.”
Sherman was fascinated more by the man’s deep drawl than by his attitude. He had rarely heard such a pronounced accent since Louisiana.
“You’re right, boy. Your war is over. So, you’ve got no more secrets to hide. Where are you from, Mr. Goolsby?”
“Brooksville. That’s Mississippi. Down south of here.”
“Don’t know the place. I doubt you’ll be seeing it for a while. So, who was it sent you out here in this infernal weather, just so you could take potshots at my boys?”
The young man weighed the question, seemed to debate whether to respond, but after a long moment the debate was settled.
“Reckon you’ll find out soon enough. Colonel Clanton. He rode us up here mad as a hornet. Seems we lost a couple of our men to one of your picket posts down toward the river a ways. The colonel don’t take kindly to Yankees stealing his men. We decided to get a little of that for ourselves. Did, too. But … well, it weren’t my lucky day. We was about to round up a whole passel of Yankee infantry when your horsemen showed up.”
Sherman glanced at his staff officer, Major Sanger, who nodded, said, “Heard of Clanton. Not sure who commands him.”
“And you ain’t gonna know nothin’ more about that, neither. Not till he rides right in here and grabs the whole lot of you!”
Sherman admired the man’s spark, said, “Well, now, we’ll be certain to give our regards to your Colonel Clanton.”
“Oh, you’ll be doin’ more than that, General sir. There’s gonna be a full out beatin’, right here. When it’s over, you’ll be tossed in the river, or driven to hell. Either way, you fellas is gonna learn that we ain’t takin’ none of this from you Yankees. You best git back on those steamboats right now.”
Sherman said nothing, thought, so, if he knows about the boats, he’s been close enough to the river to see or hear them. They might have been watching the landing ever since we got here. Crafty bastards.
He had heard all the man’s boasting he needed, said to Sanger, “Major, I’m returning to my tent. There’s a box of cigars in the bottom of my trunk, and one of them requires my attention.”
Ricker said, “What do we do with these prisoners, sir?”
Sherman thought a moment, looked around the small church.
“Stick ’em in here. I’m not wasting time or men to haul them back to the river. They can sleep dry for tonight, and they’ll be easier to guard.” He looked at the boy in front of him, still defiant, but there was a small crack in the boy’s bravado, a hint of a tear in his eyes. Sherman smiled to himself, thought, that’s more like it. Now you understand. Take a good look around you, Mr. Goolsby. This is the United States Army you’re playing with.
“Thank you for speaking with me, Mr. Goolsby. You get a good night’s sleep. Then, tomorrow, we’ll send you back to where we keep the cannibals. They do like Southern meat.”
He didn’t wait for a reaction, clamped his hat hard on his head, moved out into the rain, turned toward the larger tent, the urgent need for a cigar all he could think about.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SEELEY
SOUTHEAST OF SHILOH CHURCH APRIL 4, 1862, 9:00 P.M.
They pushed through the dark muddy trails, kept the horses as quiet as they could, no one speaking, no orders shouted out. He was one of nearly two hundred horsemen, a snaking line that kept back far enough from the Federal camps so they would not be detected. He knew that some of the other cavalry had pushed too hard, were more aggressive than they were supposed to be. The result had been a scattering of engagements, brief and manic fights with a few casualties, but Captain McDonald’s company had not yet fired a shot. There had been Yankees, and throughout the day, Seeley and the others had caught their brief glimpses of blue-coated horsemen. Most were across a ravine, or far up ahead on the same road. But so far, those men wanted no part of a fight, and Seeley took some pride in that, was beginning to accept what Colonel Forrest had drilled into all of them. They were better men, better at the job, and even if the Yankees had better weapons, talk of repeating rifles, or carbines that required little time to load, it was the spirit of Forrest’s men that Seeley believed gave them every advantage. That no Federal seemed interested in standing up to them now was just more evidence.
Their mission had been to screen the advance of the infantry, primarily Bragg’s Corps, the men who were to spread their combat formation out toward the river. But the bulk of Bragg’s infantry had not come up, just a scattering of advance units, men who called themselves lucky, who had made most of their march before the new rains had come. For most of the afternoon, orders had come to McDonald, and they expressed what had to be the entire command’s aggravated frustration, that no one had kept to their schedule. Their mission had been unchanged, move discreetly, stealthily, continue to serve as a screen to prevent Federal cavalry from gaining any real intelligence about just what Johnston’s army was trying to do. But so far, Johnston’s army had accomplished very little, no great lines of foot soldiers hunkering down in vast formations, preparing for the great assault that would come at dawn. And if there was any need for a screen at all, the Yankees showed no sign of testing it. Patrols were seen, and the crackle of the fights had echoed through the fields and woodlands, but it was obvious to McDonald, to every cavalry commander, that the Yankees weren’t really seeking much in the way of intelligence at all. With the darkness, the rains had nearly stopped, and even from a mile away, Seeley could see the glow of the campfires, the Yankees going about their routine as though no cavalry were in these woods at all.
McDonald halted them, a harsh whisper spread back along the column, the only way to communicate in a darkness that was dense and oppressive. Seeley kept his position in line, had passed along the order to the sergeant behind him, that man doing the same. The night was growing thick with sounds, insects mostly, frogs and crickets that Seeley had heard all his life. But there were other sounds as well, voices, and the halt in the column had come so that McDonald could estimate the distance. Seeley stared into dense trees, knew they had passed this way in the daylight, a steady march that covered a very specific piece of what was supposed to be Bragg’s front lines. But the voices they were hearing now were not Confederate, and Seeley made his own judgment, guessed the men to be no more than two hundred yards away. A horse sidled up close to him, and he heard the growling whisper of Sergeant Gladstone.
“Bluebellies having a party, eh? Like a camping trip with my young’uns. They’ll be building fires out here, next thing you know.”
Seeley had no idea Gladstone had children, tried to visualize that in his mind, what kind of father this crusty and crude man would be. The voices were mostly from one place, a hilltop beyond the black trees, and suddenly there was the crack of a musket, a loud whoop, more laughter. The words were disguised, but the mood certainly was not, and now there was commotion in the brush, pushing out toward the road, away from the Yankees. Seeley felt his heart jump, but Gladstone said, “Deer. Dumb bluebellies are huntin’ deer. Well, shootin’ anyway. Bet they been shootin’ rabbits, too. Not a care in the world. Guess that’ll make the colonel happy.”
Gladstone eased his horse away, and the column kept still, Seeley staring toward the voices, the laughter quieting. They have no idea we’re here, he thought. And even if they do, they don’t seem to care much one way or the other.
He heard a rustle of horses, a rider coming back toward him, knew from the man’s gait it was McDonald. The captain whispered, “Officers!”
Seeley spurred the horse lightly, moved to one side, away from the others, and McDonald was there now, others coming up from the rear of the column. There were four lieutenants, and Seeley looked around, saw them all gathering close.
“Listen here! We need to backtrack to that creek we passed a mile or so behind us. Good water, and we can hold tight there until dawn. I’ve gotten no
orders since sundown, and our job hasn’t changed. We’re to screen the advance of General Bragg’s right flank, and that’s what we’re gonna do. I have no idea where that flank is right now, but it sure ain’t where I was told. But I’m not taking any chances of stumbling into a bunch of General Bragg’s worn-out soldiers who’re nervous about what they’re supposed to do next. We’ll dismount, put up shelter halves, and wait for dawn. If the attack happens when it’s supposed to, we’ll be ready to help. That’s all I know, and that’s all we can do tonight. Turn your squads around, march back to that old bridge. We’ll spread out in those woods, on the west side of the road … the right. I’ll send a courier back to the south, try to locate someone in charge, let ’em know where we are. Let’s go.”
The order passed along the column, the men turning their mounts, the column beginning to move. Seeley was more toward the rear now, eased his horse forward in the sloppy mud. He thought of the shelter half, a piece of canvas he hated, what was supposed to be protection from rain. But so far, the storms that had blown past the cavalrymen had swirled rain right through any kind of protection, the chilling weather soaking through the wool coats, boots, anything else a man hoped to keep dry. It had gone on for so long now that when the daylight had broken that morning, with dry blue skies, the men had stood for long moments, staring up in perfect fascination. With the men quickly in motion, the sunlight had sliced through the soggy woods in a glorious display that drained the men of their misery. But the clear weather had brought Yankees, and the skirmishes had come, and Seeley knew that the joy of dry weather had put both sides into motion. By mid-afternoon, when the skies darkened yet again, word had reached them of the delays, and Seeley had already seen the mud on the roads that had so plagued the foot soldiers, and worse, had sucked down the wagons and limbers of the teamsters and artillerymen. But the cavalrymen kept their enthusiasm for the job at hand, no one expecting that delays on the march would change anything, that by tomorrow morning, the great assault, what might be the final assault, would drive the Yankees straight back into the river.