by Jeff Shaara
Beside him, a few men down the line, he heard a strange cry, a cheer, loud and grotesque, a whooping yell. It came from Patterson, and Bauer looked that way, saw Willis close by, staring straight ahead. Bauer felt relief, wanted to move that way, to stand beside his friend, but there was no time, the captain shouting out another order, and behind Bauer the bugler began his call again, advance. Immediately the lines responded, Saxe again pushing his horse out into the field, all of the men in Saxe’s company clear of the brush and trees. Bauer looked to the side, saw the other battle line, flags, horsemen, more men in blue, marching out with them. He couldn’t avoid a yell of his own, no words, just a yelp, the pure joy of the moment. He glanced around, tried to see everything, watched as Williams punched another man in the back, meaningless curses. All around him the shouts were unceasing, raw fury toward the enemy and threats from the sergeants to men who needed none.
Bauer looked ahead toward the captain again, could see past him, the end of the second field, saw the scampering rebels, a few turning to fire, small pops and puffs of white smoke. But still he marched, one part of the great strength, and he felt it, his breathing coming hard, the pride, the perfect scene, marching after a ragged band of fugitives. Around him other men were shouting, all of them caught up in the energy of the moment, the men watching their enemy fleeing in a desperate run. The captain stayed out front, leading the men with the same calmness, the steady rhythm, other horsemen down the way doing the same, all pressing the fleeing rebels. Saxe suddenly halted his horse, seemed to stare straight ahead, a better vantage point than the men he led. Bauer’s line was drawing up closer behind Saxe, a few yards, the officer perched on a slight rise in the field. The noises still rolled forward from the men, a steady chorus of shouts and cheers, Bauer joining in, even Patterson just one part of the whole, the men sensing their first delicious taste of victory. Saxe spurred the horse again, did not look back, and Bauer saw the sword hanging in his hand, the captain staring ahead into the far trees toward another gap at the end of the field.
The line still pressed forward, and Bauer could hear musket fire far to the left, a new fight opening up somewhere beyond the woods, but the firing was scattered, distant, and he climbed the gentle slope of the field, moving closer to Saxe, who was motionless again. Bauer was suddenly curious, thought, do we stop? The captain seemed to stare straight ahead, studying something in the distance, and Bauer wanted to see, made a quick glance to both sides, the battle line complete, energized, his own men, the men of Company A. Now the captain turned slightly, shouted out something Bauer couldn’t hear, something about Wisconsin, about courage. Then Saxe turned, spurred the horse again, moved out past the rise, leading them again, and Bauer crested the rise. On the far end of the field was another fence line, ragged split rails gripped by dense underbrush, and he saw movement, half a hundred men rising up, the volley blowing toward them. The whistle and zip of the musket balls ripped past him and Bauer flinched at the sound, a wild cry in his brain. They’re shooting at us! The line kept moving forward, closer, and he held his musket in a tight grip, heard the orders, the lieutenants, Sergeant Williams, the words in a harsh blend with a new burst of fire to their front, another volley from the half-hidden rebels.
Bauer kept his eyes on them, was very close now, some men in the line beside him firing on their own, ignoring the yelling from the sergeants. Bauer saw Saxe stop again, the sword high, and he seemed to jerk, his body rippling in a single shiver, Saxe falling backward, toppling from the horse, landing in a loose heap in the grass. Bauer stared in horror, saw the horse turn, nose down, as though prodding its rider, and Bauer felt the sickening shock punching into him, stepped forward with automatic steps, closer to Saxe, the horse, Bauer’s eyes fixed on the captain’s face, a spurt of blood coming from the man’s neck, blood spreading out on his white shirt, the handsome face, empty eyes staring up, at nothing. Bauer wanted to stop, took a quick step that way, shouted, uncontrollably, “He needs help! They hurt him! Get help!”
But the hard fist had him, Williams, yanking him away, harsh, filthy words, more men on horses moving out, leading them, the lieutenants still marching in front of them. The fence line seemed empty now, no sign of anyone, but just as quickly they were there again, rising up, a thick line of butternut and gray, another volley bursting out, smoke and screaming whistles, and now there was a new sound, a hard crack, and the grip on his shoulder gave way, the sergeant falling forward with a hard cry, curling up, rolling, squirming on the ground. Bauer stared down, stopped, but the men behind him pushed on, a hand on his back, prodding him forward. Around him others had fallen, collapsing in dead heaps, some twisted, screaming, and Bauer saw it all, couldn’t help the odd fantasy skipping through his mind, children at play, I shot you … you’re dead. But the roar of sounds was growing, clearing his brain, another volley from the rebels, and now the shock began to release him, and he heard the burst of fire from the men around him, more shouts from the lieutenants, one of them falling, the blue coat disappearing into the tall grass. Around Bauer, some men began to run, falling back, more sharp cries, screaming from a man close to him, and he turned, saw Patterson, on his knees, the man’s mouth open, surprise in his eyes, then tilting backward, gone. Bauer felt the surge of panic, more men running back, the line breaking up. But there were others, Willis, another sergeant, Champlin, still the yells from the lieutenants, pulling the men forward.
He stared ahead at the rebels along the fence, not hidden now, the line of blue very close. He raised his musket, felt helpless, weak, tried to aim, to see anything, caught a glimpse of motion, fired wildly, the musket kicking his shoulder. He stopped, the lessons swept from his mind, the thought forced into him, the instinct shaken, but the words were there. Reload! He dropped the musket, the routine repeated so many times, fought through shaking hands, hard breaths, a thundering beat in his chest. His thoughts were scattered, shock and chaos, and he thought of the captain, wanted to look back, see if he was up, if he was just wounded, now the image of the sergeant, Williams, terrifying man … nowhere … not a man at all. The thought echoed through him, childlike, he won’t be able to yell at me. And now there was movement in front of him, the rebels rising up from the fence, but they weren’t firing, they were running away, the word planting itself in his mind … retreating. Men around him kept up their shouts, and he saw one of the lieutenants running hard toward the fence, far out in front of the men, climbing up and over, charging the withdrawal of the rebels, firing a pistol, urging his men to follow. More men were running forward now, the line scattered, disorganized, their fire wild and scattered. But the chase was on, the animal after the prey.
Bauer tried to run with them, to keep up, the unloaded musket dragging beside him, and he reached the fence, forced himself over, one step at a time, swung his leg clear, dropped down into the thicket, shoved through the thorny brush. He searched frantically for the lieutenant, saw him now, waving the sword, waiting for the men to move up with him, and the officer turned, kept moving forward, but only a few steps. Bauer saw the officer suddenly halt, as if ordered, the man standing completely still. But the lieutenant wasn’t hit, didn’t fall, just stood in one place for a long moment, then turned, looked back at his own men. Bauer ignored him now, wanted to see more, had to see the rebels running away, the men who had shot down the captain … and Patterson … and now other men were climbing into the underbrush beside him, pushing through, the ground rolling up into another short rise. Some of the others were halting as well, as though frozen, staring out. Bauer cursed the musket, fumbled again at his cartridge belt, pushed his way out of the underbrush, moved close to a man, realized it was Willis. He let out a cheer, pure joy at seeing his friend, wanted to say something, anything, but Willis ignored him, was staring straight ahead, motionless. There was an odd breath of silence, a pause in the chaos, and Bauer tried not to hear that, began to load the musket, ready for the next shot, ready for the pursuit to begin again. Willis was looking at him now, and
Bauer saw a deadly stare, strange, and Willis pointed to the front, no words. Bauer looked out toward the next field, saw a single rebel moving away, dragging a wounded leg, the man disappearing into another thicket. But he could see now, the thicket was not brush and undergrowth. It was men.
In the clearing out beyond the field, the first sunlight was collected in a dense mass of reflections, and Bauer felt a cold stab in his chest, realized now why the lieutenant, why the rest of them had stopped. As far out as he could see, the field was lined with men, and just above the mass, the glimmer of a thousand bayonets, and behind them, another thousand, and a thousand more. It was the rebel army.
PART THREE
FURY
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JOHNSTON
WOOD’S FARM, SOUTHWEST OF SHILOH CHURCH
APRIL 6, 1862
He had slept in an ambulance, a minor luxury he did not take for granted, since he knew that his army had slept on the ground, with their muskets close at hand. For much of the early evening, he had ridden with Bragg, seeing to the feeding of the men, finding some way to move ration wagons forward, the drier weather an enormous help. But after midnight, Johnston had been alone, if only for a short few hours, much-needed rest, sleep coming to him even on the thin padding in the ambulance. Well before dawn, the sleep had ended, too much in his brain, too many details, too much anticipation of just what would happen, a day that would be very different and very special.
At the campfire, he had enjoyed the wonderful heat of the thick, sugary coffee, another luxury he allowed himself as often as the staff could provide it. It had been a vice since his earliest days in the army, when coffee had been his personal choice over alcohol. The destruction that affected so many of the officers was too vivid an image, and even now, he knew that there were generals who might not be fit at the critical moment. It was something Bragg had preached against, had issued punishment for, but Johnston knew that if a man intended to destroy himself, there was little that the army’s discipline could do to stop it. There were other vices as well, and he knew it came from the weakness of man, that his army would be no different than those other boys, no matter how ruthless Braxton Bragg’s punishment could be.
With the comfort of the coffee cup in his hand, he had been tempted by the sandwich in his pocket, though the orderlies had provided a more military breakfast of cold biscuits and the remnants of a slab of bacon. The gift from Mrs. Inge had not been discovered until he was well on his way from Corinth, and it brought a broad smile he did not explain to his staff. It remained in his pocket, and he knew that very likely the bread was stale, that mold would come very soon. But he also knew that the gift would inspire talk, even from his own staff, the kind of chatter that could lead to rumors of some impropriety between the general and the hostess. He had no patience for that. For now the sandwich remained where she had put it, wrapped in cloth, a slight tug of weight in his coat. At the very least, it would remind him that his hostess was one of many who had put their faith in him, and in his army. Today he would justify that faith.
His quiet enjoyment of the coffee and the campfire had been interrupted unexpectedly by a council of war that he did not summon. To his annoyance, it was to be a continuation of the meeting that had taken place the afternoon before, a meeting that he thought had been firmly settled. Johnston could not fathom that anyone would be confused about his orders for this morning’s attack, and he knew that those orders had been passed down the chain of command to every regimental commander. Johnston was fully confident that every officer in his command knew where he was supposed to be, and what would be expected of his men. But the energy for the predawn meeting had come from Beauregard, and once again there had been heated discussion, all of it inspired by Beauregard’s incredible lack of confidence in his own plan, his insistence still that the attack be postponed, or called off altogether.
Johnston had endured the gathering not just by listening, but by carefully watching the faces of the others, Polk and Bragg and Breckinridge, all of them as resolute as before, responding to Beauregard’s hesitation with formidable displays of heat. The arguments were as stiff and one-sided as they had been the day before, every corps commander making plain that the army was in position, knew its duty, that the plan was sound, and that any suggestion of retreat would be a disaster for everyone involved. But Beauregard had not wavered, had heated up as well, and Johnston began to realize that his second in command was not making his argument because of strategy, that what they were hearing from Beauregard was not just a dwindling commitment to his own plan. Johnston could see it on the faces of the others, Bragg especially, no surprise there. Bragg had stopped short of a major breach in subordination and Johnston knew that what was left unsaid made little difference. The senior field commanders of this army had to accept that, for reasons that no one truly understood, Beauregard had lost his nerve.
Johnston had accepted the validity of one part of Beauregard’s argument, the astounding inability of the army to maintain any kind of silence. Throughout the woodlands and fields where Hardee’s men had made their temporary camps, the officers knew that they were barely a mile from the enemy’s pickets. And yet the men had behaved as if there were no enemy at all, their discipline virtually nonexistent. Though orders had been explicit against campfires, the exasperated staff had reported to Johnston that fires were everywhere. Though muskets were ordered to be left unloaded, muskets were fired, a cluster of men offering potshots at any woodland creature they could find. The necessity of silence had been expressed with perfect clarity to every company commander, and through the night, those orders had proven to be incredibly useless. Every commander had been taught the value of surprise, that this attack would succeed primarily because Grant’s army was apparently not prepared to defend itself. As he rose from the brief rest, Johnston fully expected a staff officer to be waiting for him with the one report he hoped never to hear: that the enemy was responding as they should be responding, by digging in, that the sounds of axes and shovels would be widespread across the entire front. As he emerged from the ambulance, all that met him was the small campfire, his wonderful pot of coffee, and close at hand, his staff officers awaiting the specific instructions for the new day.
Incredibly, there were no reports about enemy activity at all. The infuriating delays that had plagued the army seemed not to have caused any crisis at all, except perhaps the one in Beauregard’s mind. Johnston had stood to one side during the predawn debate, and as was his custom, he allowed his men to blow off their steam and make their points. But the final word was his, and this time his solution seemed to satisfy all of them. Beauregard was ordered to maintain the army’s primary field headquarters to the rear of the advance, what would be a well-positioned, and possibly stationary landmark, so that any courier could find it, a place where reports could be delivered without fail. By keeping to the rear, Beauregard could keep a broad hand on the general disposition of the attack, and so his talent for organization and logistics would be made useful. Johnston would do exactly the opposite. He would ride out with the army, keeping touch with the attack as it happened, relying on Beauregard to inform him of weakness or failure, so that Johnston could react quickly by moving to every point on the field where he might be needed, where indecision or uncertainty might require a definitive order.
As though Beauregard needed a punctuation mark to Johnston’s order, the meeting had concluded with the first sounds of a growing battle, a chorus of musket fire drifting back across the two miles that separated Johnston’s camp from the front lines of Hardee’s men. Johnston had noted the time, ordering Major Munford to write down the precise minute when the firing began. It had been 5:14 in the morning. The musket fire and the clear thump of artillery had launched each of the generals to his horse, and Johnston had felt their energy, had seen the camaraderie, each man encouraging the others, which had given Johnston the greatest encouragement of all. The time for talk, for argument, for hesitation had been eras
ed by the one task the generals had passed on to the men who carried the musket. As they rode away into the dim light of dawn, each of his corps commanders had heartily agreed with Johnston’s parting pledge, that by noon they would water their horses in the Tennessee River.
If Beauregard had been the exception to the raw optimism for the coming fight, Johnston had watched him ride away with one thought drilling into his brain. Today will be costly, will be momentous to our cause, and if we are fortunate, it will be glorious. Perhaps it is best if General Beauregard commands the paperwork.
APRIL 6, 1862, 6:20 A.M.
The debate was forgotten completely, the coffee a memory. He rode hard, making his way along the lines of Hardee’s men first, had to see it for himself, that the movement was forward, that the lines were solid, that the first burst of fire had not caused any problems.
He had not yet seen Hardee, but the men who moved through the thickets and across the rolling ground had responded to him with gratifying cheers. He rode now along a narrow lane, his men driving off to one side, eastward, into the first rays of sunlight. To his front he saw men on horseback, motioned with his hand to his staff to follow, moved that way. The faces were familiar, which surprised him, and he reined the horse, saw the young face of John Marmaduke, who welcomed him with a crisp salute.