A Blaze of Glory

by Jeff Shaara

  “Men of Tennessee! This is your ground! Fight to keep your ground!”

  The men mostly ignored him, the flow still moving past, some disappearing into the woods to the west. He saw one flag, torn, two halves dangling from a pole, carried across the chest of a man with no other weapon. The flag was Arkansas, and Harris felt desperation, hopelessness, the fear building in him as well. They are not mine, he thought. I am nobody … I offer them nothing. In front of him, Beauregard grabbed Lockett by the shoulder, shouted, “These are your men now! This is your command! Lead them!”

  Lockett stared back, shook his head slowly, but Beauregard looked away, a ragged line coming together, a hundred men, an anchor that seemed to gather up more of the stragglers. Harris saw a change in Lockett’s face, the man accepting the duty, a man who had never led troops being told to do so now. Lockett shouted, waved a short sword, “Soldiers! Follow me!”

  He rode forward, away from the church, pushed his dying horse down into a ravine, and Harris was amazed once more, the ragged line following him. Beauregard cheered them, more officers riding up, couriers, frantic messages. Beauregard turned toward him now, a stab of cold in the governor’s chest, and Beauregard said, “Go! To the west! Find General Hardee! Tell him he must advance! He must keep moving forward! The enemy will break!”

  Harris tried to understand, but it was not his place to ask questions. It was a simple command. He rode away from the church, a road that led to the west, the same road that had brought him to Beauregard the day before, the awful duty, the image of Beauregard’s complacency coming back to him, the lack of emotion, whether or not Johnston’s death meant anything at all. He kept to the road, knew it would lead him out to the south of the bloody fields, the worst fighting he had ever seen, the worst anyone in this army had seen. They had taken those fields, and much more, had pushed the Yankees completely away. But now the battle was there again, closer than he expected. To one side, an artillery battery came to life, startling his horse, and Harris struggled to stay in the saddle, the reins slipping from his hands. He gripped the thick hair on the horse’s mane, searched for the straps of leather, grabbed for them, pulled back, a gentle slap on the horse’s neck. The horse calmed, Harris righting himself, and he spurred the horse once more. He could see the battery now, three guns, manned by only a half-dozen crew, all that was left. Around them, he saw what remained of their limbers, dead horses, dead men, but still the small crew swarmed over the three guns, loading each one, then firing all three at once. He halted the horse, fought the smoke, could see through broken trees a vast open field. It had been one of the Federal camps, a place where some of Beauregard’s men had spent their night. But those men had withdrawn, some of them coming toward him even now, the retreat orderly, officers pulling them away with barely audible commands. The men still faced the enemy, that peculiar trait of soldiers who refused to die with a bullet in the back. Their muskets came up, another order, some firing, others just … standing, nothing in their muskets. Harris stared out through waves of smoke, saw no sign of anything they were shooting at. An officer rode past him at a gallop, suddenly jerked his horse to a halt, turned toward him, seemed lost, panicked, looked at Harris, no recognition, shouted to him, “Are you from Polk? Is General Polk moving this way? We need troops out to the right!”

  Harris shook his head, could give the man nothing at all. The officer did not wait, spun the horse away, a hard gallop along the road toward the church. Harris started out again, quickened the pace, moved alongside another wide field, saw a pond to the left of the road, deep with grass, men standing on the near side, spread out in a line of battle. Officers were moving among them, preparing them, gathering them closer. He knew where he was now, the Hamburg–Purdy Road, the pond on the map, Water Oaks. To Harris, the gray line seemed strong, the men standing together silently, expectantly. Far out across the field, Harris saw their targets, a thick wave of blue. They were a quarter mile away, flags in the air, men on horseback leading them into the open ground. He sat, mesmerized, flinched at a sudden blast of artillery coming down very close to the men in front of him. More came now, one red streak in the air straight over his head, the blast in the woods behind the road. The officers were riding quickly, moving behind their men, offering encouragement, but some broke, one section pulling back, a dozen men in a frantic run right past him. An officer followed them, sword in hand, headed them off, turned a few, drove them back to the line, but others escaped, Harris watching them as they scampered away. He moved the horse toward the officer, saw a gleam of madness on a blood-red face, fiery eyes, the man seeing him, pointing the sword.

  “Get out there! Help lead these men!”

  Harris didn’t know the man, saw the rank of major, said, “I am here from General Beauregard! I am to find General Hardee!”

  The man seemed not to hear him, looked again to the oncoming enemy lines, and now Harris saw more of the blue, a heavy line emerging at an angle from woods on the right. The line halted, men on horseback riding among them, flags clearly visible, neat rows, the Yankee lines shifting position, straightening with the men already in the field. Harris watched the maneuver, shouted again at the officer, “General Hardee! Where is he?”

  The man responded with a thrust of his arm, out to the right, directly into the fresh line of blue. The officer moved away, rode up close behind his men, and suddenly a bugler began his call, discordant notes through the roar of shelling, and the men close to Harris marched forward, some of them straight through waist-deep water in the pond. They pushed out into the field, incoming artillery peppering them, most falling behind, the Federal gunners overshooting. Harris watched in stunned amazement, the ragged line, no more than a brigade, a steady march farther into the open ground. The musket fire came now, the major’s men firing first, and across the way, the blue line seemed to pause, and suddenly they backed away, disappearing into the woods. Harris could see it all, the charge by the major’s men actually succeeding, and he felt a burst of excitement, of hope, thrust a fist into the air.

  The brigade pushed onward, a thousand men even closer to the woods, but the smoke spilled over them, then a hard rattle of musket fire. Harris saw a glimpse of blue coming far beyond the men, to the left, out past the gray flank. It was another line of Yankees, orderly, a burst of fire into the Confederates on that end of the line. Almost immediately the line seemed to curl, bend, the charge slowing. For a long minute the musket fire poured out both ways, but Harris could see the blue mass, many more troops, could see enough through the smoke to see the brigade coming back, slow retreat back toward the grassy pond. It was clear in his mind now that these men had no chance at all. The Yankees were far too strong. He searched for the major, the man who had made the astonishing effort, the word in Harris’s mind, something Johnston would know, would keep silent about until later. But Johnston would find the man, would talk to him in that slow, measured way, would tell the major how well he had done the job, might offer him the treasured words, that the man was a hero.

  Harris held that thought, felt his throat tighten, wouldn’t drive that away, not yet. But overhead, the musket fire was reaching him, the smoke in the field clearing away, the crumbling retreat of the major’s brigade rolling closer, chased by artillery shells, the Federal gunners finding the range.

  Harris thought of Beauregard’s order, stared out to where the major had pointed, blue troops advancing, knew there was nothing he could do now, that even if Hardee was out there, the enemy had come too close, that surely Hardee had pulled back. He turned the horse, said in a low voice, “I cannot do this. I am sorry, Sidney. I cannot obey.”

  He pushed the horse back along the road, heard a scattering of artillery shells explode behind him, more piercing the air all around. He ducked low, useless gesture, pushed the horse harder, the animal responding, and he rode as fast as the horse would take him, back toward Shiloh Church.

  SHILOH CHURCH APRIL 7, 1862, 1:00 P.M.

  The shells were falling in eve
ry direction, the stream of men coming through the woods increasing. Beauregard still tried to rally them, but the sounds of the fight were closer, the thunder from the shelling sweeping away his commands. Harris had made his report to the general, had apologized for his failure, but Beauregard had mostly ignored him, ignored him now. Harris felt the utter helplessness again but there was nowhere else to go.

  He was surprised to see a cluster of horsemen, Colonel Jordan leading them, Beauregard’s adjutant riding in from the same road Harris had taken. Jordan saluted, kept his demeanor as though nothing of concern were happening anywhere around them. Harris inched the horse forward, saw the same annoying confidence on Jordan’s face, had tried to avoid him whenever he could. Earlier that morning, they had met, and it was unavoidable, Jordan riding from some place where the lines had failed, where the enemy was pressing toward them. Jordan had still kept the calm, his words matter-of-fact, that Bragg could not hold the left. But Jordan did not require anything from the governor, their talk brief, meaningless, Harris only a bump in Jordan’s journey, a momentary pause in the inevitable.

  Jordan said something to Beauregard, what seemed to be a calm, friendly chat. Harris pushed the horse closer, no decorum now, didn’t care if Beauregard or anyone else ordered him away. Jordan said, “Would it not be judicious to get away from this place with what we now have?”

  Beauregard still ignored Harris, kept his focus on Jordan, seemed to weigh the man’s words. Harris saw something very different in Beauregard’s face, none of the glorious optimism, none of the spirit for pushing the men into the fight. There had been so much sickness in the man, but it was not like that. Beauregard seemed pale, but there was something new, a look in the man’s eye Harris hadn’t seen before, a calm sanity, the bluster drained away, none of the airs of a man who knows more than anyone else. Around them the artillery still came in, some of the shells closer still, a burst of fire shattering a tree at the edge of the woods, more men pouring from those woods, desperate to make their escape. The musket fire was there as well, and Harris knew that sound, knew as much as the men around him what the musket balls could do. After a long moment, Beauregard nodded, looked around, seemed to notice his staff, glanced at Harris, held that for a moment, as though he suddenly remembered who the governor was, why he was here. Beauregard nodded toward him, unsmiling, formal, then turned to Jordan again, said, “I intend to withdraw this army in a few moments.” He looked to his staff, the men anxious, sharp glances toward the artillery blasts.

  Beauregard said, “Issue orders to all commands. Colonel Jordan will organize a covering guard. They will be placed in an advantageous location, with a view toward protecting our retreat, making every effort to halt the enemy’s pursuit.”

  Jordan said nothing, nodded in agreement. Harris felt a strange stiffness between the men, as though the matter had been decided over a cup of tea. Jordan saluted, rode away, and Beauregard watched him leave. To one side, the staff went to work, senior officers sorting out the duties they had to perform, ordering the couriers on their way. Through it all, Harris still watched Beauregard, expected more, saw only a grim calmness on the man’s face. Harris wanted to say something, anything, but there was nothing he could do, nothing he could give. It was cold truth, the sudden clarity that there was nothing anyone could do to change what was happening. Beauregard pulled on the horse’s reins, but there was no urgency, and he moved past Harris without looking at him, the horse taking him out away from the church, into the muddy road, the road that led to Corinth.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  SHERMAN

  NEAR SHILOH CHURCH APRIL 7, 1862, 5:00 P.M.

  In nearly every part of the field, black smoke rose high, drifting in a soft breeze. It came not from the fight, but from the destruction of most of the Federal camps. As the rebels had pulled away, they had committed as much destruction as they could, setting fire to the tents and wagons, a last hostile act by men who knew they would not see those places again.

  Sherman stared at the tent, felt fortunate that his own headquarters compound close to the church had been spared, at least by those men who lit the torches. The other tents close by were mostly ripped down, ransacked. But his own had been left standing, an odd sight in a field where so much of the debris of war was scattered about. He dismounted, ignored the troops who streamed past him, men led by officers who continued to drive them forward. He eased his head into the opening, saw papers on the ground, not his. He bent low, picked up a handful, saw a Confederate seal, the orders and instructions for staff officers. The names were there as well, Beauregard, Jordan, Bragg. He studied the words, nothing of importance, not now. He noticed a bare space at the back of his tent, realized that the rebel commanders had not only used his tent for their own quarters, they had stolen his bedding.

  “Savages. Damn savages.”

  He tossed the papers down, reconsidered that, thought, maybe Grant should see these … but there was nothing there, those orders now made meaningless. The rebel army was gone.

  He stepped out of the tent, darkness settling on the field far too quickly, and he saw the thick clouds spreading over them, another storm coming. He moved again to the horse, climbed up slowly, the pain in his wounded hand still infuriating him. The dressing was filthy, rubbed through by the reins of the horse and he knew someone should see that, that a doctor would re-dress it, scolding him all the while. He looked to his staff sifting through their own belongings, scattered remains of backpacks and trunks, papers soaked by the rain, books tossed about, a shattered mirror. The men seemed stunned but Sherman was not surprised at all. The camps had been ransacked altogether, probably every Federal camp across this miserable ground looted for anything of value, and a great deal more of no value at all. He saw Major Sanger, staring at a handful of letters, raw emotion on the man’s face, but there was no time for any of that.

  “Major!”

  The man looked at Sherman with red eyes, walked quickly toward him, the letters stuffed into the man’s pocket.

  “Sir?”

  Sherman hesitated, had not seen Sanger this emotional before.

  “You all right, Major?”

  “They destroyed my wife’s letters, sir. My photographs are gone. Why would anyone do that? What would it matter?”

  “No answer to that, Major. Call it the spoils of war. One more kind of weapon. They have injured you. Was that not their goal?”

  Sanger seemed to absorb that, nodded slowly.

  “I suppose, sir, I can have her commission a new photograph. It will require some explanation. She will not be pleased. I do not share much of what we do in the field. Certainly not … all of this.”

  Sherman looked past Sanger, saw blue troops in the nearby road, coming out of the woods to the west. Alongside them were others, men who didn’t look anything like soldiers at all. He left Sanger behind, distracted, rode that way, could see they were rebel prisoners. He pulled the horse to the side of the road, focused on his own men, bandages and filth, blackened faces, hollow eyes. But it was those men who held the muskets, who prodded the rebels with the point of the bayonet. They noticed him now, but the energy was gone, the cheers few. The rebels looked up at him as well, men with the same look in their eyes, men who had given every piece of themselves. He was surprised by the faces, both sides sharing that common ailment. It was the aftermath of the worst experience of their lives, and the only difference between them was the uniform they wore. And of course, the muskets. He saw one uniform, gray, the insignia on the collar, but the buttons had been cut from the man’s coat. Souvenirs, he thought. The final indignity. The officer looked up at him, seemed to know who he was, and Sherman felt the same way, a glimmer of recognition. The man tried to speak, but there were no words, the man’s head dropping, the shuffling march continuing. Sanger had mounted his horse, moved up close behind him, and Sherman said, “I know that man. Baton Rouge, I think. Make sure the officers are treated with respect.” He looked again toward his tent, the ridicu
lous abuse of his own personal belongings. My bedding? “Perhaps not too much respect. But care for their wounds, certainly. No matter what we may think of them, I will not have them think of us as savages.”

  “Yes, sir. I will see to it.”

  Sherman glanced skyward again, heard a low rumble, but it was not artillery. It was thunder.

  “Ridiculous, damnable place. This will torture the wounded yet again. I want the ambulances sent out with all haste. There has been enough suffering for these men. The dead must be buried. Do what we can with the horses. Grant will order that, and I want the work under way before he has to tell me.”

  The line of prisoners continued past, seemed to stretch on as far as he could see. He turned away, had seen enough of bare feet and torn clothes. Sanger moved with him, the others mounting up, anticipating what might come next. Captain Hammond spoke up.

  “Orders, sir?”

  Sherman took a long breath, looked out to the west, the blanket of clouds hiding the sunset. He had already begun to think of the brigades, who the new commanders should be. He thought of writing that down, making his report to Grant, but he was feeling as tired as his men. Still the names came. Buckland … he’ll have his own division, if I have anything to say about it. McDowell … old fool. But he has powerful friends. Hildebrand … I’ll wring his neck, and make that decision a simple one. Stuart … not sure. He’ll probably get his own division, too. Did good work out there. Wish I had been there to see it. If I’d have kept him here, alongside Buckland … He shook his head. I split up the division, weakened us. And yet, what might have been my most stupid mistake could have saved this army’s left flank. Grant won’t ignore that. Stuart will get a division.