Appomattox Saga Omnibus 2: Three Books In One (Appomatox Saga)

by Gilbert, Morris

  Beauregard was noted for his mercurial mood changes. That night in a meeting of the staff officers, he cried in desperation, “Now they will be entrenched to the eyes! We must call off the attack and return to Corinth!”

  General Albert Sidney Johnston listened calmly to the nervous Beauregard, then said, “Gentlemen, we shall attack at daylight tomorrow. I would fight them if they were a million.”

  Meanwhile, the Federal Army had plentiful evidence of the enemy but had chosen to discount it. General Grant, the conqueror of Donelson and Henry, seemed to have fallen into some sort of depression. He remained in Tennessee at Crump’s Landing, and his enemies would later say he went to Savannah every evening to get drunk. On Saturday, the day before the battle began, he telegraphed a message to his commanding officer, stating: “I have scarcely the faintest idea of an attack being made upon us, but will be prepared should such a thing take place.” Later that afternoon, he said to a group of his officers, “There will be no fight here at Pittsburg Landing. We will have to go to Corinth where the Rebels are fortified.”

  General Sherman, left in charge at Pittsburg Landing by Grant, was no more discerning than his commander. When told that the Confederates were massing less than two miles away, he scoffed, “Oh, tut, tut! You militia officers get scared too easily!”

  On the night of April 5, the stage was set for a massive Southern victory. The Confederates were poised to throw a tremendous attack against Union troops that had not even bothered to dig entrenchments or put out pickets. If the Confederates carried the day—as it seemed they surely would—the entire face of the war would be changed.

  “Take one fer my gal back in Alabama!”

  “Hey, missy, how about gettin’ a picture of me? These ugly warthogs will shore break yore camera!”

  Bristol and Frankie had no lack of subjects for their pictures on the afternoon of the fifth. The raw troops, most of them dressed in homespun and carrying whatever weapons they had brought from their homes, crowded around, curious as a band of raccoons. Most of them were amazed to find a young woman working with the photographer and were not shy about offering to show her the camp. They were respectful enough, though, and wanted only to be included in the pictures that Paul and Frankie were taking.

  The two photographers had arrived in Corinth late the night before and had caught up with the army that morning. Both of them were shocked and a little dazed at the confusion they encountered. There seemed to be no order, and despite the still-soggy ground, there was an almost festive air about the entire affair. Some soldiers were singing songs; others cooked over small fires as they laughed and told jokes.

  “They act like they’re going to a church social,” Paul said to Frankie as they set up their camera at the edge of the encampment. “The battle must have been called off. Nobody as lighthearted as these fellows could be facing death tomorrow!”

  Frankie shook her head. “I talked with one of the sergeants, Paul. He told me the battle will start at dawn for sure.” She gazed around at the men who were seemingly as happy as larks. “I’ve seen men come back from battle—but they weren’t like this. I don’t understand it.”

  “This is the chance of a lifetime, Frankie!” Paul’s dark eyes glowed with excitement. “We’ll get as many shots as we can of these young fellows now…catch the happy-go-lucky atmosphere in camp. Smiling faces, happy grins—men playing ball like that bunch over there. It’s never been done before.”

  Frankie looked around and saw at once what Paul meant. The two went to work, taking picture after picture of the youthful soldiers. Then they turned their camera on soldiers who weren’t so youthful, and both noticed that these older men were more serious. Frankie asked one of the men, a grizzled veteran of Bull Run, about the lighthearted spirits of the men. “Well, miss, it’s usually like that. Most of them are scared green but dassn’t admit it in front of their friends. Wait until they’ve seen the elephant. Then you’ll see some faces that have looked at hell. This time tomorrow, you’ll be hard put to find a smilin’ face.”

  Finally the light grew too dim for taking pictures, and the weary photographers cleaned up their equipment and made their small fire. They ate a little but found they were too keyed up for much appetite. Afterward they sat close to the fire, watching the other fires that dotted the landscape like the red eyes of demons.

  “I’m pretty scared, Paul,” Frankie confessed.

  He smiled grimly, his white teeth gleaming against his mustache. “So am I,” he said. “And we won’t even be running straight into the guns of those fellows over there. I’ll tell you something, Frankie—I don’t think I could do it.”

  “Yes, you could. You’d do it if you had to, just like Clay and Dent.”

  “Sure about that, are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Glad that one of us is,” he said, his eyes dark and uncertain.

  They spoke quietly, speaking almost in whispers as if someone might be eavesdropping. Finally Frankie laughed. “Why are we whispering? Those Yankees can’t hear us two miles away!”

  Paul joined in, laughing at their foolishness. Then he grew serious, his eyes intent on Frankie’s face. “When the battle starts, you stay back of the lines.”

  “I’ll stay as far back as this wagon stays!” she retorted, a stubborn set to her jaw.

  “You’ll do what I tell you to do!” Paul said, suddenly angry.

  Frankie crossed her arms over her chest and stuck out her chin. “As long as you don’t tell me to do something silly, like not do my job.” Nerves on edge, Bristol got to his feet. Frankie stood at once to face him, breaking in before he could speak. “You wouldn’t tell a man to stay back, would you?”

  “That’s not the point, Frankie—!”

  “Yes, it is!” she hissed, her voice low and angry. “I hired on to do a job, and right now that job means staying with you and with this wagon! I’m as good as any man at taking pictures.”

  “That’s not the problem, and you know it!” Bristol argued hotly. He bit back his next words and deliberately forced himself to calm down. Looking into her mutinous face, he said, “You may not like it, Frankie, but the fact is that you’re a woman. You can put on breeches and chew tobacco or do anything else to make yourself think you’re a man…but that’s your problem, not mine. My problem is that you are a woman, and I’m not going to let you get killed!”

  “You could be killed, too! It’s not like the bullets will know the difference between a man or a woman. We knew it would be dangerous before we came, and now you’re trying to change the rules!”

  Frustrated, Paul put his hands on his hips and leaned forward until his face almost touched Frankie’s. “I’m not going to argue about it,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’re not going to stay with the wagon, and that’s final.”

  “Are you going to tie me to a tree?” Frankie challenged. “Because that’s what you’ll have to do, Paul!” Her eyes were enormous as they reflected the light of the flickering fire and shot as many sparks as the burning wood, making her look fierce—and incredibly attractive.

  For a moment Paul was taken aback. His eyes blinked, and he stared at her in surprise. I’ll bet she has no idea how beautiful she is, he thought irrelevantly. He took in the set expression of her full lips, the tense attitude of her trim figure—and, with a sigh, gave it up. “Frankie,” he groaned, “be reasonable! How could I ever forgive myself if something happened to you?”

  Frankie saw that he was weakening, and her face and voice softened. “It wouldn’t be your fault. We’re both doing a job. If I get killed, you’re no more responsible than a general is if one of his soldiers gets killed.” He shook his head in disagreement, and she stepped forward and put her hand on his arm. Looking up, she pleaded, “Paul, don’t worry about me! You just take care of yourself. If…if you were killed, I’d be—” She broke off, as though suddenly aware that she was saying something she shouldn’t. She saw that he was staring at her with an expression of surprise. S
he dropped her hand hastily and stepped back. “Well,” she finished lamely, “I’d be grieved. After all, you’ve been a good boss. But we still have to do our jobs. Both of us.”

  Bristol was not happy, but he had no choice. Never should have brought her in the first place, he thought. But he said, “Well, I hope Mother is praying for us.”

  Frankie’s face broke into a smile. “She is, Paul! I know she is.” Then she turned back to the fire. “Let’s have more coffee. And are there any of those fried pies left?”

  “Just one. I’ll split it with you.”

  “My, you are getting generous!” Frankie’s smile widened. She was glad that the argument was over, and as the two sat down side by side, she poured the coffee while Paul dug the surviving apple pie out of the battered box. “Wish you were a dozen,” he said, eyeing it mournfully. Carefully he broke it in two, then handed one half to Frankie. He stared at his, then shook his head. “The last one,” he muttered. “When it’s gone, there’ll be no more.”

  “Oh, I’ll cook you a wagonload of the things when we get back to Hartsworth!”

  “Will you? Promise?”

  “Promise,” Frankie said with a laugh. She nibbled at her morsel of pie, watching as Paul wolfed his down. When he had finished and was licking his fingers carefully, she reached out and handed her half to him. “Here, eat mine. I don’t like them as much as you do.”

  His eyes lit up. “Really? I told you, I have no generosity or honor about fried pies.” He took her pie, ate it, and licked the crumbs from his hands. Frankie shook her head, smiling indulgently.

  They sat there for a while, listening to the fire crackle, and then a man from one of the fires began singing in a fine tenor voice.

  When the daylight fades on the tented field

  And the campfire cheerfully burns,

  Then the soldier’s thought like a carrier dove

  To his own loved home returns.

  Like a carrier dove, a carrier dove,

  And gleams beyond the foam,

  So a light springs up in the soldier’s heart

  As he thinks of the girls at home.

  Now the silver rays of the setting sun

  Through the lofty sycamores creep,

  And the fires burn low and the sentries watch

  O’er the armed host asleep,

  The sentries watch, the sentries watch,

  Till morning gilds the dome—

  And the rattling drums shall the sleepers rouse

  From the dreams of the girls at home.

  The voice faded, and Frankie looked at Paul, who was watching the fire with hooded eyes.

  “I guess you’re thinking of Luci, aren’t you?” she asked flatly, then rose and walked to the tent without another word, closing the flap behind her.

  Paul watched her leave, startled. He had been thinking of the battle the next day and so could only stare at the tent in confusion. Now what in blazes was that all about? he wondered, then went to his bunk and lay down.

  In the days that followed the battle of Shiloh, Paul learned a lot about the details of the fight. One of his military friends pointed out that the battle was neatly divided into two periods, with the Confederates winning on the first day, April 6, and the Union winning on the second day. To help Paul understand what had happened, the man drew two maps showing the movements of those days.

  Paul’s friend used small black rectangles to show the Union corps, white ones for the Confederates. It was all very easy and simple to follow as drawn on those two maps. On the map for the first day, Paul could almost see the driving Confederates as they stormed toward the startled Union troops, and how Johnston’s corps commanders drove the bewildered Federals almost into the Tennessee River. Only darkness had saved the Federal Army that day…that, and a spot of ground that came to be called the “Hornet’s Nest,” where a small force of Union troops stopped the Rebel drive dead in its tracks. Looking at the map, Paul noted the peach orchard on the flank of the Hornet’s Nest, where General Albert Johnston had led a furious bayonet assault on the Union stronghold—and was killed.

  Paul glanced at the map that illustrated the fighting of the second day. It was simple enough to trace the change of fortune in the battle. Grant had returned to his army just in time to shore it up, and when the Federal Army had pushed ahead, the Confederates had to retreat back to Corinth.

  But those bits of paper that told so much after the fact meant nothing during the battle—not to the soldiers who fought, and not to Paul and Frankie. For as the battle raged back and forth, most of the untested troops knew only their own little fragment of the huge battleground. Men fought and died, and their blood incarnadined the pond near the Hornet’s Nest—a pond that came to be called the “Bloody Pond.”

  Paul kept as close as he could to the fighting, and some of his best pictures were of wounded men staggering away from the furnace of battle, their eyes wide with fear, their mouths open as though they could not get enough air.

  All day Bristol and Frankie worked, taking picture after picture—many of which were ruined when they had to move the wagon over rough ground and some of the glass plates were smashed. At noon they pulled the wagon under some trees. A field hospital was set up a hundred yards away, and Paul’s face was grim as he said, “We’ll get some pictures here.” He asked the surgeon’s permission—which he gave with a grim nod—and for two hours he and Frankie labored. Often one or both of them would cringe when the air filled with the screams of the wounded, the sound of the surgeon’s saw grating on bone, and the cries for water or for a mother or sweetheart.

  Paul photographed the pile of amputated legs and arms behind the surgeon’s tent, then vomited until he was weak. He was glad that Frankie was in the wagon, developing plates, for he would have hated for her to see the carnage—or to see him showing such weakness.

  Finally, blessedly, night came, and the armies lay panting, exhausted and waiting for morning. Paul and Frankie were too worn out to build a fire and could not have eaten if they had.

  “It’ll be bad tomorrow,” Bristol said quietly. They were sitting in front of the wagon, watching the flash of distant cannon and waiting for the reports. “One of the staff officers said that Buell has joined with Grant. They’ll outnumber our boys two to one. We’ll have to be ready to move back at the first sign of a rout.”

  Frankie only nodded, staring into the darkness wearily, wondering if she would ever be able to forget the things she had seen that day.

  At dawn they rose, and Paul managed to get what he considered the most powerful pictures of all. He drove forward to where a Union charge had penetrated the Confederate lines and found dead men strewed over a field. They lay in eloquent positions, as though they had fallen from a high place, their arms often raised, frozen in an unwitting attitude of prayer. Some of the soldiers had fallen with their muskets in their hands, and often a dead Federal would be found in the embrace of an equally dead Confederate—frozen in a fight that ended the world for both of them.

  Paul took the shots, and by the time Frankie had developed them, they grew aware that something was wrong. Paul frowned, watching the action around them intently. “We’re being driven back!” he shouted suddenly, galvanized into action. “Get in the wagon!”

  They mounted the seat and Bristol reversed the wagon, but it was too late. Figures in blue were breaking out of the woods, coming toward them, and the musket fire rose to a crescendo. It sounded to Frankie like a giant breaking thousands of small sticks. She clung to the seat as Bristol whipped the horses into a gallop, and they were almost clear when she felt something strike her in the back. She thought it was a branch from a tree, but then the pain hit her. Startled, unbelieving, she looked down to see a hole high in her shirt front and blood staining the fabric the most brilliant crimson she’d ever seen.

  She tried to speak, but there was no air—someone seemed to be cutting it off. As she slid to the floor, she heard Paul cry out, but he sounded as though he were far away in
stead of beside her on the seat.

  “Frankie!”

  Then the floor of the wagon rose up and hit her on the forehead, and she slipped into a cold, black hole that closed around her.

  By the time Paul got the team stopped and pulled Frankie up to a sitting position, he saw that the Union attack had been halted by a countercharge of Confederate cavalry. Frantically he jumped to the ground, pulled Frankie’s limp form from the seat, and carried her to the shade of an oak tree. The horses were bucking, so he had to lay her gently down, then run for them. He grabbed their reins, tied them to a sapling, then dashed back to Frankie. His heart grew sick as he saw that the entire front of her shirt was soaked with blood. His first thought was to get her to a doctor; then he realized that might take too long. She could well bleed to death.

  He knelt beside her, ripped the buttons off her shirt, and pulled it away to view the small hole high over her right breast. Pulling her forward, he saw that the bullet had entered her back and so had gone completely through. He was no doctor, but he knew that it was good that the bullet had gone clear through her flesh. And he saw that it had passed through very high, angling upward. “Don’t think it hit a lung!” he said with a gust of relief.

  Paul laid her gently back against the tree, his heart pounding. She had lost so much blood.… He at once ripped off his cotton shirt and used part of it to make two bandages, then tore the rest into strips. He placed the pads over the wounds and tied them in place, then looked around. A grim expression crossed his face. Sooner or later the Federals would come.