A Blaze of Glory

by Jeff Shaara

  “My pappy gave me this, sir. Navy man. Said he knew John Paul Jones. Well, said he knew a lot of things. Knew the damn rum bottle, that’s for sure. But this here spyglass … a fine piece. You can see clear to the moon. Hmm. Maybe not tonight.”

  He seemed to hesitate, a glance at the muddy field glasses hanging uselessly around Seeley’s neck. Seeley looked at the spyglass, and Gladstone huffed, said, “Well, all right. Give it a try, sir.”

  Seeley expanded the glass, impressed by the brass and leather, knew Gladstone was watching him carefully. He mimicked the sergeant, put a hand over the far end, shielding the lens, put the smaller end to his eye, was amazed at the detail. He scanned the far side of the river, could clearly see movement, even faces, the brass buttons, stacks of muskets, tents rising. Farther up the rise, more tents were going up, and he saw flags, but even the breeze didn’t move them, revealed almost nothing.

  “One looks like Ohio. Maybe. That doesn’t mean a thing. Stars and Stripes … but I guess we knew that.”

  Gladstone said, “They got their big brass’s headquarters back in those woods, I betcha. Under the big trees for comfort. They stuck the green lads at the river’s edge. Flood rises up and grabs ’em, nobody’ll care.”

  The sergeant laughed, and Seeley couldn’t help a smile. He had already decided that if anything dangerous happened, Gladstone would be the man to follow, rank or not. Seeley could feel it, even in the swamp, knew that this man had never been lost in his life. Maybe, he thought, the captain knows that, too. That’s why he left him here.

  The thunder rumbled again, far away, and he glanced upward, the skies still heavy and dark, a hint of a setting sun. But the rain had slowed, the splatter on the river lighter, more sounds flowing across from the Federal camp. He looked again through the spyglass, thought, they got a pile of nice tents, that’s for sure. I’d like to have one of those things. He shivered, the air cooler, another breeze whipping the misty rain in a swirl around him. And now Hinkle pointed, a chattering excitement in his squeaking voice.

  “Sir! They’re coming across!”

  Near the railroad bridge, a half-dozen men had slid out into the water, were swimming furiously, reaching the first of the wrecked pilings, clambering up, their own island. On the shore behind them, a group of men had gathered, and now a rope was tossed out to one of the men perched up on the piling. He pulled what seemed to be a small raft, piled with some kind of black lump. Now another rope went out, caught by a second man, another raft floating out, pulled by the rope. Seeley watched with a hard burn of curiosity, saw four of the men swimming to the second of the five pilings, then the two towing the rafts. Hands reached out, pulling the men onto the second piling, the small rafts dragged close, then the process began again, the men moving toward the third piling, the largest, at the center of the river. On the far bank, an officer sat on his horse, watching, and Seeley thought, he’s done this, sent them over. Probably picked his best swimmers. They’re gonna be over here as skirmishers, lookouts.

  Beside him, the sergeant said, “Those rafts … not big enough to be muskets. Pistols and cartridge boxes, I bet, wrapped in a raincoat. They can keep the powder dry till they reach this side. Then load up. Clever devils.”

  Seeley glanced back to the swamp, said, “We gotta get back, tell the captain.”

  “Easy there, Lieutenant. They’re clever, but don’t mean they’re smart. Got me an idee, if you’ll permit, sir.”

  Seeley felt a small surge of panic, looked at Gladstone, saw the same gap-toothed smile.

  “What kind of idea?”

  “Right now, they ain’t armed.”

  “Neither are we.”

  “They don’t know that. It’s getting dark fast. We make enough ruckus, we can scare ’em to death.”

  “The captain said no engagement. No casualties. This is just … reconnaissance.”

  “I ain’t for disobeyin’ nothing, sir. But if ’n we wanna know who those boys are, the easiest way might be to ask ’em. The captain wants information. Let’s get him some.” Gladstone pointed, the woods darkening even more. “The railroad bed is that way, and that’s where they’ll land. What you say, sir?”

  Seeley heard a loud cry, looked out to the men in the river, one of them struggling, helping hands not helping enough. The man began to drift downriver, flailing, a high yelp. Men were shouting toward him, the men up on the piling staring helplessly as their friend was swept quickly away. Seeley felt sick, his heart racing, but the men on the piling stayed put, wouldn’t do anything, and he looked across, to the officer on horseback, hard shouts, pointing to the crossing, pointing again, giving the order. Seeley could hear it all in his mind. No stopping. Nothing you can do for him, without losing maybe all of you. It’s the only order the man could give. Seeley couldn’t see the single Yankee now, too far, too dark, thought, maybe he’ll find a snag, grab something. Maybe he’s already gone. Drowning. God help him. Not a way I’d want to go. He looked at the other soldiers, the five men all perched up on the fourth piling, anger and agony in their movements. Gladstone was still beside him, had seen it all.

  “That’ll help. One less to worry about. And they’ll be jittery.”

  The men didn’t rest long, no time for grief, the darkness coming fast. Seeley watched as they slipped down in the water again, hands helping others, slowly, more careful. The two small rafts followed as they swam on toward the last piling, the last stop before they reached the near shore. Seeley felt the energy now, the sergeant’s simple idea forming itself in his own mind, a deadly game, a game played by soldiers. He thought of the captain’s harsh comment, the gold bar on his collar. Earn it, Jimmy. Earn it right now.

  They had spread out, ten yards between them, Seeley closest to the railroad bed. The men were swimming straight toward him, splashes in a steady rhythm. It was too dark to see them, but out on the last piling, he could see two forms, men who seemed to stay put, and he thought, they’re played out maybe. Too exhausted by the current. Or, the lost man’s friends. They’re not moving … no matter their orders. Figure their officer can’t see ’em. So … now just three in the water. I hope.

  The rain was nearly stopped, a thick wet fog settling over the river, and he slipped closer to the edge, the splashes a few yards offshore. Soon they’ll stand up. It’s time.

  “You there! Yankees! Stop or we’ll shoot!”

  To both sides, the other two took his cue, more shouts.

  “Yankees! Shoot ’em! Cut ’em down!”

  “I got him … he’s mine. Let me kill him!”

  The men in the water began to cry out, responding, their helplessness carrying away any urge to fight.

  “Give up! I give up!”

  The first man stumbled up close to Seeley, still shouting, the man only feet from Seeley’s face. Then he was down, the exhaustion sucking the energy from his legs, and he lay flat on the gravelly bank, said again, “I give up! Don’t shoot!”

  Seeley jumped on the man’s back, dug a knee down hard, holding him firmly, but there was no strength in the man, just hard gasps, the man’s breathing.

  “Don’t move, bluebelly! I’ll put a ball in the back of your head!”

  “Not moving! I give up!”

  He looked up, foggy darkness, heard a manic explosion of splashes, listened hard, the swimmers moving away from shore. To one side, Gladstone called out, “They’re running away! I wanted to kill me one up close! Damn you, bluebellies! Come back here so’s I can run this here bayonet up your assbone!”

  Seeley kept his weight down hard on the man beneath him, no struggle, a slight whimper from the man.

  “Don’t kill me, reb. I got babies at home.”

  “Then shut up! Don’t move.”

  There was a rush through the bushes to one side, Gladstone running low, then down beside him. The sergeant shouted out, “Hinkle!”

  The boy came at a gallop, stumbling out onto the railroad bed, breathing as heavily as the prisoner. Gladstone drew his knife,
reached down, and made a short slice. Seeley jumped, thought, no! But he saw now, the sergeant had cut the rope that had been tied to the man’s arm. He pulled it in quick draws, the small raft now sliding up the bank.

  “See here, sir? We got us a bluebelly and a handful of hardware along with him. You like my idea now?”

  Seeley said nothing, thought of the captain, the orders not to engage anyone.

  “Let’s just get him back to the others. We’ll let the captain tell us if this was a good idea.”

  McDonald leaned close to the man’s face, said, “He’s stinkin’, that’s for sure. River water and piss. Who’s got a match?”

  “Here!”

  Seeley stood close beside McDonald, a crowd of the others gathered close behind them, and now the match ignited, blinding, and Seeley saw the prisoner’s face, clean-shaven, handsome man, and very scared.

  “Please don’t kill me.… ”

  “Oh, shut the hell up, boy. Only reason we’ll kill you is if you don’t answer my questions, that’s all.”

  The match went out, and Seeley blinked hard, tried to see anything of the prisoner. The man was held down tightly on both sides by Gladstone and Hinkle, but there was nothing of escape in this man, the pure terror draining away any soldiering he might have brought to the uniform.

  “Who … who are you? You a secesh?”

  McDonald kept his voice hard, said, “Now that’s your second mistake. I ask and then you answer. Your first mistake was swimming straight into a full regiment of the Confederate army’s finest cavalry. What jackleg officer ordered you to do something that stupid? It was pretty stupid now, wasn’t it, Private?”

  Seeley thought, regiment? But he understood what McDonald was doing. No one needs to know there’s two dozen of us, and a million damn Yankees across the river. The question was a trick as well, and the prisoner fell flat-faced into it.

  “Captain Danforth’s orders. Told us we needed to set up watch over on this side of the river, make sure nobody snuck up on us. The captain asked us if we could swim. I used to all the time … at home … all the time … Sandusky Bay. Corporal Boynton … said he could, but I knew he wasn’t strong. He got swept away. You find him? He’s always trying to be a hero, volunteering for everything. I knew he’d have trouble in that current. Tried to grab him … awful …”

  “Oh for God’s sake, son, I asked one simple question. This Captain Danforth, what company he command?”

  “Company C, sir. Uh … maybe I ought not be telling you this. They told us …”

  “Listen, son, you know what a Tennessee toothpick is?”

  “N-n-no, sir.”

  “Somebody light another match.”

  The captain’s order was obeyed, a flash of light bursting between them. McDonald was squatting within arm’s length of the prisoner and Seeley could see that he had already drawn the long knife. The captain made a quick show, held it out, turning the blade to reflect the flicker of light. The match went dark, and McDonald said, “We all carry these, son. Sharp as the day I was born. They’re real good for gutting a hog, or, even better, they’ll split a Yankee from his chin to his soft privates. Sharp on both sides, so you can spin it around right inside a man’s chest. Now, you can tell me what I want to know, or I’ll show you just how sharp this blade is.”

  “Ohio, sir! Forty-ninth Ohio! Colonel Blackman! General McCook’s Division! Please …”

  “McCook?”

  Seeley knew the name meant something to the captain, had to be important.

  “How many more behind you?”

  “Don’t know, sir. Really! Don’t know. Bunch of us, though. I heard the colonel talking. Said something about General Nelson … somebody else … oh Lord … I can’t remember …”

  The prisoner began to cry, hard sobs, and Seeley couldn’t avoid feeling sorry for the man, a flash of thought, never be a prisoner. Never.

  “Oh, wait … I heard the supply sergeant … said something about the river.”

  “The one you swam across?”

  “No, sir! The Tennessee River! Some town, like in Georgia … I heard of it.”

  “Georgia? You’re not making sense, son. You’re in Tennessee.”

  “Savannah! That’s it. Something about going to Savannah. The sergeant made a joke about it. Stupid generals gonna make us march all the way to the ocean. But somebody cussed him out for being stupid, said there was another one … another Savannah … in Tennessee!”

  Seeley felt McDonald stand up tall beside him, and the captain said, “Lieutenant, get the men in the saddle. We can’t wait. Bring this boy with us, until we can hand him off.”

  “How’ll he ride, sir? No spare horses.”

  “You decide to let your sergeant run your command, Lieutenant?”

  Seeley had waited for this, wondered if the value of the prisoner outweighed the risk they had taken. Of course, he thought. He knows I didn’t make this plan myself.

  “Sir, I saw an opportunity to grab a prisoner, get some information. Had to make a quick decision.”

  “Well, when you make decisions that go against my orders, you’ll pay for it. Even good decisions. This boy’ll ride with you. Hey, Yankee.”

  “S-s-sir?”

  “You’re gonna be tied up real snug to my lieutenant here. You ever ride a horse?”

  “Not much, sir.”

  McDonald slapped Seeley on the shoulder.

  “Enjoy your ride, Lieutenant.”

  Seeley waited for the prisoner to be pulled up to his feet, thought of the rope they would use, something stout to tie the prisoner against him. It was the only way in the dark, no chance for the man to fall off, slip away. He began to move, felt another hand on his arm, heard the familiar deep growl close to his ear, the voice of Gladstone.

  “Nice of you to take the blame and all. But, beggin’ your pardon, sir. For takin’ the credit, you owe me a bottle.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JOHNSTON

  ROSE COTTAGE, CORINTH, MISSISSIPPI MARCH 23, 1862

  The newly assembled army around Corinth had been designated now the Army of the Mississippi, and though Beauregard had insisted the command belonged to Johnston, his actions suggested that Beauregard believed himself to be in the best position to manage the army’s affairs. On the march from Murfreesboro, Johnston had to suffer through lengthy communications from Beauregard that could only have been interpreted as orders. The missives included a steady stream of requests and the requirements for Beauregard’s own plans for troop movements, distribution of supplies and ordnance, and the proper construction of the defenses to protect the railroad. Beauregard’s display of so much authority made Johnston wonder once again if Jefferson Davis had sent Beauregard west for this very purpose, but Davis’s letters showed no sign of any lack of confidence in Johnston’s command. Beauregard’s behavior was simply … Beauregard.

  To the Creole’s credit, he was an efficient organizer, and his standing among the civilian population had produced significant results, new volunteers answering his call, the other commanders throughout the Mississippi Valley answering as well, supplies and troops continuing to march toward the crucial railway. Beauregard’s success was an obvious contrast to Johnston’s inability to produce the same kind of enthusiastic effort, one more example of the blame levied against Johnston for so much of the bad news that had come from the army’s failures in Kentucky and Tennessee. Johnston was grateful as well that Beauregard had assumed control of an essential part of the army’s change of positioning, since Johnston had to focus his attention on the rapid transport of the twelve thousand men he brought from Murfreesboro. That march also included the precious supplies gathered at Nashville, plus the urgent need to monitor any pursuit by the enemy, particularly the Federal cavalry. With Beauregard establishing his headquarters at Jackson, Mississippi, Johnston had allowed the Creole the authority to do whatever maneuvering was necessary to assemble as much strength as possible in Mississippi. On March 23, when Johnston arrived at Co
rinth, he could not avoid feeling seriously impressed by the success of Beauregard’s efforts. Around Corinth, and throughout northern Mississippi, the Confederate forces numbered close to fifty thousand. Whether Beauregard expected to actually lead those troops in the field was an issue that Johnston knew he would have to confront.

  Beauregard was a small, wiry man, handsome in the extreme, a trait that had made easy work for the newspapers in proclaiming him to be the South’s most gallant hero, his French background offering easy grist for the public mill quick to proclaim him their own Napoleon. Johnston carried the annoying memory inside him still of a quote from a Richmond paper that declared with great emotion that the South’s survival depended exclusively on God and General Beauregard. Johnston had wondered often, and he wondered now, if Beauregard believed that as well.

  At the moment, in Johnston’s new headquarters, he was more concerned with the man’s appearance. Beauregard had been extremely ill for some weeks now, and it showed. The illness, something in the man’s lungs, was draining his strength so severely he could barely stand. Beauregard’s condition had not been helped at all by the journey from Jackson, where he was still quartered. But summoned by Johnston, he had gamely made the journey, and both men knew that very soon, Beauregard would make the move to Corinth.

  Their meeting had been brief, but already his voice was giving out, Beauregard lying back on a couch in the living room of the private home that now served as Johnston’s office.

  “I am concerned for you, General. You did not have to make the journey here in such circumstances. This meeting could have waited. I apologize.”

  “For what? My duty requires me to be where you require me to be. I am pleased to report that your army continues to be assembled as we speak. I congratulate you on the swiftness with which your orders were carried out. No retreat is a joyous affair.”