by Jeff Shaara
And he remembered now. His gun was not loaded.
To one side a voice called out, startling him.
“You! Password!”
The horses seemed to lurch, and a flash from a musket burst out, blinding. But there was light enough to see, his vision clearing, and the horses began moving quickly, a hard shout, another musket firing down the picket line. He felt the helpless panic, reached his hand for his cartridge box, fumbled, cartridges dropping, his fingers useless, cold and stiff. More muskets fired, bursts of sound from all along the line, but the woods were empty, no sign of the horses, and now a new voice, the lieutenant.
“Stop firing! What did you see!”
“Cavalry!”
“Cavalry, sir!”
The man was there now, fast steps through the soft mud, and Bauer saw him, an officer’s hat, staring ahead, a pistol in his hand.
“You sure?”
“Yes, sir! Six, maybe eight of ’em!”
“You sure they were rebs?”
“Yes, sir!”
Bauer stared into the gray light, trees and brush, nothing else, thought, well, not sure about that. But they didn’t answer the password. Didn’t have time.
“You all see ’em?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Sure did, sir.”
Bauer responded as well.
“Yes, sir! Looked like six or more!”
The officer stepped forward, made a small jump over the creek bed, kept his pistol out, pointed it forward.
“Anybody fall? You tell if you hit somebody?”
No one responded, and the lieutenant holstered his pistol, stepped forward.
“Move up here. Search around. One of you might have gotten lucky. I gotta report this, and if you boys were shooting at damn ghosts, it’ll be my ass that gets chewed.”
“No, sir! They were there.”
“I saw ’em for sure, sir!”
The officer kept moving forward, slow, deliberate steps, and Bauer saw others doing the same, following, keeping their distance on each side, the men crossing the creek. Bauer followed, pulled his feet through the deep mud, tried to jump the water, one foot landing square in the center. He slogged ahead, keeping up, and now the officer stopped, bent low.
“I’ll be damned. Hoofprints. They were here. Sure like to know who they were.”
“Had to be secesh, sir!”
“Yes, sir. Had to be!”
The officer stood, stared out into the woods, motionless for a long minute, seemed to ponder his next move. Bauer could see the treetops easily now, felt wet mist on his face, watched the officer turn toward him, the face familiar. The lieutenant moved back to the creek, stepped across, said, “Let’s go. We’re due to be relieved. I’ll make my report to the captain. He might ask you what you saw, any details. Don’t make up some fool story. Just tell him the truth. It was probably one of the patrols we’ve been told about. There’s said to be rebels crawling all over the countryside, trying to figure out who we are.”
The others flowed back through the woods, and Bauer moved with them, felt the wet misery in one shoe, stepped more carefully over the creek. They began to walk up the long slope, through the trees, the wide field finally opening up in front of them. Men were waiting for them, their relief, but more, men with muskets who had heard the commotion. Bauer felt suddenly important, part of something big, fought a shiver, thought, I saw them. The enemy. Coulda shot one. Shoulda shot one. Stupid pea brain! Load your damn musket! Not making that mistake again.
He saw a horseman now, the man riding close, Captain Fox, commander of B Company.
Bauer waited while the lieutenant made his report, some of the others adding their own flair. The captain listened impatiently, said something about Colonel Allen, rode quickly away. The lieutenant dismissed the men, seemed not to notice that Bauer wasn’t one of his, and Bauer walked out into the great open field, the long rows of tents, men stoking the exhausted fires, the clank of tin plates. The army was coming alive, another day in this strange empty place. The routine tried to plant itself in his brain, more bad food, more dirty water, more formations and bugles, and more of the senseless danger from Sergeant Williams. Bauer moved toward his own camp, those thoughts rippling through him, but he thought of Willis now, could feel the excitement, knew he had to tell him everything, that finally there was something more interesting than marching in the incessant drills. He savored the memory, the delicious image of the horsemen, riding so close to him, ghostly and dangerous. Cavalry … the enemy. He knew with perfect certainty, this was already his best day as a soldier. He felt wonderful.
CHAPTER NINE
JOHNSTON
NEAR ROSE COTTAGE, CORINTH, MISSISSIPPI MARCH 30, 1862
He had attended the services at the Baptist church for two reasons, going primarily as the guest of Mrs. Inge, and as well on the advice of his staff, that the town needed reassurance that their army walked with God. Even Johnston sensed that the citizens he saw were an uncertain lot, that behind whatever indignation that showed toward the Yankees, they held back their enthusiasm, as though hoping for some kind of sign that it was all going to turn out all right. He understood their fear, had seen it before, in Kentucky and Tennessee. In every place where massive gatherings of troops spread all across their lands, there was the inevitability of some unknown horror that seemed to overwhelm the civilians. On this Sunday morning, the preacher had been respectful of his audience, so many gray uniforms, and Johnston had not been surprised by the man’s rousing sermon that emphasized a call for fiery damnation toward the great invasion of the infidels from the North. If the citizens drew inspiration from that, more the good, but Johnston could not avoid a certain emptiness to the call for a Heavenly butchering of the enemy. There had been various examples of butchering already, and God had not yet shown a preference for one side or the other. But still he offered his thanks to the preacher, along with a strong suggestion to his staff that the offering plate be filled. After all, if this one Baptist preacher could somehow summon God’s aid, Johnston would not object.
The service had been surprisingly brief, barely an hour, the preacher seeming to understand that his audience had business to attend to. As he exited the church, officers were waiting with papers, reports of the ongoing entrenchments, the good work of engineers and men with shovels. But it was not the time, and he insisted they come to his headquarters, that for now, in the brisk chill of a cloudy morning, he would make the short walk down the hill to Mrs. Inge’s home without the business of the army dogging his every step.
Most of the troops had been organized in strengthening fortifications north of the town, the most logical place for the Federal troops to assault, though even before Johnston had arrived, Beauregard had seen to extensive defensive preparations far out along the railroad both east and west. Johnston and his commanders had discussed whether they should advise the civilians to vacate the town, that the inevitable assault could do far more than frighten them. But the reality was that most of them had nowhere else to go, and from all he had been told, by his staff, by Mrs. Inge herself, few were inclined to leave. Instead, many presented their fears and suggestions directly to his headquarters, were met by guards and his staff, who politely listened to the passionate concerns for the safety of their families, or what the Yankees might do to their homes. Kind and encouraging words were all the army could offer them, along with the never-ending plea that the people help supply the army with food and clean water. But Johnston had told his staff to pay close attention to the particular complaints or fears of the civilians, and what he heard was encouraging. Johnston realized that the people of Corinth were fully expecting the Yankees to come south, to attack the town. That meant that his own plan, the strike against Grant’s army that was so consuming his generals and their staffs, had not been spread out all across the countryside, either as rumor or fact.
Once the army lurched into motion, of course, any hope of secrecy would vanish, at least in the town. Whether
the enemy could be approached without making their own defensive preparations was, to his generals, a point of severe disagreement. But doubts about the enemy’s actions were not Johnston’s biggest concern. First things first. The plans had been put on paper, the maps checked and copied, distributed to the generals who would lead four corps of Confederate troops northward. Every general had been schooled on what his role would be, and what was expected of his command. Johnston knew there were doubts about whether the plan could be carried out, but there was no time now for debate. The orders had been given, the order of march understood by the men who would lead it.
The four corps would be commanded by Hardee, Polk, Bragg, and Breckinridge. John Breckinridge was to some a surprise choice, having come to the Confederate army only during the past autumn, well after the war had begun. Breckinridge had served as vice president under James Buchanan, and had made his own run for president against Abraham Lincoln. Though his commitment to the Southern Cause had been somewhat late in coming, no one doubted it now. Johnston knew that Breckinridge had been a good soldier in Mexico, and would be one now, and his leadership skills were unquestioned. He had been assigned to Johnston’s army to replace General George Crittenden, a man who had seemed destined for high rank. But Crittenden suffered from a lapse in personal behavior and so had crossed swords with Braxton Bragg. During his hard-nosed reorganization of the forces around Corinth, Bragg had discovered that Crittenden was known often to be in liquor. Bragg’s intolerance for any officer imbibing in spirits was sufficient cause that neither Beauregard nor Johnston could argue with Bragg’s insistence that Crittenden be replaced. Breckinridge had no such stain on his own reputation.
William Hardee was the final link in the chain of organization that Johnston now controlled at Corinth. Of all the commanders Johnston had at his disposal, Hardee was likely the most capable man they had, and his selection to command a corps had met with no objection at all, not even from Bragg. Like many, Hardee was a West Pointer, had already served with some distinction, including a term as the military academy’s commandant of cadets. Besides admirable service in the field in both Florida and Mexico, Hardee had authored what was considered the last word on infantry drill and training. His work, most often called simply Hardee’s Tactics, had been widely used in the Federal army since its publication in the mid-1850s. It was a source of pride to an army whose officers had been trained primarily in the textbooks of Napoleon, that one of their own would become a most respected authority on the drill and maneuver of troops in the field. But like so many in the old army whose loyalty was determined by geography, Hardee was a Georgian, and had caused considerable dismay in the North when he pledged his loyalties to the Southern cause.
For more than a week prior, the order of march had been discussed and argued over, but there was no real controversy that Johnston had to confront. By the time Johnston had reached Corinth, Beauregard had already done much to put a plan of attack on paper, and so Johnston conceded most of the planning to Beauregard and his capable staff, most notably Colonel Thomas Jordan. Jordan was regarded by Beauregard with the same level of respect that Johnston felt for his own adjutant, William Mackall. With Mackall now in command of the crisis at Island Number Ten, there had to be someone to fill the position closer to Johnston himself. It was unusual in the Confederate army to have an official chief of staff, and though that was now Bragg’s title, once the campaign was under way and Bragg returned to the field, Johnston would need a staff officer capable of taking the reins in nearly any situation.
Beauregard had insisted that the man for that job was Jordan, and in a surprisingly generous gesture, Beauregard had offered Jordan to serve in the role that Mackall had once filled. Knowing that the ailing Beauregard had relied on Jordan for much of the detailed planning that had already taken place, Johnston had every reason to share Beauregard’s faith in Jordan’s ability. Jordan was another of the West Point graduates, who had served in Florida against the Seminole Indians, as well as making a notable performance in Mexico. There was one other piece of lore about Jordan’s history that Johnston couldn’t ignore. At West Point, Jordan had been the roommate of William T. Sherman. Though Beauregard hadn’t given great notice of that delicious irony, Jordan clearly did. There was a fire to the man that demonstrated to Johnston that he had something to prove, if not to his own superiors, then perhaps to the redheaded adversary who waited quietly at Pittsburg Landing. Immediately Jordan began to tackle the detailed drudgery that ensured the Confederate forces were organized properly, fed and equipped as well as the commissary officers could deliver. Very soon, Johnston was impressed.
With April now right upon them, Johnston knew that if there was to be an effective attack on Grant’s army, the time had come. No matter what might be on paper, routes of march, and the geography that lay between the two armies, no one could put any kind of plan into action until the weather allowed it. Throughout March, the gathering armies had been separated by what amounted to twenty miles of paralyzing mud. With the army now as prepared as Johnston could hope, the frustration of that was maddening. Every day he had scanned the skies, his spirits raised by the occasional glimpses of blue. But those glorious days had been too few. As he stepped slowly out of the church, surrounded by well-wishers and his own officers, Johnston had glanced upward again. If anyone noticed at all, they might have thought he was offering a prayer. And they were right. While others had used the somber gathering in the church to seek hope and protection for home and family, to pray for those who were far away, or those who had passed on, Johnston’s prayer was far more direct. All he had requested was a break in the wild inconsistency of the weather, enough to allow the roads to dry, to harden the mud that kept his army penned up in sullen misery.
They moved down the hill in a slow, somber procession, the other generals taking differing routes to their own headquarters. Beside him, Mrs. Inge held her arms close across her, gloved hands wrapped with a shawl of colorful wool. As they moved out into the street, wagons began to move, but Mrs. Inge had insisted they walk, the stroll to the church not long enough to require the preparation of a carriage. On the walk up the hill to the church, the stinging numbness in Johnston’s toes had already made him question that decision. Silently, of course.
She walked close beside him, and he watched as she waved to a neighbor, a carriage that rolled noisily away down a side street. Johnston pulled his coat more tightly around him, but still the chill found him, a relentless wind that rolled up the hill toward him. He caught a silent shiver from her, and he thought of offering his arm, had a brief argument with himself, his gallantry winning out, the thought taking hold that there was nothing inappropriate about the gesture. She was, after all, his hostess.
“Madam, if you don’t object, please take my arm. This breeze is harsh enough, and there is no need for both of us to suffer. My coat is far more of a shelter than your wrap, certainly.”
She smiled without looking at him, eased closer, hooked her gloved hand through his arm, settling closer to him, though not so close to cause the officers and civilians behind them to gossip. He thought of looking back, knew his staff would allow him several yards of distance, close enough for a summons to any one of them if need be, but far enough not to overhear whatever conversation he might have with the woman who had done so much to provide her home for all of them.
Johnston had entertained no unconscionable thoughts about the woman at all, had never strayed from absolute loyalty to his own wife. There had been talk, of course, the kind of talk that surrounds every army, some of the people in Corinth offering their basest suspicions. But his staff put that to rest at every opportunity. If there were scoundrels in this army, the men targeted so viciously by the whip of Braxton Bragg, no one had to be concerned that the commanding general was among them.
Johnston knew only a little of Mrs. Inge’s husband, that he held the rank of colonel, was off somewhere that neither of them was certain of. It was the way so often now, scattered
units scrambling to come together into any kind of organized resistance, strengthening so many vulnerable places where the Yankees might confront them, confrontations that could come quickly once the weather improved.
After a moment, she said, “My cook, Gloria, has been instructed to prepare a warm dinner for us, General. Your staff is most certainly invited. A day like this calls for something to warm the insides of body and soul. She does prepare a wonderful potato stew, which I hope your men will find appealing.”
Johnston gave her arm a slight squeeze with his own.
“You are more generous than we deserve, Mrs. Inge. My staff will be grateful, and I assure you, it will come from the heart.”
The words tumbled out awkwardly, and he stopped himself, didn’t want any hint of affection to seep into their conversation. His mind rolled over the words. From the heart. What’s the matter with you? She has been nothing but kind, and her graciousness comes from loyalty, nothing more. He struggled to respond, to do away with the awkwardness that seemed to infect him in every social setting.
“My wife is not especially skilled at making soup. In Texas, there are potatoes, of course.”
“I did not know that, General.”
He stopped again, more frustration. But the mention of his home touched a place he had tried to keep hidden, a crack opening in that part of him that held so many memories.
“China Grove. That’s the name of my plantation. Beautiful place. Well, it’s more of a ranch, I suppose. We do grow cotton there. Sugarcane as well. I have a truly magnificent orchard, fruit and nut trees of all types. And I grow vegetables of all sorts. I truly enjoy that, digging the soil. It is one of those quiet joys that takes a man away from everything else. My wife Eliza understands that.” He paused. “I do wish to return there very soon.” He could not help thinking of his home, knew the fruit trees were beginning to blossom, realized with a sudden sharp sadness that he would miss the opportunities for the slow strolls with Eliza, both of them admiring the fragrance of the flowers, what she spoke of with quiet reverence, the trees slowly birthing their bounty, a gift from God they should never take for granted.
