A Blaze of Glory

by Jeff Shaara

  “Would you care for company, General? Or am I interfering?”

  Johnston knew the voice of Isham Harris, suddenly welcomed the presence of a friend.

  “If you don’t mind muddying your shoes.”

  Harris was beside him now, was waiting for Johnston to lead the way. Out in the road, all through the streets, Johnston could see men in motion, wagons and horses, and among them, clusters of men just standing, motionless, as though they had nowhere else to be. There were officers as well, horsemen, a few flags, but in every direction, he could feel the sluggishness, the complete lack of urgency. An officer rode past, trailed by a young aide, the man saluting Johnston without a word. Johnston returned the gesture with his own, the officer’s reflex, could not avoid an angry thought. Where are you supposed to be? What orders are you … ignoring? But the words stayed inside him, the man only a lieutenant, no authority to change anything that was happening. Or to make anything happen more quickly.

  They walked slowly, the mist heavier now, and Johnston realized he had forgotten his hat.

  “This is not a good idea. But still … there was a need to get away from … all of that.”

  “I am at your service, General.”

  It was unnecessary formality, but Johnston understood that Harris was opening the door, would discreetly listen to anything Johnston wished to say. Johnston avoided a mound of horse manure, tried to keep his boots out of the deepest mud, fresh now, the drying of the ground changed by a new storm the night before. He tried not to see that, his mind taking him to other places, the memories he could share with a friend.

  “I fought a duel once.”

  Harris stopped, clearly surprised, but Johnston kept moving, Harris quick to catch up, regaining his composure.

  “Well, General, I did not know that.”

  “Few around here do. Texas. My word, it’s been … twenty-five years. Felix Huston was his name. Officer. He was offended that I was promoted to a command that he felt was rightly his. He may have been right. Or not. Didn’t matter. His pride inspired him to challenge me, and my pride forced me to accept.”

  “Well, clearly, you were the victor.”

  “No, actually, I was severely wounded. But the victor … well, you never saw so much contrition. Everyone thought the wound he had inflicted was mortal, and that I would be gone any hour, so Huston obliges me by suddenly bowing to my every wish. He accepts my authority, follows my orders, even as I’m lying on what everyone assumed to be my deathbed. Worst thing I did to him was survive.” Johnston paused. “Not sure where he ended up. He’s not in the army, for certain. I think dueling took his stomach away. Perhaps I am the victor after all.”

  Harris laughed.

  “You do surprise me, Sidney. I never took you for one of those brash types, big mouths and fists to match.”

  “I was much younger. Youth makes allowances for stupidity.” He paused again. “Not sure how to explain that when it applies to generals.” He stopped walking, Harris looking at him, knowing there was so much more to say. “There is confusion in every quarter. You saw the reports, more than I have, most likely. The maps are so perfectly detailed, the crossroads, the rendezvous points. Every general in my command knows his duty today. And yet … we are like blind children, running into each other, stumbling on our own feet and crying about it. Yet I cannot condemn them. These are good men, capable, efficient soldiers. Bragg … Hardee. We put Breckinridge in the rear because he was the least experienced in the field … and Breckinridge reports that he cannot move to his appointed location because everyone else is in the way.”

  He began to walk again, and Harris followed, and after a silent moment, Harris said, “You are certainly familiar with Shakespeare. One of his plays is titled A Comedy of Errors. That seems to describe what is taking place today.”

  Johnston stopped again, saw a smile on Harris’s face, did not share the joke.

  “There is no comedy here, Isham. A great many men could die in the next few days, and if we fail to launch this assault in a timely way, it could be a great many more. If the enemy realizes what we are attempting to do, he will prepare to meet us. From all we have observed, we are very likely matching the enemy in numbers. Two foes of equal force … that always favors the defender. We have been blessed with time, and despite our problems with the roads, I am blessed with good men, officers who created the best plan of attack, to take full advantage of our situation. We need this victory, Isham. The people … everywhere … need this victory. The Federal army is a plague that must be destroyed. There can be no other way.”

  Harris looked at him, hung on his words, seemed surprised now.

  “I have not heard you speak that way, Sidney. You know those people well, you were schooled with many of them. You have fought alongside many of them. You have always told me that these two armies are alike, good men, led by good officers, fighting for different causes. I curse Abraham Lincoln every day, and I may curse his generals. But I do not know those men the way you do. You have usually shown respect for them. God forgive me, but I cannot. Politicians negotiate and bargain and draw up maps and boundaries and sign our documents and treaties … that is our world. I don’t know if President Davis has my appreciation for Shakespeare, but he surely understands that we are but single actors in a much larger play. That play is thus far a tragedy of horrifying proportions, and not just for your army.” Harris stopped, seemed to hold to his emotions, shook his head. “My people are enduring torment, Sidney. I understand why the newspapers have blamed you for abandoning Tennessee. But the fault is not yours. I am here in your headquarters, out of danger, while the Federal troops occupy my city, most of my state.”

  “Stop it, Governor. You have done what is necessary, as have I. You lectured me once against giving credence to the great volume of wind that comes from newspapermen. I took your advice. But this war surrounds us. In time it may engulf us.”

  “All right, Sidney. I understand the pressures put upon you, upon all of you. I know that a victory against General Grant will soothe our people a great deal. I know how frustrated your officers are for … forgive me … their meager performance today. I know that your army—our army is not performing to your expectations. But I cannot ever escape the duty I have that goes far beyond this army.” Harris paused again, and Johnston could feel the man’s energy, a passion for the moment that Johnston respected. Harris seemed to search for words, glanced around, as though expecting eavesdroppers.

  “You may speak openly, Isham. I assure you, there are no newspapermen to record your words.”

  After a quiet moment, Harris said, “I have seen what I expected to see in the people here, in Mrs. Inge, so many others. When I entered politics, I believed we were one nation, all of us, America, one people brought together for a single ideal. But I was wrong. The South is one nation. We share so much, our beliefs, our culture, and we are willing to wage war for the right to hold to that, to preserve everything we are. The North … they are mixed breeds, a mongrel dog beside a purebred hound. They share nothing that we share, no identity, no culture. They farm in Illinois and they run factories in Boston. If I go to Charleston or Atlanta, I know what I will find, how the people will regard me. I am the same as the men I see. But if a man in Minnesota travels to New York or Boston, he is in another world, isolated. What cause do they share? It is not possible they have a common bond. And now, because they outnumber us, they elect a president who does not represent anything of the South, and instead of reaching out and finding common ground … instead of being a leader, he orders his generals to bring their soldiers to our towns, to force us to become … them.” He looked hard at Johnston. “You are quite correct. They bring a plague, and it is our duty to eliminate it.”

  Johnston absorbed the man’s intensity, nodded slowly, said, “I have not heard you so … passionate about our Cause. But I must disagree with you on one point. Look at this army. It is just as I saw in Texas. These men … they are men of every station, rich and
poor, merchants and farmers. But more than that, this army is … every kind of man. Old and young, decent men, men with an evil streak, the generous, the greedy, the honorable and the profane. I fight the Federal army because they have invaded us with guns, because they march to our homes and insult us with their false authority. But I have no doubt that the man in the blue uniform carries a musket and is willing to die because he is committed to his cause, as we are committed to ours. If that was not true, the muskets would not be out there. He would not be dangerous. Make no mistake. The Yankee is very dangerous. I believe we have better commanders, and despite the difficulties we face today, our generals will prevail over his. Most of the generals in this command are men who broke their oath as officers in the United States Army. I know of no man here who does not reflect on that. The soldiers will fight because they respect the men who lead them. That is true in both armies. Those people in their blue uniforms might be a mongrel mix, but then … so are we all.”

  Harris shook his head.

  “Then we will disagree, Sidney. Your orders to the troops said it better than I could. We are a better people. We are fighting for everyone in the South, the women and children, homes and land and our very existence.

  I pray every night that our generals and our soldiers are superior to theirs. Every Southern man holds to that faith. God must support our cause and our efforts.”

  Johnston felt a stab of discomfort, had heard too many around the army and in the newspapers claim that God was most certainly on their side. It was a phrase that had been included in his own message to the soldiers, and he still pondered that, if he should have tried to inspire the men by ordering them to trust that a victory would be given them by the hand of God. He had thought of it when the words were written, and he thought it again now. Can anyone truly know? And what of the Yankees, the devout among them who pray as we do? What must God think of them? Johnston pushed the thoughts away, said, “I must do my duty, Governor. God will decide in His own way what is best.” Johnston looked up, the sky darkening, the dull gray of the daylight fading. “We should return to Rose Cottage. I have much to learn yet about our progress today, our positions. You should take the time to prepare your trunk. We will be leaving in the morning. As we march northward, I must move my headquarters. Keep to your prayers, Isham. My own involve matters closer to my command. I only ask that we be allowed to move.…”

  His words trailed off, and he looked out through the fading light, saw wagons in motion, more officers, their staffs and their flags trailing behind. He watched them in silence, had no idea who they might be, what regiment, which commander bore the responsibility for their particular delay. He watched them move up the hill toward the Baptist church, toward the roadways that would lead them out northward, one more piece of his army plodding along the muddy roads with sickening sluggishness. He glanced up, the mist still wetting his face, and he saw flickers of lamplight, the windows of the homes close by, the headquarters of the men who were out there somewhere, leading his army. He turned, began the muddy slog back toward his own headquarters, knew there would be more reports, more reasons why the plan had crumbled, excuses and blame. He saw the lights in Mrs. Inge’s windows, moved that way, the town darkening around him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  JOHNSTON

  ROSE COTTAGE, CORINTH, MISSISSIPPI

  APRIL 4, 1862

  He did not expect tears.

  “Please, madam, you are embarrassing me.”

  Mrs. Inge wiped a small white handkerchief discreetly across her eyes, smiled at him, made a short curtsey.

  “Then I will offer you only a simple farewell, sir. Your visit here has been an inspiration. The entire town will miss your presence. As most certainly will I.”

  Johnston was still embarrassed, looked around self-consciously, civilians gathering in the streets, many offering gifts, most giving a heavy handshake to the men who had made temporary homes in their town. Johnston saw his aide, holding the reins to his horse, the big bay he called Fire-Eater.

  “It is time, madam. Your hospitality has been most appreciated. We shall perhaps return very soon to celebrate a great victory.”

  “We will pray for you, General. Oh!” She seemed to recall something, a momentary fluster. “Gloria has prepared something for your ride. Sandwiches and some cake. I almost forgot. Let me fetch them for you.”

  Johnston looked again at the horse, knew from a dozen glances at his watch that it was already past ten o’clock. He saw the black servant now, Gloria coming out onto the porch, a small cloth bundle in her hand. Mrs. Inge took it, swirled around and with the soft smile he had seen so often, she unraveled it, produced smaller bundles wrapped in cloth.

  “Here you are, General.”

  “No … thank you, madam. A soldier travels light. We have adequate rations. I cannot take such bounty from one who has already been so generous. The town must conserve what it has. You have given so much to this army.”

  He could see the disappointment in her eyes, but the smile remained, enough to hold his guilt away for denying her gift. His staff had already mounted their horses, lining up with the color bearer in the muddy street. He felt the hard itch of urgency, his mind focused on what lay ahead, what he still had to do, took the reins from his aide, prepared to climb up on the horse. She was there now, surprising him, said, “May you have safe travels, General, and a triumph over our enemies.”

  She leaned close, a brief, uncomfortable hug, then stepped back, made a curtsey, lowering her head. He did not hesitate, climbed the horse, raised his hat to her, said, “If we return here, madam, it will be in triumph.”

  She backed away, stood beside the Negro servant on the steps of her house, more of the townspeople drawing close, appreciating the moment, the meaning of this journey. He sat silently on the horse, stared away, a tumble of details in his mind, thought, what is there yet to do? Nothing that can be accomplished here. He knew how much talk there would be, knew that each of his generals would have their own report, that bickering and accusations would fly, the pride of men clouding the reality that they had not moved this army with the speed required of them. He could not focus on that now, said in a low voice, to no one in particular, “I have overlooked nothing. It is time.”

  He pulled the horse into the street, a gentle nudge with his spurs, and without looking back, he led his staff up the hill.

  The roads were still muddy, the hooves of the horses soaked in thick gray goo. There had been yet another storm during the night, but the sky above them now was a blaze of perfect blue, the warmth from the sunshine bringing sweat inside his coat. He marveled at that, could not help thinking that this was a sign, some hint of a magnificent Gift yet to come. But the sun had not yet cured what ailed the roadways, and so, after a short few hours’ ride, they were already passing pieces of his army, wagons and guns mostly, supply trains that could not move as men moved. Officers were scrambling as he passed, cursing at the men who cursed at the mud they struggled against. Wagons were swallowed to their axles, some tilting precariously, swarms of filthy soldiers and teamsters doing all they could to move their equipment forward.

  Beside him and slightly back rode one of his adjutants, Colonel Brewster, and close beside Brewster, Isham Harris. There was no chatter, no idle conversation, and Johnston could feel the tension in them, and inside himself. He looked down repeatedly, measured the depth of the soft road, thought, a day or more and the sun should dry this out. But … we must be in our positions before that. We should have been there by now.

  The young lieutenant, Baylor, rode up to the head of the small column, said, “Sir, beyond that far curve is the village of Monterey. All three of the corps commanders are in this vicinity. I have spoken previously to the proprietor of the general store there, who was most hospitable. It could be a good location for a council, should you desire, sir.”

  Johnston stared up the road, more wagons to one side, saw an artillery piece missing a wheel, its crew doing what they co
uld to repair it. There were a few shouts directed toward him, but not many, not what he had heard before. He tried not to think on that, didn’t really know what it meant. They are frustrated, he thought, as frustrated as I am, as we all are. And they are tired. This march is short but tedious in the extreme. But I must know they have the spirit. I must know they are ready to make this fight. Yes, a council is called for.

  “Very well, Lieutenant. We shall stop ahead.”

  He turned in the saddle, the faces of his staff showing their alertness, waiting for any order.

  “Major Munford, accompany the lieutenant to the village ahead, see to the facilities. We shall halt there for now. Send word to the corps commanders who can be located that I wish to see them as quickly as possible.”

  Munford saluted, Baylor as well, and Munford looked back, motioned to the couriers, the men who would ride fast, who knew how to ask the questions along the way, to find anyone Johnston needed to find. The men gathered in the road in front of him, and he nodded to Munford, the command given, the small piece of his staff riding away in a muddy gallop.