A Blaze of Glory

by Jeff Shaara

  They pitched their individual shelters, some using the canvas beneath them, keeping the wet ground away. No one had complained, no one protesting the order that would keep them out here, so close to the enemy, so deep into the constant misery of the weather.

  Seeley found a stout tree, piled wet leaves into a soft mattress. He moved out from his shelter, checked on his men, on Gladstone, everyone doing what he had done. The men were spread all along the road, set into place by the captain to be in the best position to ambush anyone who happened to stumble past. Seeley had wondered about that, McDonald’s certainty that they would know the enemy from their own men, but the captain had perfect confidence that his patrol was the only one designated in this stretch of roadway. Seeley had to accept that McDonald knew what he was talking about. If horsemen came, they would be Yankees.

  He slipped into his shelter now, the whining of mosquitoes immediate, joined by the background of chirping crickets, croaking frogs. The Yankees had quieted, for now, or else had gone into shelters of their own. Even the enemy needs sleep, he thought. They’re not devils or godless beasts. Just poor dumb volunteers, sent down here to conquer people who won’t be conquered. Simple as that. Just as simple what we’re gonna do to them.

  He pulled his coat up around his face, tried to escape the mosquitoes, the only remedy there was. The sounds were muffled now, and he tried to calm his heartbeat, to find some way to sleep. He felt the cold turn in his chest, thought of the Yankees he had seen that day, scattered bursts of musket fire, but nothing like he had hoped. He let out a breath, stuffed his hands into his wet coat pockets, lay motionless, the softness of the leaves not nearly soft enough. It would have been wonderful, he thought, a hard charge right into those bluebellies, scattering them to the hills. He had practiced waving his sword high over his head, alone of course, making the piercing scream they had repeated in their drills. The mock fury had come, too, but he knew it would never be like that, that when it was time to face those bluebellies, when the sword went up, it was serious and deadly, and a man had to prove himself better than his enemy. I am better, he thought. We are all better. They won’t even stand up to us when we’re right in front of them. They take their potshots and scamper away. Scared rabbits. Not what I expected. Not a bit. He thought often of the man he had captured back at the Duck River, the terrified Yankee whose only mistake was that he was a good swimmer. Wonder where he is now? They send him home with a parole? Not an officer, so maybe he’s in one of the prisons. Not me. Nobody’s gonna catch me. I got a good horse … good commanders. He stopped himself, didn’t want to think on that, on what it would mean if he had to escape. Nope, I don’t plan on running away from anybody. I’m going home a hero. Maybe we all are.

  He knew there would be no sleep, his thoughts roaring through his head, fantasies of what would happen tomorrow, what kind of confrontation they would find. It didn’t happen today, he thought. Maybe not my time yet. But the Almighty has a plan, no doubt about that. All I ask, Lord, is you let me at ’em. Let Katie and everyone else back home know that when I come riding down the street in Memphis, people will stop and wave and say, now by God, there goes a soldier.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  JOHNSTON

  NEAR MONTEREY, TENNESSEE APRIL 5, 1862, 5:00 A.M.

  Before midnight, a new storm had blown up, a blustery violence that brought down tree limbs and flattened tents. By dawn, when the attack was scheduled to begin, the rains had ceased, the sun rising to a clean, misty sky. Even in the worst of the downpour, Johnston had continued to move, and if there had been any sleep at all, it had come in the saddle. As the sun rose through the trees, Johnston had stared often at his pocket watch, the 8 A.M. timetable crawling toward him like the onset of a miserable sickness. He had ridden across most of the places his troops were supposed to be, had found what his generals already knew, that there were great gaps in the lines that were supposed to have been a solid force. By the scheduled time of the attack, Johnston knew it could not happen. The army was not yet ready, and no matter the forcefulness of his orders, or the energetic efforts of his generals to reclaim control of their disorganized troops, the army would be forced to wait. Throughout the morning, as hour passed hour, the bright sun rose above flowering treetops, the air crisp and breezy, the roads starting to dry. But still the army lagged, some troops finding their place in line only to discover they were isolated, their commanding generals far back, still pushing forward their men and their artillery, all the crucial pieces of the army that for two days now had floundered in the mud.

  Along what was to have been the assault lines, Hardee’s Corps was mostly intact, the one bright spot in the maneuvering that had gone close to schedule. But Hardee knew he was not strong enough to start anything with the Yankees to his front, whether they expected him to be there or not. As Bragg’s troops advanced, even his furious efficiency could not push the right people into place, and Johnston did what Bragg was doing, kept moving, staff officers in tow, messengers scrambling to find the regimental commanders. Johnston himself had found units who were lost, or just confused, some of their leaders inexplicably stopping for the night, their men kept motionless in distant fields, like lost children waiting for the rescue from a parent.

  By noon, most of the army had sorted itself out, but the attack formation was far from complete. Far behind the lines, troops and artillery continued to slog their way through the country roads and farm lanes. By early afternoon, some troops were still far away, some still jumbled together with other units, too many men and too many wagons vying for the same miserable roadways. Other units seemed to be nowhere at all, even their corps commanders having no idea what had happened to entire regiments, and in Braxton Bragg’s case, one entire division.

  As the hours ticked forward, Johnston’s frustration swelled into fury, and when he stumbled across the wayward colonel or the brigadier who was no place he was supposed to be, Johnston did all he could to hold his temper, to give the appropriate order, explaining in tightly wound words the expectations, the directions. As he left each location, the anger he fought so hard to control began to chew at him, sickening his stomach, sweat in his shirt. When the sun passed its zenith, Johnston finally had to accept the fact that with barely half his army in the place they were supposed to be, there was no way to salvage the day. On this Saturday there would be no attack. Johnston had no idea how many miles he had ridden, how many troops he had seen, how many officers shared his frustration that on this gloriously beautiful day, the opportunity for a fight was slipping away. As he made his way back toward his temporary headquarters at Monterey, he knew his horse was exhausted, as much as its rider, and Johnston had finally to concede that he could not just drive the animal to death. With the village a half mile to his front, he had stopped, ordered his staff to remain behind, spurred the horse into a small clearing where no one could see. He dismounted the horse, led it to the edge of a patch of deep grass, sat, the horse standing obediently still, the one witness to the struggle he endured to hold back the emotions. The tears were brief; not even in solitude would he grant himself the favor of letting go of his control. It had been like this before, the death of his first wife, and then, years later, the death of his young daughter, the girl gone now a dozen years. There would be no great display of sorrow, his loss kept silent, locked away. As he sat alone in the grassy field, he held it back still, would fight the frustration as he always fought it, one more piece of God’s test, that no matter the tragedies or the failures, he would stand firm, he would accept what role he was to play. The loss of his daughter had thundered through him as the greatest test of all, and he had expressed his sadness to his friends through letters, releasing his emotions in words on paper. That pain had eased now, replaced by the agonizing absence from his beloved China Grove, and the woman who would pray for him to return.

  The horse waited patiently for him, and Johnston leaned down, plucked a tuft of grass from the soggy soil, could smell the mustiness of so much r
ain, one more reminder of his love of the earth, of all he had missed by joining this new army. The decision had been so difficult for so many, including men who served him now, but it had never been difficult for him. No matter his love of the land, his love of the army could never be denied. He had to believe that Eliza understood that. But her letters came often, soft hints that she pained for his return. He found no fault with that. It was a pain he shared. He had thought the relief from that might come before now, that the angry talk about his poor performance in Kentucky might have ended his career. But President Davis believed in him, perhaps more than Johnston believed in himself. No doubt his reputation was damaged, and despite all Johnston had said to Harris, he felt the sting of his critics, had hoped in some quiet place that this campaign could give him vindication. That is selfish, he thought. But to retire to the land with the honor of a duty well done … that does mean something, no matter what I tell anyone else. Eliza knows that, certainly. I could never go home and plant my vegetables and pretend I am happy if I left my duty undone, if my honor has been squandered by failure. He smiled, shook his head. I cannot admit that to Governor Harris. I must pretend that the newspapers mean nothing, that my reputation beyond this army means nothing. He stared up at the blue above him, a strange thought curling through his mind. I do not love this. The army, yes. But not this war. I believe in what we do, but it brings me no joy to watch this nation pulled apart. He glanced around, self-conscious. No, that is not a conversation I can have with anyone. I am not reluctant, after all. There can be no hesitation. Even now, with so much of this campaign planned by others, men who are supposed to answer to me … I do not object to that.

  He couldn’t help thinking of Beauregard, and the annoying Colonel Jordan. As the march out of Corinth began, and the astounding difficulties with the logistics were quickly apparent, the plan of attack the two men had so carefully designed had been changed completely. Beauregard had insisted that instead of the great arc, with the three primary corps strung end to end, the army could best strike the enemy in parallel lines, each corps lined up behind the other. The focus would center on the small church the locals called Shiloh, above the crossroads at Michie’s. Beauregard’s strategy now called for a sharp hammer blow that would strike the enemy in waves. Beauregard had announced the change to Johnston with a matter-of-fact smoothness, bolstered by the oily assurances of Colonel Jordan that with so many difficulties putting the army into position, this would be a far more practical alternative. Johnston had found it difficult to object, had to accept that these men had drawn up their strategy after weeks of study, and if they believed this was the best way, then he would not order otherwise. I have to trust them, he thought. I have to trust in every officer in this command, or I am no leader. I cannot lead by decree, by forcing myself into every decision.

  He did not look at his watch, glanced up at the sun, knew it was growing late, already mid-afternoon, a final confirmation that no attack could be launched at all. He climbed up on the horse and moved back out of the field, could see the staff was waiting for him, obedient, loyal, good men, men he had grown to respect, men who understood more of his moods than he wanted. He rode close to them in silence, the emotions drained now, no one questioning where he had been, or why. He rode back toward Monterey with a calm sadness, saw more aides waiting for him, saw anxiousness, men waving frantically. He glanced back at the officers close behind him, saw shrugs, surprise. He spurred the horse, led them forward at a trot, said, “Well, let’s find out what’s happening.”

  COLONEL JORDAN’S “NEW PLAN” OF ATTACK

  NORTH OF MONTEREY, TENNESSEE

  APRIL 5, 1862, 4:00 P.M.

  He saw them in a cluster, standing in the middle of the road. As he rode closer, the faces turned toward him, and he saw the hard looks of men who had nothing pleasant to say. The staffs of the generals were off in the distance, each in a gathering to themselves, the message clear. This was not a meeting for everyone to share. Johnston looked back, said, “Remain at a distance. Obviously, there is some debate taking place.”

  He rode closer, the men in the road watching him, various looks of disgust on their faces. It was the first time he had seen Beauregard, Polk, Bragg, and Breckinridge in one place since Corinth. The missing commander was Hardee, who he knew was up with his troops on the front lines. The only other officer there was Gilmer, the engineer, who Johnston knew had come from Hardee. Gilmer was the only one who saluted him, which Johnston returned, and Johnston thought, well, at least if they talk about Hardee behind his back, Gilmer will be a reliable witness. The men were arranged in something of a semicircle around Beauregard, no surprise there at all. Johnston dismounted, saw crisp nods in his direction, no one else saluting. Beauregard turned away from Johnston, as though his arrival were a mere inconvenience, but Polk spoke up, looking directly at Johnston.

  “I will not be blamed for this. My troops made every effort to march according to orders, and we made as much progress as conditions allowed. To suggest that my men are the cause of the delay is an outrage.”

  Johnston did not speak, moved up beside the group, stood away to one side, would not be the center of their attention. Beauregard glanced at him, seemed satisfied that Johnston was showing what to Beauregard must have seemed like appropriate deference. Beauregard said, “There is more to our difficulties than the delay in reaching our designated positions. The men are as undisciplined as I have ever seen them. We have issued the strictest orders that silence be maintained, especially as we approached earshot of the enemy. That order has been widely ignored, and is being ignored as we speak. Stand here in silence, and hear it for yourself! There is scattered musket fire in every part of our position, the pickets going about their usual routine of clearing their muskets, as though no enemy is within miles of our position. I have observed men playing games, pursuing rabbits and squirrels as though this is some kind of social outing! Men are calling out to one another, and some are in communication with enemy pickets, shouting curses and threats, giving perfect warning to the very men we are hoping to surprise! This entire plan is crumbling about us, the rotten timbers of a rotten house. It is the worst possible result of a strategy that is no longer under my control. I have entrusted this campaign to you, and you have responded by tossing our advantages to the four winds!” Beauregard struggled with his voice, was drawn, pale, the anger taking away what energy he had been able to muster. But Johnston could see more coming, the others still silent. “I rode with General Hardee along his lines, at his invitation. I rode to offer inspiration to the men, to offer them a silent message that all was well. They responded by cheering me! In full hearing of the enemy positions! Hardee’s officers had to scramble about like madmen to quiet them. It was as ridiculous a demonstration as I have seen.”

  Bragg spoke up now, carried the frown that Johnston was accustomed to.

  “Why in God’s name would you ride out in front of troops who were sitting in line of battle? We put those people there prepared to engage in a full-scale attack. Their blood is up! That’s what we train them for! Of course they cheer you. Your presence is certainly an inspiration, but your choice of timing was … ill-advised.”

  Beauregard sniffed, but he did not respond to Bragg’s logic, seemed exhausted, obviously hoping someone else would speak out. The first was Breckinridge.

  “There is one other unfortunate problem. My men have consumed nearly all of their rations. We issued them five full days, but the march weakened them, and most did not take such careful accounting as the commissary officers.”

  Polk responded.

  “That is not unusual for men going into combat. I have often seen stockpiles of rations designated to provide for a week’s time devoured in two days or less. Men who believe they are facing death don’t pay much attention to instructions from the commissary.”

  Bragg waved his arm.

  “That is of minor concern. We will have the wagons move up as quickly as these roads are cleared. Rations wil
l be provided. My own commissary has ample supply. I will see that rations are distributed as rapidly as practicable.”

  Beauregard clenched his fists, seemed to squeeze strength into his body, removed his hat, slapped it hard on his pants leg.

  “Enough talk of rations! This has gone beyond foolishness and frustration. We are facing the greatest danger imaginable, and there is only one solution, one salvation for this army. This plan has been destroyed in its entirety. To attack the enemy from such a situation as we have now is not only madness … it is murder. The most critical ingredient of this plan was surprise. That has now been violated, eliminated completely. The enemy must certainly be aware of our presence, and must surely be making preparations for our advance. We have put thirty thousand men in his front, and not one of them has obeyed the instruction to behave with secrecy. It is as though we are designing this attack with the greatest possible tragedy in mind! We have one alternative. We must withdraw this army back to Corinth, and man our defenses. We must strengthen our works there in anticipation that the enemy will launch his own strike. General Grant most definitely outnumbers us in every way, and he must surely know every detail of this disaster. He will not sit back and allow us time to prepare yet another plan!”