A Blaze of Glory

by Jeff Shaara

  “Colonel McDowell said to me yesterday … said that the reb soldier is too vulgar to stand up tall. Says we’ll drive them out of Corinth just by the gleam on our bayonets.”

  “Clamp that down, Major.”

  Sanger seemed surprised, his breezy mood halted.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “I was at Bull Run, Major. I saw what the rebel soldier can do, and I saw what it was like to stand up to bayonets. Try it sometime.”

  Sanger made a short bow, said again, “Sorry, sir. I meant—”

  “You meant what you said. You’re wrong, that’s all. The rebel cause is a vulgarity. But the soldiers are not that different than what we’ve got here. And their generals are good men, most of ’em, anyway. I know a good many of those men down there. Schooled with them, served with them. In Louisiana, I dined with some of them. Can’t say I like them all that much, but you can bet that when it comes time to stick your bayonet into their hearts, you better be ready for them to do the same to you. You ever find yourself raising your sword, you can bet the man you’re facing is raising his. What makes us better than him is training, and right now, I’m not all that comfortable. I brought these new men out here in these fields so we can whip them into fighting condition. By the time General Halleck orders us out on these roads, these men better be tougher than they are right now. You can wager your pay, Major, that even if Corinth is a fortress, Johnston, Hardee, Bragg, the rest of them … they’re doing everything they can to build an army out of those farm boys.”

  Sanger looked past Sherman, his attention caught, and Sherman heard the hoofbeats now, turned. The rider was familiar, and Sanger said, “That’s Lieutenant Fulton, the quartermaster—”

  “From Colonel Appler’s regiment. Yes, I know.”

  The rider jumped down in a stumbling heap, righted himself, and Sherman saw sweat on the young man’s face, panic in his eyes.

  “What’s wrong with you, Lieutenant?”

  The man tried to gather himself, and Sherman saw others approaching on foot, more of his staff drawn by the commotion.

  “I said, what’s wrong?”

  “Sir …”

  The lieutenant was clearly nervous, glanced at the gathering officers, then back to Sherman.

  “Sir, Colonel Appler reports that he observed a battalion of secesh cavalry, and ordered several companies to pursue them. We heard considerable musket fire, sir, and Colonel Appler was most concerned. Our men did return in haste, and told … they reported to Colonel Appler that the secesh cavalry withdrew behind a line of butternut infantry. The colonel has ordered the entire regiment into battle lines, sir!”

  The words had come out in a single breath, and the man sagged, breathing heavily. Sherman was more than annoyed, the feeling too familiar.

  “Lieutenant, I have heard these same reports now for two days, or longer. Tell me. Did you sustain heavy casualties?”

  The man seemed confused at the question, realized his response would be the right one.

  “No, sir! A couple of men were wounded, but I didn’t see them.”

  “Is the field littered with the bodies of the enemy, Lieutenant?”

  “Not that Colonel Appler indicated, sir.”

  Sherman pulled the last draw of smoke through the dying cigar, tossed it aside with a disgusted stab of his hand.

  “Your 53rd Ohio is in … that direction, correct?”

  The young man followed the point of Sherman’s finger, nodded slowly.

  “I believe so, sir.”

  “What I believe is that this army is under specific orders, issued by General Halleck, through General Grant, and through me, not to engage the enemy. If Colonel Appler has disobeyed that order, then at this moment, we would hear the sounds of a general engagement. Do you hear the sounds of a general engagement?”

  The lieutenant stared out in that direction, the only sounds the wind in the leaves of the tall trees.

  “I do not, sir.”

  “No, you do not!”

  Sherman reached into his jacket, withdrew another cigar, felt his hands shaking, focused his anger on the young man, who seemed to quiver under his stare. Sherman wanted to shout at the man, the voice in his brain. Damn you! Damn all of you! What kind of army is this? Sherman struggled to light the cigar, the match unsteady in his hand, tossed it aside, drew another. Sanger stepped closer, a match in his hand, and Sherman stared at him as well, withering, furious. Sanger backed away, already knew of Sherman’s anger, and Sherman leaned closer to the lieutenant, his words flowing out in a low hiss.

  “Here’s what you do, Lieutenant. You return to Colonel Appler. You tell him to take his damn regiment back to Ohio. There is no enemy closer to this army than Corinth!”

  SHILOH CHURCH APRIL 5, 1862, 8:00 P.M.

  He was becoming convinced that the message he had sent back to Colonel Appler might be wrong. The newly assigned 4th Illinois Cavalry had finally arrived to his front and their commander, Colonel Lyle Dickey, showed none of the mindless panic Sherman had seen too often from the others. Dickey had reported what others were saying as well, that within a short mile or two of the westernmost picket lines, Confederate cavalry had again taken up position, and for the moment, seemed intent on staying put. The same reports came from the easily agitated Hildebrand, and from Buckland as well, more of Sherman’s regiments reporting direct contact with rebel horsemen who were becoming less inclined to scamper away. With darkness now over the field, Sherman had gone to see Hildebrand himself, had suffered the rant of an old man who knew almost nothing of tactics and maneuver. But through the panicky agitation was real observation, specific numbers, and a few more rebel prisoners who boasted with the same vigor as the ones Sherman had already seen. Hildebrand’s regimental commanders were repeating what the cavalryman Dickey had said, that beyond the woods to their immediate front, the rebels were no longer sending out harassment parties, and that quite possibly, the cavalry was backed up by artillery and even infantry.

  As he left Hildebrand’s camp, he rode back toward the old church in silence, a handful of his staff officers in tow. He thought of Halleck, the absurdity of the order that nothing should be done to disturb the enemy. We cannot find out what the enemy is doing if we cannot disturb them. We sit idly by and wait for General Buell to arrive, and in the meantime, the enemy’s out there dancing around the countryside close enough for us to watch. Buell should have been here ten days ago. Five days ago. What does it matter? Buell is not here, and until he arrives … there’s not a damn thing we can do but sit here. Stupid. Amazingly stupid.

  He reached into his coat pocket, empty, realized now he had smoked a half-dozen cigars on the way to his brigade commander’s camp. Now all he could do was clamp his knees hard against the flanks of the horse, stare into the darkness, broken by flickers of his own campfires. The night was cool, but he felt a clammy wetness in his shirt. He closed his eyes, fought it, but the old twist was returning to his brain, the cold black hole opening up, and he gripped the reins in his hands with a fierce anger, struggled against the panic, fought the swirling anguish that forced him into perfect certainty that in the darkness around him were red hollow eyes that watched his every move.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  BAUER

  SOUTHEAST OF SHILOH CHURCH

  APRIL 6, 1862, 2:00 A.M.

  The Sibley tent had been as packed with men as could fit inside, sixteen, in a space designed for fewer. In every space was some piece of a man, a foot, arm, a feeble resting place for a head, usually on a crushed hat, or any other piece of clothing they could find. The milder temperatures had helped, of course, but still the nights brought a stinging chill, keeping them under their thin wool blankets. The disappearance of the rain had been the grandest blessing of all, the muddy avenues through the camp drying, the misery of wet socks one less torment.

  For several nights now the noisy activity in the woods out to the west had caused sleepless nights for some, Bauer among them. The most vocal of t
he men insisted the noises came from hordes of unseen rebels, their evidence the occasional discharge of a musket, a drumbeat, men cheering, calling out in the distance. But the men who kept their calm dismissed that kind of talk, and Bauer had tried to absorb that it would make little sense for an enemy close by to just gather secretly, only to reveal themselves with careless racket. Every man knew that when the pickets returned from their duty, each of those men fired his musket into the ground, clearing it, so that the powder didn’t become a damp clogging mass buried deep in the barrel, requiring a major effort to clean. Even the most nervous had to admit that the lay of the land could cause voices to bounce through the gullies and hillsides in unpredictable ways, the breeze working with the geography to blot out the sounds, or deflect them in another direction.

  Inside the Sibley tents, the worst sounds came from the men who actually found sleep, whose snoring drilled into the brain of any man who felt the nagging fear that the enemy might actually be closer than the officers were telling them. To those men, a night’s sleep was a rare luxury, and Bauer had lain awake staring up into the dull white above him, wondering just what might be happening out in those woods, the dark streambeds and ravines where he had seen the rebel horsemen. Despite the various miseries caused by the rain, there was comfort there at night, the steady hiss and rattle and shiver on the canvas soothing in its own way. But tonight, there was none of that, the only sounds the grunts and whines of the men too close to him for Bauer to escape.

  The rumors of the rebel patrols had galloped through the camps like a runaway horse, tales of their own men hauled away in the night, some from the very tents where the men now tried to find some sleep. Even those who knew more of the facts exaggerated the numbers, though no one could actually name any of those missing. The officers had done their best to calm jittery nerves wherever they found them, and Bauer had heard enough of the ridiculous claims to convince him that he wasn’t the only one who suffered through anxious nights. But Bauer would not admit any of that, not even to Willis, though he knew that his friend was alongside him in the tent, silent, staring up, as he was, sleepless for reasons that had nothing to do with rebels. Willis showed no fear at all, dismissed any talk of enemy patrols, and Bauer had no reason to believe Willis was afraid of anything, not the sergeant, not the sounds of the muskets that rattled through the trees. Bauer stayed close to him on purpose, as he had always done, hoped some of that steel courage would become his own.

  Willis had been silent all night, but Bauer could feel that his friend was awake, that once again, Willis’s lack of sleep was more likely from something far beyond what might lie out in these woods. Willis had betrayed his stoicism with a moment of sadness, Bauer catching a quick glimpse of Willis rereading the single letter he carried in his pocket. Bauer would not ask him, had made up his mind that whatever was in the letter was Willis’s own business, that a friend should not pry. If Willis wanted to talk about it, Bauer would be there with a sympathetic ear. He knew there would be little sympathy from the others who shared the tent, certainly not the loudmouthed Patterson, who seemed to take nothing seriously.

  Patterson had perfected the knack of slipping out undetected from the tent, only to return before the dawn’s first bugle call always stinking of liquor and cheap perfume, his jabbering at reveille annoying everyone with his amazing tales of that night’s particular adventure. Almost always there were women involved, the camp followers who had taken up their illicit posts closer to the river. Patterson’s tune had not changed since St. Louis, as though the man had made the discovery all by himself, that there were women who followed the army everywhere they marched, and that for a gift of liquor or a little silver, the women were obliging in ways that Bauer found appalling. That kind of talk came from others, of course, but Bauer had heard more from Patterson than he wanted to know about the mysterious tents pitched just beyond the guard posts, out in deep woods or downstream just far enough to be invisible to the patrolling provosts. Several of the others had succumbed to the temptation Patterson laid before them, and a few had been successful at his trick of slipping away, partaking in what the man called his own special morale booster, the perfect cure for the utter boredom of life in the camps. But others were far too clumsy, hauled by the provosts or their own officers back to the tents, sometimes to the stockade.

  Bauer had no sympathy for any of those men, had done all he could to avoid the adventurous tales of bawdy damsels, stories more graphic than anything Bauer really believed. But there was an unavoidable agony in Patterson’s ribald behavior, and Bauer suffered through that as well, the curse that came from loneliness, that thing that Patterson seemed to find so easily among women. Before joining the army, Bauer had been smitten more than once by the discreet flirtatiousness from some of the young ladies who dared look his way, usually in church, or at some social function. But his nerve had nearly always failed him, and he had seen the disappointment in the faces of the ladies, that this kind young man with the innocent smile was too shy to make any advances at all. His hesitation only made his longing worse, angry frustration at the easy talent for conversation that poured out in abundance from some of the other boys. He had thought the uniform would help him, that a soldier would have no such fear, and the ladies had responded to that as many always did. But still, Bauer’s shyness had given him no relief. Instead he had marched off to this war with the fantasy planted deeply inside him, that one day he would take a girl by the hand and sit her down in the soft grass by the lakeshore, enjoying a picnic, and the giggling talk of lovers, talk he could only imagine, talk made vulgar by the men like Patterson.

  It was too dark for a pocket watch, and his had stopped working days before. But he had a knack for measuring the length of his sleeplessness, was convinced it was well after midnight, hours before the jolt of reveille, which always came just before dawn. Around him in the tent, some men were coughing, adding more noisy torment to the other sounds, and Bauer knew he had been lucky not to have been stricken by all the sicknesses that were spreading through every camp. The doctors seemed to be no help at all, the field hospitals overstuffed with men who were forced to sleep on the ground. If there were remedies at all, most said they were worse than whatever illness they carried, and Bauer heard talk that it was the curse of insect bites, these Southern woods home to creatures Northern boys would exaggerate, just as they had exaggerated the great hordes of rebels who waited just over the next hill.

  Bauer turned to one side, looked toward Willis, the man’s hat over his face, meager shelter from the rumbling and trainlike snoring that rolled around inside the canvas tomb. He listened, watched, saw movement from Willis, the hat coming down, Willis sitting up slightly, propped on his elbows.

  “You awake, Dutchie?”

  “Yep. O’course.”

  “Belly killing me. Gotta get to the hole.”

  Bauer rose as well, was suddenly grateful for any opportunity to escape the tent. Willis pulled his knees in, paused, seemed to curl over, a soft groan. Now Bauer was up as well, avoided kicking the man on the other side of him. He knew that was Reiner, a small, wiry man Bauer had known since the camp at Madison, since the beginning of the regiment’s formation. Reiner was one of the sleepers, seemed not to mind anyone else’s torment, and seemed somehow to avoid the ritual trampling from the maniacal act of Sergeant Williams’s personal brand of reveille. Bauer glanced at him, heard nothing, then turned, leaned close to Willis, made a soft whisper, “I’ll go with you.”

  “You crazy?”

  “Gotta get out of this place. I’ll just wait for you. Keep the rebs away.”

  Willis planted the hat on his head, said nothing more, and Bauer could sense the man was too sick to object to anything. Both men stood now, ducking low, avoiding the canvas above them, and no one else seemed to pay any attention. Willis slipped quickly out through the tent flaps, and Bauer stepped carefully, hesitated, stared at the opening, thought of Williams, wondered if the sergeant was there, somewhere in t
he darkness, waiting for just this moment to inflict some new kind of punishment. Bauer took a last step, miscalculated, felt the foot of one of the men beneath his own, heard a yelp, a curse. He moved quickly now, escaping outside, heard voices from behind him, anger, more of the men awake than he had guessed. He looked off to one side, knew the route to the straddle hole, Willis already gone, and Bauer slipped out that way, silent, moved into the wide avenue between the long rows of tents. The grass there had been trampled away, but the ground was harder, no mud this time. He felt the chill, had left behind the tent’s one advantage, the combined warmth of the men who occupied it. Straining to see through the darkness, he eased between two tents, wouldn’t stand out, nothing to cause an overzealous guard to challenge him. He was suddenly grateful that there was no sign of Sergeant Williams.

  There was movement through the open areas of the camp, flickers of motion caught by specks of firelight from dying campfires. Most of them were guards, and he could hear the soft sounds, low talk. He realized suddenly that the sky was filled with stars, and he stared up for a long minute, tried to recall the last clear night he had seen. His eyes wandered, driven by curiosity. Bauer knew very little about astronomy, had heard talk of telescopes, the magic of curved glass, bringing the stars closer to the eye, could recall scary tales of the man in the moon, older boys using the night sky as an excuse to tease the very young. But there was no moon now, and he pulled his coat tighter around him, was surprised to see a quick streaking dart from a meteor, watched it disappear into nothing, wondered if he had seen it at all. He thought suddenly of his father, yep, maybe you saw a haint, smiled, but then there was another streak, longer, brighter this time. He was intensely curious, thought, where did it go? What was it, anyway?

  Across the avenue came the shuffling of footsteps, and he looked that way, knew it was Willis, the man bent over slightly, gripping his own stomach. Bauer stepped back out into the avenue, let Willis see him, wanted to ask if he was all right, but he could see Willis moving in place, a slow dance of a man whose guts were tied in knots. Willis seemed to wait for him to move closer, then said, “Geez. It’s dark as Egypt out here. Had to follow the smell to find the place. Feel a little better though. Let’s get back in the tent.”