A Blaze of Glory

by Jeff Shaara

  “Colonel Marmaduke, are we performing to your expectations this day?”

  Marmaduke was not yet thirty, was a West Pointer whom Johnston had commanded in the Utah expedition and since. He was a lean, tall man, who sat straight-backed in the saddle, gave every appearance of an officer to be respected.

  “Sir, my regiment has the honor of holding the center of this entire line. We will not break. We will never break.”

  Johnston smiled, couldn’t help a surge of affection for the young man, reached out, their horses close, put a hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “My boy, today we must conquer or perish.”

  Marmaduke seemed to sag slightly from Johnston’s touch, but it was not weakness, the young man looking at him with emotion in his eyes.

  “Sir, we shall make you proud.”

  Johnston pulled his hand back, realized he had gone to a place that he rarely revealed. Johnston turned the horse, his attention caught by a burst of musket fire. He wanted to ride that way, but it was not the place for him to be, the first sounds of a fight that needed only the guiding hand of a lieutenant, the drive of the man with the bayonet. He was startled by the hard thump of artillery erupting from the woods across a deep ravine. He couldn’t see the guns, but the thunder of the cannons drove into him, shaking him, and he stood in the saddle, tried to see, but there was only smoke, and inside of him, a surge of pride and the joyful feeling of power and certain victory that he had already seen in every officer and every soldier on the line. He made a quick glance toward his staff, who were lined out in the narrow roadway behind him.

  “We should keep moving. Colonel Marmaduke does not require this command to prod him to his duty.”

  He looked toward the young man again, saw the same crisp salute, responded to it, and Johnston knew there was nothing more to say. He spurred the horse, the troops in line close by pushing out into the woods, down into the ravine, making their advance, but not before responding to Johnston’s presence with one more rousing cheer.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SHERMAN

  NEAR SHILOH CHURCH

  APRIL 6, 1862, 7:00 A.M.

  The sounds that brought him out of his tent had been curious at first, a scattering of musket fire that annoyed him as much now as it had for the past several days. But with the hint of daylight came far more, many skirmishes in many places, the fights growing more intense.

  With the sun almost into the trees to the east, he lit the cigar, his first of the day, moved slowly toward the horse. His orderly, Holliday, was waiting with the reins.

  “Private, this should not be. It just should not be. We have pickets in force across the entire front. There would be word from someone out there if there was trouble, if all that commotion was something … different. There should be, at any rate. I am not at all pleased with the abilities of my senior officers.”

  He turned, saw a pair of staff officers emerging from his tent. He had left them behind to complete a report for General Grant, one more note to reassure the army’s headquarters that in these camps farthest from the river, there had been signs of a saucy enemy, but that Sherman had no concerns the army was under any kind of serious threat.

  He looked toward Captain Hammond, saw the paper in his hand, said, “Have you completed the message?”

  “Yes, sir. Should I order a courier to deliver this—”

  The young man stopped, seemed to notice the growing volume of sounds that spilled toward them, said, “Sir … forgive me, but that does not sound like a skirmish. There … that’s artillery, sir.”

  Sherman still looked at the paper in Captain Hammond’s hands, thought of Grant. He is injured, and I don’t know how badly. That is not helpful, not right now. By damned, I wish he could ride out here, hear this for himself. Sherman was truly annoyed now, clamped the cigar hard in his teeth.

  “Dammit, I’m going out there. Mount up, both of you. Color bearer, too. These men are so damn agitated, I don’t want anyone mistaking me for the enemy. Bring at least three couriers with us.” He paused, turned toward the loudest sounds he could hear. “That artillery is coming from Hildebrand’s Brigade. I want to know whose cannons are raising so much hell, and why.”

  Hammond and Major Sanger moved to their horses, taking the reins from another of the aides. Both were up now, Sanger motioning for the color bearer to move close, the man already unfurling the Stars and Stripes. Hammond focused on the woods, and Sherman could see nervousness in the young man’s face. After a moment, Hammond said, “General, the firing is coming from down that way as well … toward General Prentiss.”

  Sherman looked to the left of the church building, could see nothing but a glimpse of the next open field, the rows of white tents. Now he heard drums, steady, the long roll, a commander’s signal to bring his regiment into a battle-ready formation.

  “Who the hell is doing that?”

  The question went unanswered, another chorus of drums rising up through the woods, and now more artillery, hard thumps not more than a quarter mile from the church.

  Sherman took the reins from Holliday, said, “Mount up, Private. Let’s go find out who’s doing all this confounded firing. If those damn rebels are driving in our pickets, I want to make sure we respond with enough force to drive them all the way to Corinth. I don’t trust Hildebrand or McDowell to know what order to give.”

  He turned again to the officers, saw the expectant face of Lieutenant Taylor, one of his youngest aides. Taylor was a competent staff officer but had made a nuisance of himself by pressing Sherman for permission to ride forward too often, especially when word came from the brigade commanders of any kind of skirmish. But Sherman appreciated the young man’s enthusiasm, knew that Taylor only wanted to see something of the rebels that an aide-de-camp might never observe, a kind of adventure that the young man seemed afraid he would miss completely.

  “Well, Lieutenant, I suppose you intend to accompany us?”

  “With your permission, sir.”

  “Fine, perhaps this morning you will finally get a good look at those rebels who are making you so impatient. If you were a little less useful around here, I’d send you out there for good, let you serve this army as a field officer.”

  Taylor spurred the horse up alongside Major Sanger, beamed a smile.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  There was a new burst of firing to the northwest, out toward Sherman’s right flank, the right flank of the entire army, which had been anchored along the marshy swamp that ran along Owl Creek.

  “Now what?”

  Again there were no answers, and Sherman climbed up on the horse, spit out the spent cigar. He glanced toward the color bearer, ever present, the couriers scrambling into line, but still his attention was drawn to the musket fire that rolled toward him all across the front lines, interrupted only by the drums, the long roll now coming from camps farther to the left, toward Prentiss’s Division. Well, hell, he thought. Do any of those people intend to tell me what’s happening?

  “Let’s ride, gentlemen. We’ll head straight for the Third Brigade. I want Colonel Hildebrand to tell me firsthand why we’re using up so much ammunition.”

  The closer Sherman rode to Hildebrand’s camps, the louder the firing in what seemed to be clusters, as though the skirmishes were taking place in every isolated hole where the pickets had kept their positions. But along the roadway, Sherman was dismayed to see ambulances moving back toward him, a clatter of wheels and rattling boards, driven by men who had no interest in stopping. But they could not help seeing the flag, and every teamster knew him, knew that if Sherman ordered a halt, he had best halt. Sherman watched three move past, dust rising around him, and he was growing more angry, still had received no direct word from any of his commanders. Down the narrow road, another ambulance clattered forward, and he lurched the horse directly into the path, held up his hand, his other on the pistol in his belt. The teamster understood perfectly, yanked hard on the reins, the horses jolted to a halt.
Sherman moved to the rear, looked inside, saw three men, lying flat, close beside one another, one of them awake, staring back at him, blood on the man’s legs. There was a sharp moan from one of the others, and Sherman saw an arm shattered, wrapped in dirty cloth, a ripped, blood-soaked shirt. He looked at the third man, saw foam spreading on the man’s chest, and he caught the sweet damp smell he had tried to forget. He pulled the horse away, said to the driver, “Who are these men? Who ordered you to the rear?”

  The man stared at him, silent, intimidated, and Sanger was beside Sherman, said, “You will answer the general!”

  Sherman didn’t need the assistance, leaned closer to the driver, a hard stare into the man’s wide eyes.

  “I said—”

  “Captain Yancey, sir. These men are hurt bad. He said to haul them to the river.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Soldiers, sir. Ohio soldiers.”

  Sherman felt the helplessness of a man shouting at a rock.

  “Go! Don’t stop until you find a hospital. Captain Yancey is right. They’re hurt bad.”

  The man seemed happy to leave, slapped the reins on the horse, the ambulance rattling away. Sherman fought through the dust, said to Sanger, “I’m not familiar with this Yancey.”

  “Fifty-third Ohio, sir. Company commander. Not sure which one.”

  “Doesn’t matter. That’s Appler’s regiment, and if we can’t find Hildebrand, we’ll find Appler.”

  They rode hard, a cloud of dust of their own, the roar of musketry steady to the front, more erupting out to the left. The road turned into a wide field, and he knew the place, solid rows of tents, the camps of Hildebrand’s Brigade. They didn’t stop, Sherman driving past the tents, only a few men there, some hurrying to get dressed, to join what was blossoming into a hard skirmish not more than a few hundred yards away. Sherman ignored them, pushed closer to the most intense sounds, heard artillery firing in a tight rhythm, six quick shots, an entire battery, and he moved that way, followed the rising smoke. They climbed a rise and Sherman halted the horse, could see the guns in the cluster of trees, their crews scrambling around them, the good order of men who knew their jobs. He saw faces look his way, but no one came toward him, and Sherman ignored that, knew those men were taking orders to fire from someone who might actually know what they were firing at. The staff halted in line behind him, and he scanned the trees, smoke in every direction. He searched for horses, flags, someone in command, his hand probing the pocket of his coat, the instinctive search for the cigar. No, dammit, not now. To one side was another clearing, more tents, and he turned, saw Captain Hammond watching him, waiting for the question.

  “Whose camp is that … over there?”

  “That’s the 53rd Ohio, sir. Colonel Appler.”

  Sherman scowled, kept up his horse’s hard pace, thought, Appler. Useless. Sees a flock of cavalry and sends his entire regiment chasing after them. He’s probably the one who ordered these guns to join the festivities.

  “Let’s see if we can find Colonel Appler.”

  He spurred the horse hard, led them into Appler’s camp, the sounds of the fights not far to the west. Around the tents, men were in quick motion, some half dressed, stacks of muskets knocked to the ground, coffeepots spilled beside campfires. The men seemed to be scrambling in every direction, a handful of officers on horseback galloping through the tent rows, rousing what seemed to be stragglers from their tents. Sherman watched the scene, cold fury inside, thought, this is just marvelous. Perfect discipline. I’ll find Appler and wring his damn neck.

  “Over there! That way!”

  He pushed on, the woods past Appler’s camp giving way to a wide field. The smoke was drifting everywhere now, and he caught the sulfur stink, looked out across a field a quarter mile wide, heard a chorus of musket fire down toward the left, near a thick tree line. There were men in motion there, and Sherman could see a mass of blue moving out of the trees, some in a full run, an obvious retreat. He cursed to himself, raised his field glasses, stared that way, tried to see details through the smoke. There were officers on horseback, more than one color bearer, all of them falling back out of the wood line. He fought the urge to ride that way, a small voice inside him keeping him in place, one tiny flicker of panic, the infectiousness of watching men running from a fight. He shouted aloud now, deflected the voice outward, toward the men on horseback, the men who were supposed to be in control.

  “Stop them, damn you. Do your job!”

  He kept his glasses on the scene, the woods seeming to belch hordes of blue troops, the officers retreating with as much energy as their men, no one making an attempt to rally the men at all. Sherman felt the horse buck slightly, realized he was pulling hard on the reins, the horse’s head up, protesting. The urge to ride into the smoke was growing, the need to grab the man in command, any officer he could find, toss the man out of the saddle.

  “Damn them! What are they doing? I want one of you to find Appler, then find Hildebrand! This is idiocy!” He held the glasses with one hand, tight to his eyes, shouted again, “Turn them, damn you! What in hell are you running from?”

  He forced himself to calm, to observe all he could, knew there would be a remedy to this, that he was too strong, and that close by, the other camps could help whatever crisis had erupted in front of Appler. He kept the field glasses at his eyes, one hand pulling a cigar from his pocket, reflex, and he stuffed it into his mouth. Immediately the young Holliday was there with a match, the orderly always efficient. Sherman ignored him, but the cigar was lit, the smoke calming him, and Sherman kept his focus on the far end of the field, some men forming a line, firing a volley into the woods. He still wanted to ride there, to see what he could not from the knoll, the smoke filling every open space. He was surprised to hear Hammond, close behind him.

  “Sir! Colonel Appler is said to be in these woods to our right!”

  Sherman still watched the fight, more of his men returning to the line of fire, absorbing the retreat like a thin blue sponge, thickening, holding their ground.

  “Good … good. Now drive them back! Whoever they are, whatever they are. Cavalry, I hope. Chase those scoundrels to hell!”

  “Sir …”

  It was Sanger, and Sherman ignored him, thought of Appler, the woods … that way. The wrong way. You should be out there with your men, damn you! He held the glasses locked to his eyes, chewed the cigar with a manic anger, Sanger again, “Sir … an officer …”

  To the right, a man ran close, shouting, and Sherman heard the words, the panic in the man’s voice.

  “General … look to your right!”

  Sherman lowered the glasses, saw the man pointing, looked out toward the woods that way. The trees were fifty yards away, and through the gaps emerged a line of men, muskets high, bayonets, none of the men wearing blue. He stared at them for a long second, the soldiers seeming to absorb the scene as he was. Now they responded, the muskets coming up, and Sherman raised his hand, instinctive gesture. The burst of fire blew past him, and he heard the sickening crack, Holliday falling close beside him with a sharp grunt. Sherman felt a sting in his hand, looked at it, a bloody puncture in his palm, the blood flowing in a stream onto his pants, onto the horse. He looked down, saw his young orderly on the ground, motionless, the young man’s horse dancing to the side. Sherman looked again at the gray troops, his brain surging into focus, and he made a fist with the wounded hand, clamped down on the blood, said, “My God … they are attacking us!”

  “Sir … this is no place—”

  Sherman didn’t need the words of caution, wheeled his horse in a tight arc, a loud order to his staff, “Move!”

  He spurred the horse hard in the flanks, the animal responding, the men following at a gallop. There was another volley from the rebels, but the shots were wild, their opportunity missed. He searched the trees, guided the horse through narrow openings, saw a cluster of officers, some directing blue troops into line, sending them toward the fields, saw n
ow it was Appler. Sherman jerked the reins, wheeled the horse that way and Appler stared toward him with eyes that showed a man desperately afraid. Sherman’s mind was already in motion, far beyond the single moment, the single line of rebel troops.

  “Colonel, hold your position! No retreat here! Do you understand?”

  Appler seemed dumb with shock, did not respond. Sherman was already moving past him, knew there was no time for this, to soothe one man’s panic.

  “I will send assistance! Hold here! Do not retreat!”

  Sherman slowed the horse, a manic surge of thought, the face of Hildebrand, old man, useless. Where the hell is he? The others … Buckland, good man, Buckland should be here. He will hold any line. Appler still watched him, said nothing, and beside Appler, a man was pointing, a hard shout.

  “The men are pulling back! It’s the rebels!”

  Sherman turned, halted the horse, and he saw now the woods filling with Appler’s men, a hundred or more, others flowing back farther to the right. Sherman felt a cold sickness, the scene too familiar, a stab of memories from Bull Run. The musket fire drew closer, the men running past him now, unstoppable, and behind them, out in the broad field, the slow and steady pursuit, a vast, dense line of gray.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  BAUER

  SOUTHEAST OF SHILOH CHURCH

  APRIL 6, 1862, 8:00 A.M.

  He ran, stumbled, his feet slurping through mud, tried to push through the deepest part of the gulley. Around him, the others were moving past, some staggering through the dense woods, wrestling through tangles of vines and small trees. He fought past the mud, began to climb, the trees giving way, more open ground. He stopped, gasping, stared at the rows of tents, so familiar, realized they had made it back to their own camp. Others kept coming up from the ravine, pausing to catch their breath, others not stopping at all. One man ran straight into the side of a tent, seemed swallowed by the white canvas, punched his way through, screaming, terrified. Bauer wanted to stop the man, but his legs were heavy, frozen in place, his lungs burning with the remnants of smoke. He turned away from the crazed man, suddenly didn’t care, stared instead at where he had come from, the tree line that fell away. More of the Wisconsin men were climbing up, some without muskets, some with small wounds, one man holding his arm, crying as he ran past Bauer. The name came to him, Billy Walbridge, another of the men from Company A, and Bauer shouted to him, the man slowing, recognizing him, a single word through the sobs.