A Blaze of Glory

by Jeff Shaara

  “Dutchie!”

  “Stop running! This is our camp! Safe here!”

  The man looked back to the trees, seemed to calm, looked now to his own wound, blood seeping through his fingers, a hard grip on his forearm.

  “I’m shot, Dutchie! I’m gonna die!”

  “No, you’re not! Just your arm. There’s a lot worse. The docs’ll fix you up for certain!”

  Walbridge seemed to believe him, and Bauer tried to be reassuring, took the man’s arm, looked toward the tents, some place there might be bandages.

  “Come on, we’ll find something to wrap that.”

  “I’m gonna lose it, Dutchie! They’ll cut it off!”

  “No they won’t. It’s just a small wound.”

  He pulled Walbridge with him, pushed into the closest tent, searched frantically for anything to tie around the man’s arm. Walbridge yanked away from him, the man’s panic returning.

  “We gotta keep moving, Dutchie! The secesh were right behind us! Can’t stay here!”

  Bauer released the man’s arm, bent low to pull a shirt from a pile of clothes, and immediately, Walbridge was gone, out of the tent. Bauer felt a wave of despair, held up the shirt, useless gesture.

  “This’ll work.”

  He stepped out of the tent, more men running past, but there were officers now, a man on horseback, the sword high, and Bauer saw the red face, the hard shouts of Colonel Allen.

  “Line up here! Form a line right here! Wisconsin men! Fight for your homes! For your families!”

  Allen spun the horse, tried to head off some of the running men, others obeying him, the panic seeming to pass for some. There was a lieutenant, Smith, another man from the company, and he took up the colonel’s call, ran hard, grabbing men, turning them around. Some escaped him, but others stopped, seemed to regain something, as though they only needed someone to tell them what to do, someone in command. Bauer moved that way, close to Allen, who watched him briefly, pointed to him, shouted out, “Yes! Move up here! Form a line alongside this man!”

  Bauer realized the colonel was talking about him, and he felt the weight of that, stood with the musket across his chest, others falling in beside him, the line growing. Men still surged up from the woods, most of them exhausted, more wounds, but there were muskets, and they responded to Allen, the man motioning with his sword, pulling his regiment together.

  Bauer looked at the musket in his hand, suddenly had no idea if it was loaded. He had fired a half-dozen rounds, mostly wild, targets too far away, or no targets at all. Many had done the same, the massed line of rebel soldiers pressing into them in a wave far more powerful than anything Colonel Peabody could put in their way. Bauer looked at Allen, thought of Peabody, riding with a mad rush along the lines, doing all he could to form up some kind of stand against the rebel attack. They were too many, he thought. How could we do that? Just … stand there?

  He had watched them come with stunned amazement, neat lines, the orderly march forward, flags and horsemen and drummers. The order had been passed down the line, one organized volley, but that had just made them blind, the smoke hiding the rebel advance. Some of the men had reloaded, one of the lieutenants, the same man he saw now, Smith, ordering them to fire at will. When the smoke began to clear, the rebels were that much closer, relentless, a volley of their own blowing through the thin lines of the men from Wisconsin and Missouri and Michigan. Some of the men close to him had returned fire, but the strength of the enemy was overwhelming, pushing closer step by step, another volley, vast sheets of flame and smoke and the sounds of musket balls whistling by, the sound of cracking bone. The line could not stand for long, and Bauer had tried to reload one more time, saw the faces of the enemy, ragged, filthy men, no uniforms but for the men on the horses. It was the faces that took away the last bit of courage, and he had turned with most of the men around him, every soldier sharing the sudden desperate need to run.

  And now, he thought, we’re here. Like it never happened. He glanced back, his mind not quite believing that they had reached their own camp, strange, bizarre chance. He was convinced now, the musket was not loaded, no time, the last shot into smoke, blind and foolish and desperate. He pulled out a cartridge, the routine, the paper in his teeth, poured the powder down the barrel, realized that others were doing the same, following his lead. In front of him, more men came up from the woods, one dragging a bloody leg, helped by another man with a bloody face. Others came wearing unfamiliar insignia on their hats, and Bauer knew what that meant, that a great many men had separated from their units, the woods too thick for any kind of order. The colonel kept up his shouts, guided them into the thickening line, more lieutenants down the way, no one calling to their companies, no one concerned with who was in charge of what men.

  The line stretched most of the way across the camp, some men down on one knee, trying to breathe, to gain control. The sergeants were taking position, following the calls of the officers, spreading out behind the men. But there were not many of either, and Bauer thought suddenly of Sergeant Williams, a very bad man, a dangerous man. Gone. He could not avoid the image of Captain Saxe, tumbling back from the horse, a horrible flash of memory he would never forget. His brain held to the sight of the horse, turning, as though surprised, his head down, poking the body of his master. Tears came now, Bauer trying to keep it away, the loss, the grief … even for the horse. What happened to him? Dead probably. And Patterson. The look of surprise there, too, wide eyes. This was fun to him. Maybe to some, it still is. He looked down the line, searched for Willis, had not seen him since they had run. He scanned the line, some men doing the same, staring back at him, searching faces, men calling out to one another. Allen kept up his shouts as well, hoarseness in the man’s voice, moving back and forth along the tree line, still pulling his men out of their panic. Now another horseman rode clear of the trees, one of the captains, Pease, Company D, and he moved up close to Allen, a brief, harsh conversation, Pease moving away quickly, to the far end of the line.

  Bauer felt his breathing slow, the pounding in his chest not as frantic. He realized for the first time that the sounds had not stopped, that the steady roar of musket fire was still there, mostly to the right, the thunder of the artillery coming in rumbles, like the hard sounds of a storm. With the calm in the men around him, they all seemed to hear it, men looking that way, some asking aloud who that was, one lieutenant saying something about General Sherman. Allen rode past again, the line steady, prepared, and Bauer saw the blue soldiers still coming back through the woods, saw grim faces and hatred, the panic not so pronounced now. He knew, some instinctive voice inside him, that these men were different. He watched the faces, staring back at the line, and there was disgust and outrage, the men who stood together moving slowly toward this new line, Colonel Allen’s line with a look that put the words into Bauer’s mind. They didn’t run. They stayed out there and fought … and now they had to pull back … because we didn’t stand with them.

  He saw another horseman, another of the commanders, his men following him up from the ravine in a column. Orderly retreat. Bauer said the words to himself, felt suddenly sick, dropped his head. What did you do, Fritz? You ran like a damn rabbit. He looked at those men, who filled in behind Allen’s line, adding strength, no one speaking but the men in charge. And now he saw Willis.

  The small, thick man moved out of the trees holding another man under the arm, came toward the line with slow steady steps, moved toward Bauer, didn’t seem to see him, kept walking, through the line. Bauer turned, wanted to say something, to call out to him, watched as Willis laid the man down beside one of the tents. Then Willis stood, seemed to appraise the line, a glance at Colonel Allen, and then a glance at Bauer. His expression never changed, barely a hint of recognition, and Willis came toward him with slow steps, falling into line just behind Bauer. Bauer nodded to him, but there were no smiles, and Bauer was suddenly consumed by shame, knowing without asking him that Willis had stayed out there, had stood
facing the enemy as long as anyone could. And Willis would know that Bauer did not.

  He watched as Willis loaded his musket, then turned again to the front, saw Colonel Allen holding the horse steady in front of his men, and Allen said aloud, “Hold this line! This is your camp. In these tents are your belongings, your letters, everything you brought to this field. No one shall get through here! You men from Missouri, Michigan. You stand now with Wisconsin men. We welcome you, welcome your courage. We will get you back to your proper place in time. For now, we need you here. Until I am ordered to march you elsewhere, this is where we shall stand. The enemy could come at us from those trees … or from either end of this field. Be ready. Check your cartridge boxes. And keep your aim low!”

  Allen turned suddenly in the saddle, drawn by something in the trees. Bauer felt his heart leap, heard a steady hum, but different, not musket fire. Just … men.

  Allen spurred the horse, moved down to the far end of the line, seemed to know exactly what was happening. Bauer stared at the trees, nothing to see, but the noises were more distinct, and from close beside him, a voice, low words.

  “Drums.”

  Bauer felt a shiver, checked the percussion cap on his musket, glanced down the line at the lieutenant closest to him, saw the man drawing his pistol, turning toward the line, a quick shout, “Be ready, men!”

  There was a nervous rumble from the men, anticipation, the drums still seeming to be far away, no kind of threat. But Bauer had already learned about sounds on this ground, that the woods and the hills masked and distorted everything. His breathing came in short, hard surges, his heart beating heavily, and he felt sweat on his face, stinging his eyes, had not paid any attention to the skies, not since the stars had gone away. He glanced up now, blue and beautiful, the sun on his back, and climbing higher above the distant trees at the far side of the camp. His brain made a note of that, west … we’re looking west. That’s where the enemy is. The river … is east.

  The motion in the tree line was sudden and surprising, a flag first, then hats and faces, and slowly, the chests and legs coming up as well. The rebels were climbing up from the ravine Bauer had crossed, seemed to rise up from the earth itself. They were tired, angry men, suffering the same weariness as the men they pursued. Down the line, a musket fired, then another, one rebel returning fire. The lieutenants shouted out, stopping it, making the effort to hold the men as one, keeping control. In a few seconds the rebel line had emerged up from the woods, had gathered itself, facing the men in blue less than a hundred yards apart. Bauer stared at them, staring back at him, and now the drums were louder, driving more of the rebel troops before them. Bauer felt the panic again, the weakness, helplessness, the musket too small, useless, and now the order came, from both sides, the muskets rising up, a massive eruption of fire and smoke across the narrow space.

  The rebel volley took away pieces of the line around him, but there was no time to look, the order coming to reload, while the line of men behind Bauer fired their volley in quick succession. The routine was automatic, and he didn’t notice any of it, knew only that his musket was reloaded. Across the flat ground, the rebels still held their line, but many men were down, some twisting in the short grass. The volleys had no rhythm now, scattered bursts, and Bauer raised the musket, frantic, his hands shaking, fired again, heard the shouts of the lieutenant, “Aim low! Fire at will! Aim low!”

  Bauer heard the hard concussion in his ears as the muskets behind him fired, the muzzle blasts too close, deafening. He flinched, struggled to load the musket again, dropped the cartridge, fumbled through the box, grabbed another, the routine repeated. He raised the musket, thick smoke, no targets, waited, the musket heavier in his arms. The smoke was drifting, thinning, and he saw an opening, aimed, thought, low, saw legs, pointed there, fired, more smoke blinding him. There were shouts down the line, and the lieutenant was moving closer to him, a strange cheer.

  “They’re pulling back! We drove them off!”

  The musket fire continued, but it began to slow, scattered pops, the smoke drifting away again. He caught a glimpse of men, dropping down, hidden by the slope, the rebels pulling away into the trees. Men began to cheer, hats in the air, but Allen was there, his shouts drowning them out.

  “Stand ready! They’ll be back! See to the wounded! Make sure every man standing has a musket!”

  The colonel spurred the horse, moved farther down the line, repeated the order. Bauer looked to the ground on both sides, a half-dozen men down, a bloody scalp, one man holding his shoulder, soft cries. Another man dropped low, tending to the wound, and he ripped the man’s shirt from his back, swift efficient motion, wrapped the wound. Bauer looked at the others, another man motionless, two men rolling him over in the grass, then backing away, the wound obvious and deadly.

  Now the drums came again, startling him, and the lieutenants resumed the shouts, Allen again, moving past quickly, and suddenly Allen was down, tumbling, rolling on the trampled ground. Bauer felt a hard shock, but the colonel pulled himself up, an aide, others, rushing to him. Bauer saw the horse now, blood in a gush from the horse’s chest. From somewhere behind, another horseman came, jumped down, handed the reins to the colonel, and in a few seconds, as though the change of mounts had been rehearsed, Allen was up again, in the saddle, slapped his hat against his legs, jammed it back on his head.

  There was no need for orders, the woods coming alive with movement again, but more this time, not just in front, but down to the left, more flags, horsemen. In front of Bauer, the flags came as well, the figure of a horseman, and immediately muskets began to fire near Bauer, the horseman falling away. But the rebels came as before, rising up in a heavy line, and Bauer glanced down to the left, more rebels coming from that way, many more. There was scattered firing from that end of the blue line, the rebels too far away, a voice in his head guiding his eyes straight ahead. He looked again to the front, toward the rebels coming up closest to him, ignored the lieutenant, watched until they were in full view, raised the musket, aimed at legs, slow and steady rhythm, and he saw muddy boots stepping toward him, fired. The others around him did the same, more of the blinding smoke, but there was no return fire, and quickly the second line opened up behind him, more smoke and the sharp ringing in his ears, but still no response from the rebels. He hurried the reloading, furious at the smoke, raised the musket, waited for a target, painful seconds, and now a man was there, close in front of him, running hard toward him, a sharp scream, the bayonet …

  Bauer pulled the trigger, the man tumbling down, but the smoke could not hide the others. They moved toward the blue line in a rapid wave, and now there was a new sound, rising above the roar of the muskets, a high scream rolling over them from an enemy who had different orders, who did not form up and fire their volleys in neat succession. Bauer saw another man running at him, a knife in the man’s hand, huge and deadly, and Bauer dropped down, the man’s momentum carrying him over, and Bauer stood quickly, the man falling hard behind him, screaming out suddenly with a hard cry, and Bauer saw a bayonet in the man’s chest, the grim face of Willis pinning the man down. The bayonet emerged now, a squirting fountain of blood, Willis staring down, red fury in his eyes, and Willis jammed the bayonet into the man again, pressed his foot into the man’s stomach, pulled it out once more. The lieutenant was there now, moving past, a hard shout into Bauer’s face, “Too many of them! We’re flanked! We have to pull out! Retreat!”

  The screams were close and manic, rebel troops lunging straight into the blue line, while to one side, another battle line rose up from the ravine there, a surge of bayonets pouring hard into Allen’s left flank. The orders came in hot shouts, but to the men in blue who had tried to stand tall, to hold their ground, the orders meant nothing at all. The weight that came over them crushed and dissolved the blue line, and those men who could run began flowing back through their camp, their own tents, moving eastward, toward the hot glare of the sun.

  CHAPTER TWENTY


  SHERMAN

  NEAR SHILOH CHURCH APRIL 6, 1862, 9:30 A.M.

  He understood now just what was happening. The high-pitched scream of the rebel troops was everywhere, rising up from every low place, spreading through the fields and thickets of trees across his entire division. Almost immediately, Appler’s 53rd Ohio had broken, streaming past him in a panic that brought more of the terrible memories of Bull Run. Their eyes told the story, madness infecting every man as though each one felt his own devil in close pursuit. As the rebel attack pressed closer, Sherman sent his couriers all along the lines, trying to keep some sort of communications with his brigade commanders, but very quickly the front line was no line at all. For an hour or more, the roar of the firing seemed to surge in and out like the twisting body of some great bloody snake. He had heard nothing at all from Hildebrand, but the chaotic scamper of men from that part of the field was a message all its own. He had always known that Hildebrand was no leader, a gasping frustration that Sherman knew he could have changed, that there had been time and enough doubts for him to replace a man who had no business on the line. From all that Sherman could gather, Appler’s regiment had fled the field completely, led by Appler himself, a gaping hole in Hildebrand’s line that was spreading panic through that entire brigade, a brigade that was supposed to hold the center of Sherman’s position.