A Blaze of Glory

by Jeff Shaara

  He kept three staff officers close to him, rode quickly through the trees, emerging into another of the smoky fields, stopped, stared, nothing to see but masses of troops, sheets of flame from a thousand muskets, his ears ringing from the hard thunder of his own batteries. He saw one of them now, a cluster of six cannon spread out among a stand of tall trees, shouted back to his staff, “That way! We need every battery up here! Anchor them in line with those men! Move!”

  The courier moved away, orders Sherman could only trust, had no idea himself where more of the batteries would be. But someone would know, someone farther down, someone who had not yet tasted the panic of the forward lines. They rode toward the trees through smoke that made him cough, the steady clip and zing of the musket balls in the air, like so many deadly bees. Out of the smoke came a horse, riderless, as panicked as the men who followed it, scampering back through the battery Sherman was trying to reach. The horse nearly collided with his own, seemed to be blind, bloody eyes, sickening, his own horse rising up, as though sharing the beast’s agony. Sherman pulled hard on the reins, slapped the horse’s neck, forced a low voice, “Easy. We’re good here. I need you to do the job.”

  The horse seemed to calm, responding to his control, the one hand holding tight to the reins, his wounded hand wrapped in a bloody white handkerchief. He tried to ignore that, felt no pain, the bandage a bulky inconvenience, little else. The staff was close behind him, and he avoided their faces, did not want to see any sign of panic, knew that even the veterans, Sanger, Hammond, any one of the couriers could suddenly come apart, unable to hold away the terror from the men who continued to run in scattered chaos across the open ground. He searched the smoke for the battery again, saw the guns firing in unison, good work, men standing together, no panic there.

  “This way!”

  He led them into the trees, the artillerymen oblivious to him, focusing instead on some target Sherman couldn’t see. He saw their officer, a very young lieutenant, the man off his horse, running back and forth, orders shouted to his men, the officer obeying his own commands, assisting his men, the guns loaded quickly, erupting again. The lieutenant saw Sherman now, no salute, just a sharp nod, fire in the man’s eyes. Sherman knew he had to keep moving, to find the other commanders, their couriers, but something held him, the power of these guns, the efficiency of the men who worked them. He moved the horse behind the battery, halted the animal, the horse leaping upward when the guns fired again. Smoke blanketed the open ground, but through the gaps he could see movement, a thick cloud of dark forms, coming toward them through the smoke. He said aloud, to no one, “It’s them. They’re coming.”

  He shouted now, caught the attention of the artillery officer, who turned to him, impatient, work to be done.

  “Keep up your fire! I will find you reinforcements … infantry! You must hold here!”

  “We will hold!”

  The lieutenant spun away, the gun crews loading again, ramrods and bags of powder and iron shoved hard into red-hot barrels. The lanyards came up now, each gun with a man at the breech, waiting with desperate impatience, no one needing the order. The guns erupted one more time, near-perfect rhythm, a vast sea of flame and gray smoke blowing out into the oncoming rebels. Sherman was blind again, stared into nothing but screams, but the sounds were closing, the enemy still advancing. There was a fresh chorus of the sharp, high yell, what could only be an all-out charge. He searched for the lieutenant, saw him manning one of his guns, standing over the body of his own bloody crewman, the lanyard in the officer’s hand. The rest of his crew worked furiously to reload their gun, and Sherman could feel the man’s impatience, urged them on in his mind, Hurry up, damn you, couldn’t help a furious anger even at these men, men who had done nothing but fight. The crewman with the ramrod stood aside, the gun ready, the lieutenant tightening the lanyard, and the man seemed to shudder, curling over, falling, still gripping the lanyard, his fall pulling it taut, the gun erupting. Sherman stared for a long second, absorbed the scene, the man’s crew pausing, motionless, one man bending low, a corporal, touching the officer’s shoulder, a brief look, disbelief, shock, then the corporal was up again, shouted to the crews, taking command, more of the orders they already knew.

  Through the smoke, the rebels were closer, and Sherman saw a dense line of men no more than fifty yards away, advancing toward the guns. They seemed to pause, uncertain, stepping over their own dead, and Sherman stared at them, orders racing through his mind, what should be done, if only there was infantry … order them forward, right now! The enemy is shaken, exhausted, afraid, maybe their officers are down. But the guns in front of him fired again, a jolting surprise, and the mass of rebels vanished, their high-pitched yell suddenly silent. He stared through the smoke, ordered it away with hard profanity, had to see, must see … and now, the air clearing, and all across the muzzles of the guns there was a mass of filth, heaps of shattered men, some squirming, many others in pieces. Yes! Damn them! We will kill every damn one of them!

  The gun crews kept to their duty, men scampering back to the limbers behind Sherman, bringing up more of the powder, more lead, and now a new sound, off to one side, coming closer, faster. It came from far down in the woods, a place he couldn’t see, no time to look, the shriek coming down with a shimmering whistle, a shell toppling downward, impacting behind him, the limber igniting, a hard blast that threw Sherman forward, jolting his horse. The horse dropped to its forelegs, and Sherman reacted with instinct, knew to jump aside, that the horse was going to topple. He rolled away, the horse coming down close beside him, a thick blotch of blood on its torn flank. Sherman looked away, would not see the death of the animal, felt hands under him, helping him up, shouts from his aides. Several of the horses from the limbers were loose now, and quickly one was snatched close, one of the couriers jumping from his mount, climbing up on the horse without a saddle. The man’s own horse was given to Sherman now, and he nodded a sharp thank you, saw the man fumbling with the leather straps of the draft horse, making do. Sherman looked again to the gunners, fewer now, some shot down, others simply … gone. Those who were left began to back away, one man grabbing the horses at another of the limbers, yanking hard on the bridles, pulling them forward, closer to his gun. Sherman knew what it meant, that the man was trying to hitch the lone cannon, a desperate attempt to save at least one of the artillery pieces. Sherman looked to his staff … help him … but the man stared out toward a new line of rebels, advancing quickly, and Sherman felt a stab of fear, the same fear that had spread through the gun crews.

  The artilleryman seemed to understand his own helplessness, the danger immediate, and so the man released the horses, disappeared as well, a quick scamper back into the trees, making his escape. Sherman pulled back on the horse’s reins, nothing else to do, a last glance to the front, empty cannon pointing at ground spread thick with the bodies of the enemy. But still more were coming, stepping past their own, some of them stopping, one group staring at the cluster of blue-coated officers. Many more could see only the guns, were energized by the prize, made a glorious dash toward the precious cannon that were theirs for the taking. The musket fire blew past him, and Sherman turned the horse, spurred hard, the animal responding, the staff following as he sped into the cover of the trees. They climbed a narrow rise, a vantage point, and he halted the horse, spun around, the others reaching him, gathering. He ignored them, more fury in his brain, thought of Buckland, now the center of his division. He will hold. He has to hold. But Hildebrand … the left …

  “How far to General Prentiss?”

  No one responded, and Sherman looked at them now, Sanger reacting.

  “A half mile or more, sir! If he’s holding!”

  Sherman stared that way, blind again, trees and ravines and brushy thickets, no vantage point good enough. Prentiss. Good man, I hope. If you break … we are flanked completely.

  “Sir! A rider!”

  Sherman ignored the call, had seen too many riders, most of the
m moving the wrong way. But the man reined up close to him, dirty sweat on the man’s face, a young captain.

  “Sir … respects from General McClernand. He has ordered a brigade to fill the gap to your left. The general believes you require assistance in maintaining a solid front. There is an opening between your left and General Prentiss—”

  “Shut up, Captain! I know where we are, and I know what’s happening on my left!”

  He was angry at everyone, everything, hated McClernand for so many rumors of the man’s drunkenness. But his brain absorbed the young captain’s words, and he forced himself to understand, had no idea what was happening with Buckland, where Prentiss’s flank began. The words rolled through his brain, a flash of clarity. McClernand was doing exactly the right thing.

  “Where is General McClernand?”

  The captain flinched at the fury in Sherman’s voice, as though expecting Sherman to hit him.

  “I don’t know, sir! Back … there! He has observed the collapse of your lines …”

  The words struck Sherman like a heavy fist.

  “My lines are holding, boy! You tell McClernand that we will make our stand or die trying.” He paused, realized he was shaking, his hands pulling hard on the reins, the horse protesting with a hard shake of its head, a stab of pain piercing Sherman’s wounded hand. He glanced at his staff, saw his own couriers, said to Sanger, “Send word to General Prentiss! Make sure he knows we have secured his right flank!”

  He saw uncertainty, questions, knew what was coming.

  “I don’t know where the hell he is! Just find him!”

  He turned again to the captain, saw the man looking past him, toward the sound of the fight, louder now, and Sherman looked that way, could not help staring into the spreading roar of a new assault. Damn them! Damn them to hell! He looked to the captain again, said, “Return to General McClernand. Offer him my respects and tell him … request that he maintain his vigilance. We may require more … assistance.” He paused, the roar of the battle still growing, closer, massive noise. “Tell General McClernand he should prepare to receive the enemy.”

  The man saluted him, Sherman returning it, already looking away, searching for something, getting his bearings, a glance at smoky sky.

  “We will return to the church! There may be couriers all over these damn woods looking for me. That’s where we have to be, the headquarters.” The words came fast in his brain. That’s where we have to be. It’s where we have to hold.

  SHILOH CHURCH

  APRIL 6, 1862, 10:00 A.M.

  The fighting continued, steady rumbles of artillery and musket fire, but Sherman had received word from McDowell that the right flank was battered but holding. But the rebel assault seemed to spread out now in a wider arc, much more sound coming from the left, what he had to assume was Prentiss’s lines, and the piece of ground blocked now by McClernand’s men.

  In the woods close to the church, more of his men had fallen back, the rebel pressure too great, what seemed to be waves of muskets with no end. More of his artillery was working close by, anchored on good high ground, and to the right, Sherman knew the deep ravines in front of McDowell’s men were thick with dense underbrush, ridiculous places for anyone to move at all. The fugitives from his center streamed back through his tents, some pursued by their officers, trying to rally the unstoppable flow. Sherman watched the action, like some bizarre play, men on horseback chasing men on foot, swords up, voices giving sharp commands to men who would obey nothing. There was courage in the officers, some of them trying to form their men into a piece of a line, some kind of organized defense. But still the musket fire came, a burst of rebels down to the left, rising up from a ravine, emerging from trees, and just that quickly, the blue lines dissolved.

  At the church itself, the tents were still up, what Sherman now began to see as a symbol, his own defiance, but too many of his troops were rolling back through his camp, and he sat on the horse, stared into the smoky trees close by, more thoughts racing, General Grant, orders, mortal anger toward Hildebrand, toward anyone who had lost control of their men, the men themselves, their courage draining away at a horrifying rate. The staff had spread out, some of them trying to halt the flow of terrified men, what Sherman could see was a hopeless task. From the road to the right, he saw the rider before anyone else, the man searching, spotting him, a last rapid gallop, the horse bouncing to a halt in a near collision with him.

  “Sir! Colonel McDowell offers his respects, and reports that he cannot hold the right flank. The brigade has broken, sir! We have made a valiant effort to hold them in line, but the enemy is pressing us with extreme vigor!”

  Sherman looked at the man, a sergeant, gray hair, hatless, the formality of his words not masking the man’s obvious terror. He thought of McDowell with a burst of rage, old man, lines breaking, you useless son of a bitch. He wanted to kill the man, strangle McDowell with his hands, jam a cigar in the man’s bloody eye. He fought the image, brought himself to the moment, saw another cluster of bluecoats emerging from the woods, blood and fear, one man calling out, “They’re right behind us! We’re done for!”

  Sherman ignored the man, nothing he could say, looked toward the courier.

  “Has Colonel McDowell withdrawn with his men?”

  “Yes … yes, sir!”

  Sherman looked up that way, knew McDowell’s right was the northern flank of the entire army. Behind him, Sanger said, “Do you require a map, sir?”

  He ignored Sanger, didn’t need the maps, knew the ground in his head, thought, the far right … bordered along that flank by Owl Creek. Heavy swamps, impassable. Damn him! McDowell was in no danger of being flanked. He just broke.

  He looked to the courier again, had nothing to say, no orders, nothing that would prevent any of this, anything that had already happened.

  “Stay with me, Sergeant. I may need you.”

  He turned to his staff, saw an officer on horseback galloping past, close to the church, the man staring ahead, avoiding Sherman purposely. Sherman put a hand on his pistol, thought of shooting the man, but the officer was quickly away, followed by another, and then, another riderless horse. Sherman felt the shaking again, a wave of the awful feeling he knew so well, but he forced his mind to focus. You are in command. Be in command. He stared out toward the woods west of the church, the battle rolling closer still, the musket balls splitting the air overhead. The artillery was still firing, but much of it was out there, the sky and trees down to the left torn with the familiar shrieks, thunderous impacts on the ground. He glanced at the tents, the symbol now utterly ridiculous. Turning the horse, he looked to his staff, saw cold, grim eyes, good men, men who would follow him anywhere. Well, he thought, this might be as bad as anywhere can be.

  “It is time to go, gentlemen. We must withdraw what we can salvage of this division, and make every effort to form a new line. We must retreat.”

  With McClernand’s help, Sherman’s officers pulled and gathered and rallied every man who would still fight, and formed a new defensive line nearly a mile back from their original position, a mile closer to Pittsburg Landing. Against the right and center of the Union position, the rebels continued their push, sweeping through the rugged underbrush, driving across open ground and deep gullies, in pursuit of a stunned and demoralized Union army. But not all the men in blue were panicked, and in many of the fields and low ravines the fighting was more brutal and bloody than any of the troops on either side had yet experienced. In those places where the Federal troops stood tall, where their guns and muskets stopped their attackers, or drove them low into thick cover, even the bravest men found that their victories were short-lived. Through the worst ground imaginable, the rebels continued to come, fresh battle lines joining the fight, pulling their own battered troops up out of their cover, pushing forward. No matter the resolve that inspired many of the Union officers to hold their ground, the surprise had been too complete, the wave of rebels too overpowering. By late morning, rebel troops
had driven into and past the vast fields of white tents, those neat rows of canvas left intact alongside the Federal food and supply wagons, fire pits and pots of burnt coffee. The camps were vivid testament to the shock and terror that had gripped the men who had once occupied these peaceful fields, men who had endured the drudgery of their routine, their sergeants, weeks of drill and training and bad food. Like Sherman, their primary duty had been to bide their time until the orders came for a grand and glorious campaign, what was now a fantasy, swept away with the tide of fugitives who ran far back from their own camps, their own officers, their own comrades, many not stopping until they reached the only barrier that could halt them: the Tennessee River.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  GRANT

  SAVANNAH, TENNESSEE APRIL 6, 1862, 10:00 A.M.

  The first sounds of artillery had reached him at seven that morning, a distant rumble that had alarmed the men stationed outside the headquarters mansion, word brought to Grant that there might be some hint of trouble upstream. Grant had heard the thunder already, had left his breakfast behind, and his first order had gone to the captain of the Tigress, to fire the boilers of the compact riverboat that served Grant as a floating headquarters. Within minutes most of his staff was on board, along with their horses, Grant following, hobbled by the crutches, still nursing the painful injury from the tumble of his own horse.

  The sounds of the cannon were too distant for him to judge just where the assaults were happening, whether at Crump’s Landing, his first assumption, or farther upstream, at Pittsburg. Crump’s had seemed the most logical, and his greatest fear. The Federal forces there, a single division under Lew Wallace, were assigned to protect an enormous stockpile of supplies and transport boats that would certainly whet the enemy’s appetite. Grant had long given up any notion of secrecy, and he knew that assembling his army so close to Corinth would be interpreted exactly for what it was. If the enemy were to make any effort to prevent that assault, surely they would strike in some kind of small-scale raid that would disrupt the supply lines, or cause havoc in the weakest part of the chain Grant’s army now held along the river. Wallace had believed that as well, had made several efforts to probe westward, hoping to break up any assault before it could begin. But the enemy had shown little inclination to challenge Wallace’s troops, and just as the Federal commanders had experienced farther south, the enemy seemed content to harass Wallace with cavalry raids and brief and hesitant skirmishes. This morning, Grant had heard nothing from Wallace to hint that something larger was afoot. And yet …