A Blaze of Glory

by Jeff Shaara

  He scanned the faces of the officers, tried to find someone familiar, but the horsemen were moving quickly, frustrated and furious. Some of them were successful, rallying their men back into formation. But many of the troops seemed utterly at ease, a celebration of the spoils of the fight they seemed to have forgotten. Johnston spurred the horse, shared the anger of his officers, shouted toward the men with the bottles, some of them turning toward him, still laughing, oblivious to command, certainly drunk. Others were pushing into the tents, exploring, ransacking, more tents collapsing, some ripped open with the bayonet. Trunks were everywhere, men dragging personal effects into the open, rummaging through letters and clothing, mementoes of men who were long gone. Others were admiring abandoned muskets, some shouldering bedrolls, replacing the rags they carried. To one side he saw a man pulling on a new pair of boots, covering bare feet. Johnston stopped close to one cluster of men, heard whoops of laughter as they read through a stack of letters, exaggerated playacting for some lover’s show of affection.

  “That’s enough of that!”

  They turned to him, some of them reacting to his authority, others seeming to test if he would do anything to them at all. From the closest tent an officer emerged, weighed down with clothing and other treasures, more than the man could carry without stumbling. Johnston saw the insignia of a captain, felt a surge of outrage, pointed a finger at the man, his voice rising, uncontained fury.

  “No! We are not here for spoils! Resume command of your soldiers! Return them to the fight!”

  The officer looked at him, seemed frozen, dropped the bundle, no words. Johnston could see a hint of shame on the man’s face. Yes, good. You know this is not why we are here.

  Others were beginning to stand now, responding to Johnston’s presence, and he could see that they were gathering themselves, hearing him, some moving closer, as though seeking his authority. But others went about their business, and he fought the helplessness of that, dismounted, made a gesture to his staff to keep them back. Close to a smoldering campfire he saw a tin cup, bent low, retrieved it, made his way quickly back to the horse. Some of the men were watching him, and he took advantage of that, held up the cup, said, “There! This shall be my spoils from this fight. It is all I require, and it will be my reminder of this magnificent day! We need nothing more!”

  He spurred the horse, saw the captain move to his own horse, climbing up, a hard shout to the men close by. More officers moved close, rallying their men, and Johnston moved forward, through the tents, past more of the men, displayed the cup, repeated the brief call. Close around him, some of the troops began to form up, a makeshift line, the captain, others on horseback pulling them together.

  “Good! Now … make your way forward! There are good soldiers out there who require your assistance, who expect everything you can give them! The enemy is on the run! Do your part to keep them running!”

  It had worked, at least for some part of those so distracted by the Yankee bounty. Johnston listened again for the direction of the firing, the hardest sounds coming from the right, and he made a quick motion to his staff, rode hard out of the field, toward the next place he might be needed.

  They had come to a halt at the edge of a small field, drawn by the waving hand of a galloping officer, Samuel Lockett, Bragg’s chief engineer. Johnston knew the man well, had hoped to hear much more from Lockett by now. The day before, the engineer was the one man sent far to the right, to scout the river, making note of the enemy’s strength. But Lockett had not made his report until early that morning. He was trailed by one other soldier, a sergeant, and they reined their horses close to him, the engineer removing his hat in a quick salute.

  “Sir! The enemy appears to be massing in force, and is threatening our right! There is word from that part of the field that the bluebellies are seeking to turn our flank, sir!”

  Johnston stared hard at Lockett, knew him to be a capable man.

  “Are you certain of this, Captain?”

  Lockett hesitated, something Johnston did not want to see.

  “It appears so, sir. The enemy troops are in evidence far out beyond our right flank.”

  “How many troops, Captain? Are they advancing?”

  “The reports I have received suggest they could be. We could be in some danger there, sir.”

  Johnston knew how to interpret the man’s words, heard more uncertainty than anything concrete.

  “Does General Beauregard know of this? An hour ago I received a report from him that stated precisely the opposite, that the greatest crisis is on our left. I have ordered General Breckinridge to advance his reserve corps in that direction, and now you tell me that it is the right that is threatened?”

  The air overhead split with the shriek of a shell, impacting in the trees behind them. Johnston held back his curse, another shell impacting to the left, in the open field. Behind him, Munford called out, “Sir! We are in the open here!”

  Johnston pulled the horse around, said, “Down into that ravine. I will offer the enemy no careless opportunity.”

  The staff and Lockett followed him down, the woods around them mostly quiet, the shelling seeming to move away, Federal guns seeking targets they could see.

  Johnston halted the horse, felt a rising wave of frustration. Messages like this had been flowing toward him throughout the morning, many passing first through Beauregard’s hand. Johnston stared angrily to the ground, thought, this is idiocy.

  “Allow me to make this clear, Captain. An hour ago, General Beauregard tells me we are in trouble on the left. From every report I had received before that message, I had been advised that the enemy there has been driven back in disarray. But I had to respond to General Beauregard’s message as though he knows something I do not. He is, after all, positioned to receive couriers from all parts of this field. So, what am I to believe?” He saw the engineer glance downward. “I depend on you, Captain. If what you are saying is accurate, it could mean disaster.”

  “Sir, I observed enemy troops in the dense woods close to the river, the far left flank of their position. It appeared they were in a battle line, and I had to assume the worst. If I had ignored them … would that not have been the greater crisis?”

  “How many? A division? We have not yet accounted for Hurlbut. Could you see their flags?”

  “No, sir. I did not want to risk capture.”

  Johnston understood now, one fantastic error. Lockett had been sent to scout the enemy’s flank nearly on his own, no cavalry, no show of force to draw the enemy outward. He stared out to the right, a gesture of frustration, looked toward Lockett again. He could not disguise his impatience, thought, why did you not push toward the river?

  “Captain, you will ride to General Breckinridge. Offer the general my respects and communicate to him my direct instructions to shift his troops toward the right of the line. He is to disregard my previous order to move to the left. You will lead him into position yourself. Do you understand?”

  Lockett seemed to appreciate the direct order, the precision welcomed by an engineer’s mind.

  “Immediately, sir!”

  Johnston pointed to the left with a sharp gesture, but he knew that Lockett would find the way, that Breckinridge would not hide himself. The engineer made a quick salute, galloped away, and Johnston looked at Preston, the others, saw the concern.

  “Yes, gentlemen. I know. There was a failure to properly scout the enemy’s left flank, the ground closer to the river. Turning that flank, driving our forces between the enemy and his base at the river … that must be our goal, it should always have been our goal. Was I not clear to General Beauregard?”

  Major Munford moved closer, Isham Harris beside him. Munford said quietly, as though keeping his words from the junior officers and the couriers who trailed out behind them, “Sir, we will drive away any threat. General Breckinridge will do his part.”

  Johnston looked at Harris, saw a sharp nod, confidence in the governor’s eyes. He knew that
Harris carried enormous respect for Breckinridge, who had, after all, been vice president of the United States. Harris’s seriousness broke Johnston’s gloom, and he reacted with a small laugh.

  “You would naturally assume, Isham, that it would fall upon a politician to save this army from destruction?”

  Harris seemed to draw back, embarrassed.

  “Not at all, General. We have many capable men …”

  “Never mind. We shall see what kind of crisis we are facing. Thus far, the only crisis has been placed squarely at the feet of General Grant. I wish to keep it that way. I must accept fault for not stressing to General Beauregard that this attack should have pressed harder to the right. The plan as drawn called for us to drive straight into the enemy’s camps.” His gloom returned, carried with the thought of Colonel Jordan. “We may have made an error, gentlemen. A grave error. We must do all we can to correct that. If the opportunity is there, we must drive as much force as possible between the enemy and the river and cut him off from his base.” He looked at the staff, measured them. “I will not wait for Captain Lockett. Bragg is out there, and he must be informed, if he is not already aware.” He turned the horse, hesitated, tried to hear anything from the right, the battle still scattered far across the ground, a steady roll of thunder. Most of that seemed to come toward him from straight in front of him, what should have been the center of the Federal position. “Let us find General Bragg. I am certain he would know if the enemy had struck his flank.”

  Munford responded, “Possibly, sir. But this confounded ground …”

  “Yes, I know. There is no time to waste, gentlemen. General Bragg will surely understand that we must strike the enemy before he strikes us.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  JOHNSTON

  SOUTH OF DUNCAN FIELD APRIL 6, 1862, 1:00 P.M.

  The roar of the newly opened fight had spread across a half mile of ground, and Johnston had kept moving that way, protecting himself only by the cover of the trees. All through the woods, spent shells were slicing through the leaves above him, a demonstration of the sheer volume of fire being poured into his men by some force Johnston could not see. He was feeling the usual frustration, had to find a better vantage point, another, taller hill. The maps had become useless, the success of his army’s push taking him far beyond where the cavalry and the engineers had been able to make their detailed sketches. He eased the horse to the edge of the trees, saw volleys of musket fire from several directions at once, the smoke disguising any high ground, or any place where Bragg might be observing what Johnston could clearly see was a struggle to drive the enemy away. He was disgusted by his blindness, motioned to his staff to follow, pushed the horse down into a gulley. He drew up quickly, surprised to see men there, realized they were his own. He saw now, a half dozen of his troops sitting calmly, some in a curled position, knees tightly under their chins. More were evident now, farther along the deeper ground, some sitting alone, weaponless, hatless, one man with a wound, the others just … sitting.

  There was no mystery now. He could see it in their faces, the utter despair, the look of men who had no fight left, who might never have had it in them at all. His instincts told him to rally them, to shout them to their feet, but something held him back, soft faces, empty eyes, men who would be of no use now to anyone. He said nothing to them, pulled the horse up the far hill, away, would not look at them, understood what every commander knows, that when the fighting is hot, some men will simply fade away, some by themselves, others in mass, entire lines. He had not expected to see it in his own men, but he knew that was fantasy, that no army was made up entirely of the brave. Behind him, no one spoke, following his lead, moving past the shirkers, the soldiers who had lost their will.

  The job for Johnston had become considerably urgent. There had been no great eruption of enemy troops along the river, at least not yet, but the retreat of the Federal center had seemed to slow, then halt, their lines strengthening, reinforcements perhaps, a great many of the enemy returning to the fight. The marvelous advance of so many of Johnston’s troops had ground down, some by the geography and the exhaustion of his men, but in the center, where Braxton Bragg’s Corps had maneuvered into line, the assaults had been halted by a stout resistance Johnston had begun to believe would never happen. He accepted now what had stuck far back in his mind, that it was foolishness to expect the entire Federal army to simply collapse. The wild optimism that had so inspired his men that morning was being replaced now by the rugged acceptance that this was to be a fight that would drag on all day, perhaps longer. On the left, what remained of Sherman’s troops seemed able to make their stand farther back, some of those Federal troops closer to the protection of the swamps along Owl Creek, others finding new strong points along ridges and wood lines closer to their base at Pittsburg Landing. Out here, to the right of the lines sent forward by Hardee, and then Polk, Bragg’s men had made the same kind of progress, sweeping through what proved to be Prentiss’s camps, driving the blue-coated men back into the same desperate retreat that had seemed to crush Sherman. But now Prentiss had certainly rallied his men, and the progress of Johnston’s men here was almost completely halted. He had to find Bragg.

  Bragg was cursing loudly, shouting into the face of an officer, the man on foot. Johnston could see it was Colonel Gibson, one of Bragg’s most able brigade commanders, the man enduring the withering tirade without comment, his expression betraying a temper that could easily match Bragg, but wisely, the colonel kept that to himself.

  “I expect you to carry out my orders, Colonel! What I have seen here suggests a want of leadership! You will break that line, and you will destroy the enemy! I will not hear of casualty counts! You will gather whatever troops you can find, and send them across that field!”

  Gibson stared back at Bragg with the look of a man who knows he must absorb anything his superior tells him, no matter if the insult to his honor is accurate or not. Johnston knew that Gibson was one of the most educated young men in the army, and surely Bragg’s tirade came more from his own miserable temperament than anything Gibson had done. Johnston rode close, ignored by Bragg, held his words, waited for Bragg’s explosion to end. Gibson glanced at Johnston, a hint of acknowledgment. It was not the time for pleasant greetings. Gibson backed away, Bragg’s fury exhausted. Gibson saluted, said, “We shall obey your orders, sir.”

  “And find yourself a damn horse!”

  “My horse was killed, sir. My staff will provide a new mount.”

  Gibson’s tone was admirably restrained, and he moved quickly away. To one side, Johnston could see a dense line of troops spread far along the edge of a wood line, keeping in cover, with a wide field to their front. Gibson moved through them, disappeared into brush, and Bragg seemed to notice Johnston now, said, “Abject cowardice! I will not tolerate that! This has been a disgrace! We have advanced against those far woods three times now. Three times! Colonel Gibson … all of them have shown no desire to crush that enemy, no desire at all. I have determined that there are gaps on both the enemy’s flanks. Both flanks! We seem unable to drive through those spaces, and now that opportunity is being lost. Every report I am receiving tells me that the enemy is bringing people to this line, extending it, plugging his own holes!”

  Johnston stared out across the field, less than a half mile to the woods where Bragg pointed. In the woods behind him, a horse moved close, and Johnston was surprised to see Captain Lockett, the engineer. He felt a stab of relief, said, “Captain! Have you brought … is General Breckinridge accompanying you?”

  Lockett seemed to shrink, shook his head.

  “No, sir. But it is not necessary, so I was told. The general has already been ordered to this flank of our position by Colonel Jordan. The colonel has made it known that he has the authority to order the disposition of our troops, and is doing so. Your Colonel Preston was with him, could only offer the suggestion to me that Colonel Jordan’s orders be obeyed. General Breckinridge is making his adva
nce in this direction now, and Colonel Jordan ordered me to report that to General Bragg, and to you, sir.”

  Johnston stared at the engineer with a mix of grateful acceptance and utter disbelief. He thought of Preston, his own good staff officer, sent to Beauregard’s headquarters, now at the small church that had once been Sherman’s headquarters. Preston was to act as a conduit for Johnston, keeping him informed of any significant orders Beauregard was issuing to shift the flow of the attack. But Preston was with … Jordan? That had to come from Beauregard, and it could only mean that Jordan was moving along the lines, as Johnston had done. Giving orders?

  Bragg sat silently, deferring to Johnston, who said, “I must ask you, Captain … how did General Breckinridge respond to receiving a direct order from Colonel Jordan?”

  Lockett seemed to search for the correct response, said, “Colonel Jordan issued the order in your name, sir. General Breckinridge did not hesitate to comply.”

  “My name …”

  Johnston didn’t know what to say, would not show his anger to the captain, or to Bragg. Bragg would have an explosive reaction of his own, and it came now, Bragg unable to resist.

  “It was wrong from the start. I held my tongue, but my men are paying a dreadful price.”

  Johnston was confused, said, “What are you speaking of?”

  “This plan. Sending our corps in one behind the other. We should have kept to the original strategy and attacked the enemy in one great mass. Their panic would have been absolute, the surprise even more effective than it has been. Look at the result! My men marched straight into the backsides of Hardee and Polk and I had no alternative but to shift my corps’s position, to attack the enemy more to the right. If I had not done so, we would have created a disaster of our own making! As it is, commands are in a jumble, no cohesion between brigades. There has been firing between our own men! Casualties! I have ordered Colonel Gibson to take his men across this field, and there has been great cost, our efforts uneven, poorly executed. Over there, the enemy has strengthened themselves, they have good, thick, well-disguised ground, and somehow the panic I kept hearing about has instead become a show of bravery our men cannot equal! That position is strengthening as we speak, and I can only assume that the enemy is bringing every man he can find to make his stand right in my front! In the meantime, units are advancing into my position from God-knows-where, belonging to God-knows-who. There are regiments coming into formation here I have never seen before, Polk’s men, most likely. I have no means of sorting through them, and I will not waste time by organizing an attack that, I was told, had been organized already. I must assume these same conditions exist to my left as well! Or am I being impudent to suggest that all is not perfection?” Bragg paused, seemed to run out of steam. “With all due respect to you, General, it seems there is a colonel, a staff officer to General Beauregard, who is making every effort to place himself in command of this entire army. Perhaps he has his ambitions set on your position, General. Or perhaps he has assumed that already. If I were to suggest, sir, perhaps a firing squad is in order. I shall be pleased to arrange that at your discretion.”