A Blaze of Glory

by Jeff Shaara

  Johnston wasn’t sure if Bragg was joking or not, but his anger was very real, and Johnston understood for the first time that much of what Bragg was saying could be true. But there was no time for this kind of game, for casting blame on the confusion that had clearly surrounded Bragg’s assaults. Jordan had, after all, given Breckinridge the correct order. And with the success gained that morning, it was entirely possible that Jordan had done the same everywhere he had been.

  “I will address this matter with General Beauregard at the appropriate time. This is not that time. Is it your plan to continue your attacks against the Federals across this ground?”

  “That’s where the enemy sits, sir. That’s where he must be beaten. I plan to do just that.”

  Bragg turned to the open field, a sudden eruption of artillery passing overhead, coming from Bragg’s own lines. The firing came back immediately from across the way, far down both Federal flanks, and now, closer to the center. Bragg shouted over the din, “You shall see our intentions straightaway, General. I mean to destroy the enemy where he sits, and if he retreats, I will pursue him until he is destroyed.”

  Johnston waited for a lull before responding, some kind of pause in the deafening thunder. But no lull came, the guns aiming their fire all through the woods on both sides, seeming to know exactly where their enemy lay. A pair of shells came down close in front of the generals, Johnston’s horse bucking, and Johnston knew his staff would expect him to pull back, a safer place. He shouted close to Bragg’s ear, “Do you know what is to your right flank? Has the enemy made any movements closer to the river?”

  “I have observed nothing that way. I have too many concerns right here. With all respects, sir.”

  Bragg seemed impatient, waiting for something, seemed to be building a renewed fury toward his own superiors. Johnston suddenly felt out of place, as though Bragg wanted him out of the way. He had no patience for that, not now, shouted again, “General Breckinridge can offer you considerable support. If he is indeed closing up on this line, the added strength—”

  From close in the woods all around him, the sudden burst of the rebel yell took away Johnston’s words, the men surging out of the trees in a great wave, marching in a slightly uneven line into open ground. Johnston felt the wind drain from him, had seen this so many times today, knew he was close to what might be Bragg’s victory … or something else.

  The men were moving away in a line far wider than Johnston could see, made their advance through the smoke of the artillery, no musket fire, not yet. He watched them go with a familiar churn in his stomach, thought, if the enemy is in those trees … if indeed they have the good ground, then they will wait. I would wait … until the right time. He glanced at Bragg, saw him staring out, standing tall in the saddle, a furious glare, his mouth saying something, low words blanketed by the ongoing artillery. Johnston drew back, pulling the horse behind, but he could not leave, had to see, had to know what Bragg already knew. Could it be, he thought, could they break the enemy, right here?

  The great battle lines pushed forward, marching over trampled grass, the same ground they had advanced across already, time and again. Johnston saw the bodies now, men down in the grass, revealed as the troops stepped past them. Few stopped, no one tending the wounded, their attention on the woods to their front. Bragg raised his field glasses, and Johnston did the same, felt his heart beating furiously, tried to focus the lenses, his hands quivering. Bragg’s men were very close to the far wood line now, stepping through thickets, some disappearing into lower ground, and Johnston stood in the stirrups, as Bragg did, tried to see any sign of the men in blue.

  It came in a shattering burst of fire and smoke, the wood line exploding with a volley from artillery first, and quickly after, a vast eruption of musket fire. There was nothing to see of the men, the smoke obliterating everything, and Johnston sat back in the saddle, knew he could only wait. Bragg was shouting now, and Johnston ignored him, knew it was too late for bluster. The din of the fight was steady and horrific, flashes of fire flickering through the dense smoke, and now, men appeared, moving back toward them, all along the line. Johnston raised the glasses again, heard more cursing from Bragg, shouts of encouragement that would encourage no one now. From the dense pockets of smoke, more men were coming back, some tumbling down, shot as they retreated. The artillery kept up its fire, but most of that was Federal, the Confederate guns silent, no gunner willing to risk shooting through his own men. The shells were ripping through the field, plowing through the men who were trying desperately to pull away. To one side, Johnston heard a fresh volley, distinct, realized it was flanking fire, slicing down the men who were out in the open. From the Federal artillery, the canister screamed toward them, a spray of scorching metal that wiped the men away in one quick motion. More emerged from the smoke, some rising up from the low places, and Johnston knew what was happening, that there had been no great triumph here, that Bragg would launch yet another tirade at his commanders, the good men like Colonel Gibson, who understood that, in this place, the enemy was too strong, too well fortified for the kind of full-out advance Bragg was ordering them to make. Johnston felt helpless again, knew he could order Bragg to hold his men back, knew with a sickening jolt that Bragg had fewer men now, perhaps many fewer, that the bodies he could see in the great wide field were stacking on top of one another, some from the earlier assaults, more from this one. Johnston backed away, would not order Bragg to stop, could not, that no matter the cost in blood, Bragg was right. The enemy was there, was holding ground that was keeping the plan from being carried out. They will break, he thought. They have to break, as they have broken to the left. Bragg will do that, he knows how, and he has the officers to carry it out. It must be done.

  He was startled by a tap on the shoulder, jerked his head around, pulling the horse with him. Munford was there, seemed to force himself not to look past, at the field where the vicious fight was playing out.

  “What is it, Major?”

  “Sir! A messenger has come from General Breckinridge. He has been directed to the right flank of General Bragg’s position, and is moving into place there now!”

  “Then we must go there! We must be certain that those troops determine the Federal flank, and turn it with all haste. If the enemy is gathering strength in this part of the field, he could be vulnerable closer to the river. I must communicate that to General Breckinridge.”

  Johnston saw the messenger now, a very scared boy who saluted him weakly, ducking from the sharp sounds of spent musket balls in the air around them.

  “You! You will lead me to General Breckinridge!”

  The boy nodded, desperately frightened, tried in vain to gain his composure.

  “Now, soldier!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  BAUER

  SOUTHEAST OF DUNCAN FIELD, NEAR THE PEACH ORCHARD APRIL 6, 1862, 2:00 P.M.

  He had kept as close to the color bearer as he could, one of those lessons that had become instinct. Through the misery of the retreat and the rolling terrain, the flag was, after all, the most visible symbol they could follow. There were officers scattered among them, some on their horses, some still willing to lead their men, but many more were either down or as lost as Bauer was.

  The troops of the 16th Wisconsin had done as so many of the other regiments had done, had fallen back from the sudden and irresistible pressure of the surging rebels. Many of the Federal troops had kept some kind of order, withdrawing under the commands of their officers, but many more had seen the retreat as something more desperate, a mad dash through every kind of barrier, fallen timber, thickets of vines, thornbush, and muddy creek bottoms. The ones who stumbled out onto roadways seemed to draw a second wind from that, the going much easier, and so their escape was easier as well. The most terrified men moved along the roads with renewed energy, certain that escape was only a matter of reaching the river. But few bothered to ask which way the road might run, whether any route was the right one. The men added
to the congestion that now included wagons and horses, many of those driven away from the fight as rapidly as the traffic would allow. But there would be little progress now for anyone, some of the mobs moving back to the landing halted by guards, or by their own exhaustion.

  The congestion was made far worse by those wagons and artillery batteries attempting to move forward, those men not yet in action, not yet infected with the terror of those who called out to them, warning of certain death, breathless shouts describing the hell that was the fight itself. The most cowardly seemed to justify their own terror with extravagant claims of how their army had been thoroughly crushed, and some of the teamsters who tried to push forward caught that fever and disappeared, abandoning wagons right where they sat, one more barrier to any movement on the roads. Some took the time to unhitch horses, riding back toward the landing, shoving madly through crowds of men as they went. The ambulances that sought the river soon created the worst horror, drivers dropping down with the tide of running men, leaving behind their human cargo, wounded men packed in tightly against the bodies of some who had already died, others adding to the chorus of terrified voices by screaming, their fear and pain mingled with the cries of the men running past, certain that death was pursuing them with relentless determination.

  For the first hour, Bauer had been among them, but something had drawn him out of the stark mindlessness. It was the sight of the flag, a color bearer making an astonishing effort to hold back the tide of men by standing tall, waving the flag, calling out to the Wisconsin men to rally around him. Within seconds of seeing the man, Bauer had been horrified to see him shot down, the flag wavering, tumbling down. But another man was there, the flag up again, and something in Bauer had responded to that. The flag was only a symbol, but even the cowards had once understood the power of that, and Bauer understood it now. He had stopped his retreat, moved to the flag, watched as more musket balls sprayed through the lightly spaced trees, the second color bearer cut down as well. Others fought to replace him, men competing for the honor of becoming the regiment’s most sought after target, and Bauer had closed up with them, stood ready, officers finding them, bringing more order to the turmoil in the woods and fields.

  Bauer had turned toward the flow of men, had shouted to them himself, joining in with a growing number of sergeants, others as well, furious attempts to halt the panic. Some of the men had rallied, seemed only to need some sign of order, of someone in command. But there were others who could not be stopped, and Bauer had seen familiar faces among the flow of many men, some from other regiments, other states. Horsemen rode among them, and there were swords held high, swords striking men with the flat of the blade, some men responding only to that, absorbing their own shame, finding some bit of courage in themselves to join the gathering lines of men, all those who rallied to their flags.

  The officers spread them out along a wooded depression, protecting them from a shower of musket balls ripping the air overhead. In the low ground, Bauer could feel the determination in the men around him, beaten men who were no longer whipped, who were becoming soldiers again. He searched the faces, saw Sergeant Champlin, pushing men into line, many of those crouching to one knee, catching their breath. The lieutenants were there now, few of them giving orders, seeming to know that before any kind of advance could be made, the lines had to be drawn close, strengthened, all the while the fight out to the north was increasing, punctuated by the thunderous roar of artillery. Bauer stared up toward the ridgeline that protected them, wondered if the rebels were coming, would suddenly pour down on them, but for now most of the fight seemed to stay where it was, a couple hundred yards beyond the low ground. Around him sergeants spoke to lieutenants, horsemen arriving in greater numbers, the lieutenants seeking them out, seeking information or commands, one more ingredient that made these men an army. Bauer heard the call, a bugler, the call to formation, unnecessary now. Through the woods beyond the low ground, men continued to come, some led by officers, some simply moving toward the fight, stumbling down into the low ground with surprise and relief, joy at finding a thickening line of troops.

  From one side, Bauer saw another of the horsemen, realized it was Colonel Allen, and Bauer wanted to cheer the man, call out his relief that the colonel was still alive. But it was not the time for cheering, and Bauer still felt the burn in his lungs, kept silent, knew that the colonel would give them the orders, would know something of what they were to do, what was happening out beyond the ridgeline. Bauer could see now that Allen was furious, his instructions to the officers around him short and loud, recapturing his command, one eye seeming to look to the ridgeline, as though Allen expected trouble.

  Allen moved past him, and Bauer saw another horseman, knew him, Lieutenant Vail, from Company I. The man was shirtless, his arm wrapped in bloody blue, and he rode among them with soft words, orders that few could hear, the words of a dying man. Bauer saw his eyes, saw the man’s calm, could see the blood dripping from Vail’s fingers, more flowing out on the flank of his horse, a wound in the man’s side. Allen was there, turned his horse, a silent moment as the colonel watched Vail waver in the saddle, his head down, the man now sliding off the horse. But Vail’s foot hung in one stirrup, and Bauer heard the crack of the leg bone, saw it twist in a sickening curl as Vail’s face impacted the mud, attached to the horse by the awful grasp on the man’s leg. The horse moved slightly, dragging Vail with him, but the animal was as drained as the men around him. Bauer felt sick, stared at the man’s leg, and he broke ranks, moved closer, others doing the same. Bauer reached the horse quickly, grabbed the lieutenant’s foot, the boot wedged tightly. Another man dropped down close to him, lifting the officer’s body, releasing the weight, and Bauer unhooked Vail’s foot, eased it down. More men came forward, those who knew the man, who had trained with him, and now another soldier moved through the gathering, and in one quick motion climbed up on the horse. The colonel rode up beside the man, stared down at Vail for a long moment, but Allen didn’t have the luxury of grieving, looked out toward the men now, shouted out, “Get back in line! Form up! Check your muskets! Load now if you have to! No bayonets, not yet.”

  Bauer looked at the man who had mounted Vail’s horse, felt exhausted fury, how dare you … but he saw now it was another officer, a captain, the man just doing his job, and that job required a horse. The captain looked down at him, and Bauer saw an older man, grim experience, and Bauer felt the need to say something, the only thing that came to mind.

  “Company A, sir. Are you in command?” The captain glanced down at Vail’s body, then nodded slowly, said, “Yes. You were under Captain Saxe. He’s gone. Sorry, boy. Fall in with me. The rest of you … anyone from Company C or A … D or I, stay with me.”

  Allen came back now, and Bauer heard the colonel say the man’s name, Patch, remembered now, yes, Company C, and Bauer watched as a few more men shifted position, moved together, a half dozen, then more, coming together for their captain. Bauer thought of Company D, Captain Pease, a good man, friends with Saxe. Bauer wanted to ask about him, thought, Patch would know, would have a reason for calling Pease’s men to his own. But no one would care about a private’s questions, not now. Bauer backed away, fell back into formation, another look at the shirtless lieutenant, mud jammed into the man’s nose and eyes, the body bloody and lifeless. Bauer said a short prayer, saw another man drop low, one of Vail’s own, heard sobs, and now the voice of Allen.

  “Wisconsin men! The fight is that way! Good men are holding that ground, and we shall help them! Do you hear me?”

  Bauer had no voice to respond, but there were others, and he saw the flag again, the color bearer very young, familiar. Others along the line began to call out, a chorus suddenly rising from men who moved close, seeking answers from the man in command.

  “Michigan, sir! Twenty-first! Where do we go?”

  “Twenty-fifth Missouri!”

  Allen waved them closer, held up both hands, an attempt to calm them.

&nbs
p; “We will find your commands later. Right now you will march with us! There is honor in all of you! Find that now! We must hold the enemy back! We were driven back this morning, but we are here now, and it is the enemy who will know what kind of men we are … all of us!”