by Jeff Shaara
“Yes, I imagine it is hard for them as well. If that is Chalmers, he is farther north than before. It means he is driving deeper past the enemy’s flank.” He absorbed that for a moment, could see nothing of the fight, just a thick haze of smoke, and the constant sounds of men firing weapons in enormous numbers, close together, volleys echoing through the dense thickets in a steady, horrible chorus. The excitement continued to build inside of him, and he rose in the stirrups, frustrated he could see so little. He tried to see James Chalmers in his mind, another good man who had to endure Bragg as a commander. There will be no complaint against you this day, no haranguing you for some minuscule failure. Bragg has his own difficulties to answer for. But not right now.
He crested another ridge, so much like the last, never-ending folds in the ground, more woods bordering a small field, and to the left a trio of farmhouses. There officers were pulling troops into line, organizing another advance. The troops had the look of men who had been in a fight already, small wounds, and worse, some lying flat behind the formation, cared for by one older man, unfamiliar, the man doing all those things a doctor would do. Johnston nodded toward the man, a gesture of respect, but the doctor paid no attention, was moving quickly through the row of wounded. Johnston thought of his own doctor, usually riding with his staff. That morning, they had passed through a group of wounded, many of them Federal prisoners, and Johnston would not ignore that. There seemed to be no one there equipped to care for the desperate wounds Johnston could see, so he ordered his own Dr. Yandell to remain behind, to make some attempt to establish a field hospital. Yandell had protested, but Johnston would hear none of that, had ordered the doctor to treat the men who required it. It was, after all, a luxury Johnston knew was excessive, too much like a martinet to have his own surgeon trailing behind him just in case Johnston stubbed his toe.
Johnston still watched the doctor in the field, the man kneeling in front of what seemed to be no more than a pile of remains, blood and torn bits of uniform. The doctor lowered his head, moved on to the next man. Johnston turned away, thought of the blood he had already seen this day, so many fallen men, disfigured and broken, so many beyond the reach of anything a doctor could do. I cannot see that, he thought. I cannot mourn, even for a moment, the loss of a soldier. It is my duty, after all, to regard this army as a single force, a single being. The whole, always the most important thing. That was the great failure of Beauregard’s plan, not making proper use of the whole. It is why Bragg is so frustrated, gathering up units as he can find them, pounding against the wall that General Prentiss has placed in his front. It is why I am out here, and not sitting comfortably in a sickbed, reading messages, pretending to know all that is happening, all that must be done.
The firing seemed to roll toward him from farther away now, northward, deeper into the woods where Chalmers must be. He focused, sharp attention, the uneasiness that it could be the Federal counterattack, the great mass of blue troops that the engineer, Lockett, had feared. But the firing seemed to move to the left, as though his men were pushing the enemy farther from the river, exactly what Johnston had hoped. If my staff is correct, he thought, if that is indeed Chalmers and Jackson, it means that the Federal flank is that much closer to turning, that even the gallantry of General Prentiss cannot prevent what will happen next. The single word came to him again, the meaning so clear, that simple stroke of glory, what Johnston could feel inching toward him, so close to his grasp. Checkmate.
“Sir, General Breckinridge has returned!”
Johnston turned, saw more of the frowning concern, his concentration shattered by the discouraging glare from Breckinridge.
“What is happening, General?”
“The brigade … re-forming into line. Those men have been in a stiff fight. Some are claiming they have done all they can. General Bowen insists with much regret that they will not fight, that their day is done. I fear, sir, I cannot compel them to make this attack.”
Johnston held in his anger, had only limited confidence in Bowen, the man commanding his brigade for a short few weeks. But he never expected Breckinridge to show such defeat.
“Yes, General, I believe you can compel them.”
“But I have tried …”
“Then I will help you.”
Johnston turned, saw Harris, the governor suddenly coming to attention, expectant now, waiting for the inevitable order.
“There are Arkansas men out here, Isham. Perhaps you can inspire them as well as you do your own. You will assist us. General Breckinridge will move his staff to the left, you to the right. I will assume the center position, and together we will show these soldiers the way to the enemy.”
Johnston didn’t wait, rode forward, down into the field, could see the thick lines of men, officers on horseback, just … waiting. Breckinridge rode farther down the line, toward the farmhouses, and Johnston maneuvered his horse through the men, halted directly in front of the lines. He had a small burst of inspiration, reached into a saddlebag, retrieved the tin cup he had picked up in the Federal camp. He held it up, removed his hat, wanted them to see him clearly, no mistaking who he was.
“This cup is my only reward, my only piece of the spoils from the enemy! There is much more to be accomplished here. I have tasted victory, and on a day such as this, there is no greater gift to be had. That victory is in your hands, right now. You must obey your commanders, and march forward to complete the task we have begun! The enemy is retreating even now, and with your help, we can finish the job!” He edged the horse along the line, men flinching slightly, as though expecting some kind of blow from his sword, but the sword was in its scabbard. He was not here to scold or shame these men; there was no need for a dramatic gesture. The soldier closest to him stood firm, and Johnston reached out, his hand slapping gently at the man’s bayonet. “The enemy has proven stubborn today! These must do the work!” He rode farther along the line, his hand still out, touching more of the weapons. “We must use the bayonet! And I shall lead you!”
He looked down the line, saw Breckinridge watching him, following his lead, moving out with his staff in front of the brigade. Johnston looked the other way, saw Harris down off his horse, standing in front of the men with his pistol in his hand, ready as well. Johnston glanced back at the captain nearest him, made a sharp nod, the man understanding the order, the order passed quickly to the right, where General Bowen gave his own command. In seconds the drums began, shouts all along the line, and with no hesitation the brigade began its advance. Johnston kept the horse in a slow gait, allowed them to move up close behind him, and then, past. He called out again and they responded to him, cheers, the kind of cheers that drove men to a fight, that carried them toward the guns of the enemy, the confidence in their commanders and in themselves that would bring them victory.
The fight exploded throughout the woods in front of him, the men on both sides suddenly confronted with an enemy at close range. Johnston stayed close, could see glimpses of Breckinridge, the man’s staff still with him, leading that part of the fight. The smoke was thick, blinding, and Johnston struggled to breathe, could hear shrieks and zips in the air around him, felt a tug at his side, glanced down, saw the tear where the ball had sliced his coat. He pushed that away, focused on what he could see, and more, the energy he could feel from the driving advance of Bowen’s Brigade. No matter what reluctance they had before, only a few men were dropping back, and Johnston ignored those, no time now to gather up the few whose courage had failed them. He pushed onward, glanced to the right, no sign of Harris through the smoke and clusters of trees. He thought of moving that way, could not avoid concern for his friend, but his attention was drawn by a glimpse of blue, a line of Federal troops breaking, falling back. He felt another rip along his arm, glanced down, no damage to anything but the cloth, but the horse suddenly jerked, seemed to slump slightly, struggling to right himself. Johnston patted the horse’s neck, felt another jolt just behind him, against the horse’s leg, the horse sh
ifting from the blow.
“Fire-Eater, this shall be our day. Just stay with me! Stay in the fight!”
Johnston was surprised to see Harris riding up, the man wide-eyed, a mix of terror and pure joy, and Johnston started to speak, felt another punch against the bottom of his boot. The horse staggered again, and Johnston pulled his foot from the stirrup, saw the sole of his boot completely shot away. Harris saw that as well, said, “Sir! Are you all right?”
Johnston raised the damaged boot, laughed, said, “I am fine, it seems. But these boots are of little use.”
“Did the ball injure your foot?”
Johnston shoved his foot back into the stirrup, flexed his toes, said, “It seems not.”
Close to one side, an artillery battery suddenly opened its fire, brutal shrieks passing close overhead, the screaming of canister, tearing through the far flank of the Confederate line. Johnston couldn’t help a flinch, thought, very close … and very dangerous.
“Governor, Colonel Statham is in that vicinity. Go there, find him, and order the colonel to move troops toward that battery. It must be silenced.”
Harris said nothing, no salute, rode quickly away, the terrifying excitement stripping away the governor’s newly acquired military protocol. In front of Johnston, the soldiers kept up their march, more volleys blowing through on both sides and Johnston felt another tear in his coat, ignored it, no pain, the ball missing him yet again. He laughed again, could feel the triumph of the men before him, jabbed his fist into the air, could not hide an overwhelming joy. He spurred the horse lightly, the animal responding obediently, and Johnston tried not to think of that, would not yet look to the horse’s wounds. He patted the horse’s neck again, more low words, a sudden wave of affection for this servant that had carried him so far.
There was more firing now, a pocket of blue suddenly rising from a deep trough, their fire answered by a fresh volley from men right in front of him. The two groups rushed together, shouting, all through that part of the line, the fight too close for muskets, and he saw men grabbing one another, knives and bayonets flashing through the smoke. The fighting seemed to swirl around him, the smoke from more artillery blinding him, and he saw a new flash of fire, close to his right, men in blue bolting away, his own in pursuit. Johnston pushed the horse up a low rise, crested the ridge, could see the fight more plainly now, saw another volley from a line of blue, that line giving way, offering its final defiant blow. Johnston felt a slight tug at his knee, glanced down, nothing to see, felt no pain, just a tingle in his leg, a hint of numbness. He ignored that now, rode forward again, down along the ridgeline, still following his men, more of them in a rapid chase to catch the Federal retreat. The horse slowed, lowering its head, and Johnston tried to avoid the pain of that, raised the field glasses, tried to see something, anything. In every part of the open ground, his own men filled his view, the last of the Federal position driven away. The firing slowed, but there were new volleys farther to the left, more artillery, the thunder of the shells wiping away the cheers of the men who had so bested their enemy. He wanted to cheer with them, but they were still moving, leaving him behind, and he felt a strange weakness, as though sleep was coming, lowered the glasses, his mind drifting, the sounds of the battle rolling into a soft hum, like music, deep bass drums, a chorus of violins. He closed his eyes for a brief second, to shake the nonsense away, and he fought to breathe, weakness there as well. He opened his eyes again, saw drifting smoke, men far away, and now hoofbeats, a voice, Isham Harris.
“General, your order is delivered. Colonel Statham is in motion.”
Johnston felt himself starting to fall, nothing to stop it, and suddenly an arm was holding him, keeping him upright.
“Sir, are you wounded?”
Johnston tested his breathing, still felt no pain, just the numbness in his right leg, wetness in his boot. He looked down, tried to focus, realized his boot was filled with blood, saw blood spilling out.
“Yes, Isham. And I fear seriously.”
Johnston felt the sleep coming, could not stop it, his hands releasing the reins, but Harris was close beside him, holding Johnston’s horse close to his own, and Johnston could feel movement now, the slow, lurching rhythm. He seemed to wake, felt hands on him, supporting him as he fell, but it was slow, gentle, the hands laying him down. He tried to talk, to ask, felt the hands on his body, tugging on his clothes, coolness on his chest, realized his shirt was open, his chest exposed. His mind was carrying him farther away, and he struggled against that, heard voices above him, faces mostly a blur, but Harris … his staff …
“General, do you know me?”
Johnston forced his eyes open, saw treetops and blue sky, a face, Preston, felt a hard tug on his leg, his boot pulled off, more of the voices, pieces of words, “Bleeding …”
He didn’t respond, the energy gone, his eyes closing again, a single thought, that he could hear nothing of the fight, the silence strange, alarming. But the panic passed in a single moment, drained away, his mind engulfed by a strange, cold silence, and he saw her standing in the orchard, sweet Eliza smiling, tending to the beloved trees, and behind her, the ranch house, smoke from the chimney, soft lights in the windows … home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
HARRIS
EAST OF THE OLD COTTON FIELD APRIL 6, 1862, 3:00 P.M.
“His heart has stopped! It cannot be … it is such a small wound.”
Harris was on his knees, felt Johnston’s face, already growing cold. Colonel Preston stood above him, others from the staff gathered close, low words. Harris could feel their despair, felt it himself, sickening grief, a horror of disbelief. He ran his hand down Johnston’s leg, felt the thickening blood, his fingers finding the hole behind Johnston’s knee. But it was barely a hole, more of a gash, a deep scratch. Preston saw what he was doing, was down beside him now, and Preston said, “Dr. Yandell should have been here. He would be alive. A simple tourniquet would have stopped the bleeding.”
Harris thought of Yandell, the man so vigorous in his protests that he should stay with the general. Harris spoke through tears now.
“He did not believe he required a surgeon. I suppose … none of us believe that. None of us expects … this.”
“You are wrong, Governor. I mean no disrespect, understand me. But a soldier must always expect this. The general knew that, certainly.” Preston was sliding his hands into Johnston’s pockets, removing papers, anything official. He suddenly withdrew a small strip of cloth, stared at it for a moment, showed it to Harris.
“My God, Governor, he carried one in his pocket. A tourniquet. He just … he must not have known of the wound. There must have been no pain, no sensation at all.”
Harris blinked through the tears, glanced at the tourniquet. He lowered his head, said, “He was directing the fight. There was nothing else that mattered. Look, his coat. He was struck by several balls. Death could have come at any time. It did not matter to him.”
“What’s this?”
Preston had removed Johnston’s coat, one hand deep inside a pocket, withdrew a small bundle. He cradled it carefully, and unwrapped it, and Harris caught a stinking smell. He looked away, had seen the bundle before, said slowly, “It is a sandwich. It’s the parting gift from Mrs. Inge.”
Couriers had continued to come in, and the staff had done all they could to shield prying eyes from the identity of the fallen officer. Preston had kept his calm, doing the job, taking command of the staff, and despite the grief that was so hard to disguise, every man knew that Johnston’s death had to be kept from the troops who were still pursuing the fight. Even more important, General Beauregard had to be notified. Harris felt no joy in the sudden realization that Beauregard now commanded this army. But that judgment had been made by others, and Colonel Preston recognized that with perfect clarity. Preston had sent a courier on his way, a message for General Breckinridge that said nothing about Johnston at all. Preston moved closer to Harris now, pulled him by the arm, aw
ay from the others.
“Governor, we are faced with two very important tasks. I shall supervise the transport of the general’s body to headquarters. We must remove him from the field, so that nothing … unfortunate should occur. He must not fall into enemy hands, certainly. But you must precede me to headquarters as rapidly as you can. Ride to that church with all haste, and notify General Beauregard what has happened.” Preston looked back toward the others. “Who among you has been to the headquarters?”
Several men nodded, motioned with their hands, and Preston pointed to one, Captain Wickham, the man attempting to wipe away tears.
“Captain, you will guide Governor Harris to the army’s headquarters. Make haste. Orders must still guide this army. It is possible that General Beauregard is unaware of the progress we have made on this flank. He must be informed. General Johnston would insist …” Preston stopped, seemed to choke on his words.
Harris walked slowly toward Johnston’s horse, his legs weak, trying to gather himself. He put a hand on the saddle, supporting himself. He turned toward Preston, said, “Colonel, I will do as you instruct.” He looked past Preston, to the others, saw the grief, the sadness on all of them. He could not remain silent, felt the need to ease the pain.
“We will endure this tragedy, gentlemen. We must. It is just … one more challenge we face.”
Harris didn’t believe his own words, felt his despair widening into a vast chasm of depression. He looked out toward the fighting, distant now, moving farther to the north and west. He turned, stared toward the river, and Preston moved closer to him, Johnston’s coat still in his hand. Preston seemed to struggle to control himself, to keep his composure in front of the staff.
“You share my thoughts, Governor. The river is a short distance from here. It would have been appropriate if the general had been allowed to make good on his promise.”
