by Jeff Shaara
“Let’s move, soldier!”
The order came from one side, a lieutenant standing against a tree, seeming to hold himself up. The man wore the insignia of the 41st Illinois, the unit that had been to the right of the 16th Wisconsin. Behind Bauer, a man spoke up, obviously familiar with the officer.
“Where we headin’, sir? Where they leadin’ us?”
“Only place left, Private. Pittsburg Landing.”
PITTSBURG LANDING APRIL 6, 1862, 6:00 P.M.
Bauer marched up onto the flat high ground at the landing with openmouthed marvel. The hustle of activity was noisy and chaotic, the plain above the landing surging with men and wagons, some giving way to a column of artillery pieces. The Wisconsin men were pulled into line between rows of cannon, orders coming that they were to plant themselves in a brushy ridgeline, which curved out away from the landing, a sweeping S that bordered low ground on both sides. Despite the order, Bauer moved out of line, stood in awe, watching cannons unlimbered, teams of horses and mules worked with ruthless efficiency by the men who were organizing what seemed to be one solid row of artillery. He glanced out toward the river, saw a column of blue troops marching up from the water’s edge, could see the smoke from the transports, as familiar now as it had been weeks before. But the troops he saw wore clean uniforms, were led by men with fresh horses, officers wearing a look of smug confidence, and Bauer realized through the fog in his brain, these men haven’t fought anybody. They haven’t even seen the enemy. Not one of those officers has had his horse shot out from under him. But … who are they?
The lieutenants were moving the Wisconsin men out past the gathering line of artillery, marching them farther out on the snaking ridge. Bauer heard the order, moved that way, saw the ground in front of the artillery falling steeply away to a rough thicket below, what looked to be a wide, swampy bog. He felt a hand on his shoulder, pulling him along, and he followed, slow automatic steps, saw Champlin, a hoarse bark of a command, the slower men gathering together along the crest of the ridge. Directly behind them, the artillery continued to pull into line, more officers, loud, impatient commands. Champlin released him, moved back to gather up those who had staggered to a halt, and Bauer took advantage, knelt down, heard an officer shout out to the men something about loading their muskets, once more, those horrible words … get ready to receive the enemy. He felt for his cartridge box, maybe a third full, gave that little thought, the fog in his brain taking over, the end of the march turning his legs to jelly, and the rest of him as well. He stared out to the road that came up from the landing, the column of fresh troops, the word coming to him, reinforcements. But there was no excitement in that, no sense of relief. You’re no better than we are, he thought. He wanted to say it, to leave the ridgeline, move back out through the wheels of the cannons, to walk up to the closest officer he saw, a major sitting high on his horse, a ridiculous plume in the man’s hat. You’ll be the first one they shoot, you stupid … but the thought drifted away, no energy left for that kind of anger.
He looked to his musket, blinked through a desperate need for sleep, felt a hard growl of hunger, a cavernous hole in his stomach, had not even thought of food. Most of the 16th was out on the ridge now, but still others came out from the trail, marching up the road toward him, filthy, ragged, exhausted. Some just stopped, as he had, watched the procession of these clean new troops, some using their last bit of strength to shout out curses and ridicule, insults for their clean uniforms, for the shine on their muskets. Bauer was too tired to join in, looked again to the major, the man waving his troops along the roadway with perfect confidence. The major turned now, only a few feet from Bauer, seemed to catch Bauer’s stare, looked at him with curiosity. He smiled now, odd, unnerving, and Bauer had no energy to respond, the training too ingrained, that it was not his place to respond at all. He studied the man with the last bit of focus he had left, saw the gold oak leaf on the man’s shoulder. But the hat caught his eye again, the enormous idiotic feather, and Bauer saw the insignia of Ohio. The major spoke to him now, a blur of words Bauer tried to sort through: “It’s all over for you boys. Nothing to worry about. General Buell’s pulling your bacon out of the fire.”
Behind Bauer, a voice.
“Only fire around here is the one we fed the enemy. Hate to see you mess up that fine hat, sir.”
It was Willis.
The major sneered at the insult, spurred his horse, made a show of raising the hat for his own men. Bauer’s brain cleared, a burst of joy, and he spun around, saw Willis moving along with the last group of Wisconsin men. Willis saw him now, a weary smile.
“Well, Dutchie, I knew they wouldn’t catch you. You run faster’n any rabbit I ever saw.”
“Sammie … where you been? Looked all over hell for you.”
“Well, that’s where I was. Used up a half-dozen muskets fightin’ my way out. Would ya look at these parade ground boys, now? Gotta be a regiment. One single damn regiment. Like that’s all we need to scare those secesh clear out of this country. What kind of fools are they sending us?”
“Watch that mouth, Private.”
Bauer saw the officer on horseback, Major Reynolds, one of Colonel Allen’s most senior adjutants. Willis said, “Sorry, sir. Didn’t mean no disrespect. I hear you’re in charge of us boys now, Major.”
Reynolds nodded, didn’t seem pleased about that, said, “Colonel Allen, Colonel Fairchild, both wounded pretty bad. Until the army tells me any different, the 16th is under my command.”
Some of the Wisconsin men had heard Reynolds, some gathering closer, the nearest lieutenant silencing the others. Reynolds was popular with the men, but seemed to have a serious conflict with Allen that inspired a raft of rumors that Reynolds was set to be court-martialed. Bauer looked up at him, knew nothing about any of that, and right now, he didn’t care. At least he knew who was in command. Bauer felt the words come out in a dreamlike mumble.
“We’re ready to go again, sir.”
“I doubt that, Private.” Behind Reynolds, the rumbling din of the artillery teams and more of the gathering of troops was flooding Bauer’s brain, driving him even closer to dropping down right where he stood. Reynolds seemed to notice that in all of his men. He raised his voice now, said, “You boys move out there, and settle in right along that ridge. The enemy’s still out there, and we haven’t done a damn thing to stop their advance. These Ohio boys with their clean long johns are supposed to be some kind of salvation for us, but there aren’t enough of them to matter, not yet anyway. You boys find whatever cover you can, and stay just back of the crest. Check your muskets. If the enemy comes at us, it’ll be right up these steep hills. That’s all you need to think about, for now. Dark in an hour or so. Won’t much happen after that. Just remember … aim low.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
HARRIS
SOUTH OF PITTSBURG LANDING, SOUTH SIDE OF DILL BRANCH APRIL 6, 1862, 5:30 P.M.
The governor had found Bragg, the corps commander seeming to do what he could to fill the awful void caused by the death of Johnston. With the surrender of Prentiss, Bragg turned his attention to the right, where his own brigade commanders, Chalmers and Jackson, continued to press onward toward the ultimate goal, Pittsburg Landing.
Harris rode with Bragg’s staff now, knew his orders from Beauregard had suggested that the governor keep in motion, riding back and forth from the field to Beauregard’s headquarters to report on the successful progress close to the river. Though Harris carried the grief of Johnston’s death with him still, he knew that obedience to the army’s new commander was a responsibility he had to accept. But riding back across the tangle of woods and roadways had no appeal to him now, not after seeing Beauregard’s cavalier attitude about the death of Beauregard’s superior, and Harris’s friend.
More of Beauregard’s considerable staff had taken to their horses, and Harris had to respect that the army’s new commander was at least seeking information from every part of the field, and would certai
nly use that information to maneuver the army into the best position he could to finish the day’s work. The disposition of the army was still a confused and chaotic mess, but there were exceptions, and with Prentiss’s final collapse, Hardee had taken advantage by driving his troops even closer to Pittsburg Landing on the left flank, pushing back the Federal forces who still tried to maintain some cohesion. When Hardee’s men finally confronted what Hardee concluded was an unassailable line of Sherman’s beleaguered defenders, he was within a half mile of Pittsburg Landing. With Prentiss gone from the center, Polk, now commanding a complete mishmash of units from every corps on the field, brought his troops forward as well, pushing through the heavy woods with Hardee’s men, closing the arc that seemed destined to accomplish Johnston’s cherished goal of driving Grant’s army into the river. The last piece of that puzzle lay on the right, as it had for most of the day. There Bragg had shifted his command, but it took Bragg a good hour before he could establish himself on that part of the field, and the chaos he found there played straight into Bragg’s furious temperament for discipline.
GRANT’S LAST LINE OF DEFENSE
The Confederate troops who had routed Hurlbut’s Division, who had crushed Prentiss’s left flank, were now mostly bogged down, whether exhausted, or too smitten with their own success. As had happened that morning, some of those soldiers had focused more on the spoils of the Federal camps than they did on whatever Federal troops might still be to their front. Many of the troops tossed their smoothbore muskets away, replacing them with the far superior Federal weapons, and taking advantage of the stores of fresh ammunition. As they rode into the camps of what must have been Hurlbut’s regiments, Harris could see the men plundering more than weapons. Most of these men had not eaten anything since well before dawn, and the enemy’s collapse had left behind the kinds of rations few of the Confederate soldiers could ignore. If they were too tired now to load up on booty, many of Bragg’s and Breckinridge’s men were definitely going to feed themselves, a much greater priority than pursuing a beaten enemy.
Though Harris knew very little of tactical maneuvering, it was plainly obvious that, no matter the pause in their bloody advances, the Confederate forces had hemmed in Grant’s army exactly as Johnston had hoped. There was only one thing left to accomplish, and with Bragg furiously reassembling whatever units he could gather, putting them back into line for the last great push northward, Harris shared the thrilling exuberance that, before this day was over, Bragg would drive his forces straight into Grant’s last stronghold.
The tents were mostly in shambles, and Harris absorbed all he could see, trunks of the officers, every kind of utensil for cooking, coffeepots and mounds of tin plates. The weapons were there, but not many, Bragg’s men grabbing up most of the discarded swords and knives. Harris was shocked to see bodies as well, scolded himself for that, knew that should have been no surprise at all. There had been talk from some of the troops, reckless boasting that Harris could not help overhear, how any wounded Yankee would be cut to pieces where he lay, that there were sick men in the tents who would die in their own blankets. With his usual furious bombast, Bragg had put a stop to that wherever he could, but still, Harris could see the blood-soaked blue coats, an outstretched arm, a few Yankee soldiers cut down while still in their tents. Harris moved close behind Bragg, prepared to do whatever Bragg asked of him, but so far, Bragg had spent his energy gathering up the wayward troops, his staff and subordinate officers pulling every available man back into some kind of formation. Flags and unit designations meant very little now. The most urgent job at hand was to put a hard advance together before they ran out of daylight. Even Bragg seemed to have a tolerance for looting, as long as the primary mission was accomplished first. Once Grant’s sword was in his hands, Bragg had made it clear to the men he pulled together that the spoils of this fight would be theirs for the taking.
They moved now into woods, and Harris saw men doing what Bragg had ordered, forming up their lines, officers shouting men into place. Out front, there was still musket fire, but it was slow, inconsistent, pockets of Federal troops dueling with the farthest advance of Bragg’s men. Bragg had given Harris a map, seemed to realize that the governor might be more useful in a less military role, something Harris had no problem with at all. Bragg pulled up now, blind woods to the front, the congested ground falling away to one side. The men were mostly silent, and it wasn’t all from exhaustion. They seemed to know what Bragg was about to do. Bragg leaned close to Harris, held out his hand.
“The map, Governor.”
Harris obliged, the worn paper unrolled in Bragg’s hands, and Bragg looked behind him, appraised the gathering of troops. He glanced at Harris now, the same scowl Bragg seemed to wear no matter what was going on around him.
“Dill Branch. It’s wider than most of these infernal creeks, but it’s the last low place before we reach the landing.”
He looked to the side, waved one of the aides closer.
“Captain, you will locate General Chalmers with all haste. He holds the position closest to the river. Insist in the strongest terms that he press forward. Every movement must be forward! You hear me? Forward!”
“Yes, sir!”
Bragg looked to another of his aides, a young lieutenant, said, “Go to General Jackson, and give him the same order! If their flanks are in contact with each other, more the better. If not, that cannot be an impediment.” Bragg looked at the map again, nodded, as though confirming his order to himself. “Both brigades must push through the low ground to their front and assault the enemy’s position. The Yankees are confused and panicked and will give way in short order. I will order General Withers and General Ruggles and every other unit I can send their way, to support their assault as rapidly as possible. Now go!”
The two aides saluted, moved out together into thick woods, disappeared quickly. Bragg looked toward Harris, returned the map, and the governor was surprised to see a hint of a smile.
“It is close, Mr. Harris. Very close. Your friend General Johnston predicted we would be triumphant here, and I will make it so.”
They charged down through the muck and swampy grass, slow going in the face of what now seemed to be a powerful wall of Federal artillery. The musket fire came as well, most of it from a long, steep rise, Federal infantry protected by sharp ridges the Confederate troops could only hope to climb. The ground was far steeper here than most of the rugged terrain Chalmers and Jackson had already conquered, high embankments that required their men to use both hands, keep flat to the sloping ground, while their muskets were passed up from the men behind them. But even then, the targets above them were few, protected by the angle of the ground.
Where it flowed into the river, Dill Branch yawned wide, a flat, soggy swamp, and there the Federal gunboats slipped into position, firing at anything that dared cross the open ground. The noise from those shells was as terrifying for Bragg’s men as it had been for Prentiss’s hours before, some of the Confederates unable to keep their courage, falling back from any sight of the boats themselves. Farther inland, Dill Branch made a sweeping curve, hiding the men from the big guns, and it was soon apparent to Bragg and his officers that as long as the men kept away from the river’s edge, the gunboats could do very little damage at all. The sounds were terrifying to be sure, but the angle of the tall riverbank meant that the guns would have to fire higher still, and so most of their shells flew far above and beyond Bragg’s men. No matter the fear that infected some, the troops who hugged the steep hillside just below Pittsburg Landing understood quickly that the greatest challenge to their advance would not come from the heavy artillery on the river. On the ridges above them, hidden in thickets, or lined up along the many wooded ridgelines, Federal artillery was pouring out a blistering wave of shot and shell, canister and grapeshot, keeping Bragg’s men mostly pinned down. But Bragg made good on his promise, and to the south, more of his troops were pushing their way forward, nothing at all to slow their progress b
ut the miserable lay of the land. As long as they kept out of direct sight of the gunboats, there was little to stop a growing number of Confederate troops from adding to their final surge across the boggy creek.
As Harris rode hard with Bragg, shifting and directing the flow of men toward the fight, they began to see a radical change in the larger units. Despite Bragg’s aides spreading his order for any brigade or regimental commanders to drive northward, those gatherings of troops suddenly seemed to stop, many of them actually pulling back. It was not from anything the enemy was doing, no shelling reaching them in the thick woods, nothing violent to halt their progress. It was an order from Beauregard.
Harris had been sent to General Ruggles, carrying Bragg’s order that Ruggles’s Division advance with as much speed as possible. But Ruggles wasn’t advancing at all, and Harris could see from the expression on the general’s face that something was very wrong. Harris halted the horse, saw another officer close beside Ruggles, a colonel, slightly familiar, from Beauregard’s staff. The man carried an expression of perfect arrogance, the smugness of a man who knows he carries authority. Ruggles glanced toward Harris, but Harris saw little of the man’s furious temperament, the man’s shoulders slumped as he sat limply in the saddle. Ruggles said, “Governor, I assume you have come from General Bragg?”
