by Jeff Shaara
The order came now, a hoarse shout through the lull in the firing.
“Advance, double-quick!”
Bauer obeyed, as they all did, their line strengthened by a fresh regiment coming out of the woods behind them, moving up quickly. Few turned to see them, no one really caring who they were, what state, what flag. As Bauer stepped forward, he breathed in the smoke, his eyes and lungs burning. But no one held back, few ran away, the sergeants keeping order without the brutality, the cursing jerks on the coat collars. Bauer appreciated that moving forward was a far simpler maneuver than pulling away, that if there was any kind of contagiousness spreading through these men, it was the best kind, the certainty that they were driving the enemy back, that they were winning.
They drove through another stand of timber, more of the cracked and broken trees, obstacles and cover, slowing the line. But the men around Bauer were used to this now, filed through the openings in good order. Bauer fought the watery eyes, the coughs, ignored the others around him, suffering the same ailments he was. He pushed past a wounded man, a rebel with blood on his face, a quick glance, searching for weapons in the man’s hand. That was new, the wounded still dangerous. As they pushed past more of the fallen rebels, some of those men had suddenly taken their last chance, a bayonet lunging upward, a pistol discharging the last round. If there had been pity before, there was none now, and many of the men who marched beside Bauer stepped past the wounded with a flash of the bayonet, no one stopping them, the wounded not wounded any longer. Out front the officers kept up the pace, one lieutenant suddenly stumbling, a single sharpshooter making good his last round. The fallen officer caused a roar of anger that spread through the men who followed him, draining away a small piece of their exhaustion.
In the field, the rebels waited, but they were not many, and Bauer fought to breathe, pain in his ribs, the exhaustion of yesterday returning. He slowed, others near him doing the same, the line of rebels taking aim, a volley blowing out toward them. Bauer had seen the rebels aiming, had dropped low, simple instinct now, the balls flying high, one man crying out, the one man who reacted too slowly. They were up again, the sharp command, the rebels drifting back, leaving more of their own in the field. Bauer tried to keep the pace, but no one was moving quickly, many men stopping, as Bauer did now, staring out with blackened faces, powder-coated shirts, some with small wounds, torn shirts for bandages. The officers knew what their men had done, how far they had come, and so the orders didn’t come, the men on horseback focused more to the front, seeing what so many of the infantrymen could not. In the woods beyond, where the backs of the rebels showed one more retreat, the field was speckled with white. Some of the tents were still standing, though many more were ripped down, either by the rebels or by the artillery fire the Federal batteries now poured toward the rebel lines.
Bauer leaned on his musket, didn’t know if he had reloaded, and for the moment, he didn’t care. The enemy had faded away in front, and in some weary place in his mind, he knew they would stand up again, face them again, the next field, the next patch of forest. He saw Willis, down on one knee, but there were no words, nothing to say, no energy to say it. The artillery continued out to the right, a hot fight, but in a few short minutes, that quieted as well. The sudden lack of firing seemed to catch them all by surprise, the men standing again, few speaking, and heads began to turn, Bauer with them, hearing the chatter and thumps far to the right, where the other Federal divisions had driven their way forward. No one around him, none of the officers, not even the colonel had any idea what was happening on those far distant fields, in the ravines and gullies and stands of blasted trees. But here the officers knew they had to get their men up and moving, had to keep the pressure on the retreating rebels. Bauer saw Patch ride out in front, saw the sword come up again, could see the other horsemen, the line stretching to both ends of the field. He saw motion, far to the left, the end of the field, the woods there suddenly alive with blue, another line rolling forward, coming at an angle into their flank. For a long moment, the two lines halted, officers in a gallop toward each other. The meetings were brief, and Bauer saw a larger flag, the breeze showing the Stars and Stripes, brass, someone who must know what was happening. Colonel Allen rode back toward his men now, Patch and Captain Pease close beside him, aides trailing behind, blood on the flanks of the horses. The men around Bauer knew what was coming, and they hoisted their muskets, Bauer doing the same, a quick glance at the percussion cap, knew he had reloaded, no memory of that. Behind them, the bugler was there, ever present, the man Bauer almost never saw. The call came now, Patch’s sword pointing the way, and once more, the blue lines, feeling the strength, the power brought to them by so many fresh troops, obeyed the order and began to march.
PART FOUR
DESPAIR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
HARRIS
BEAUREGARD’S HEADQUARTERS TENT APRIL 7, 1862, DAWN
The governor had stayed close to Braxton Bragg, and Bragg had succeeded where Colonel Forrest had not. He had not only located Beauregard’s new command center; Bragg had slept in the same tent. But both men had been called out, responding to the surprising sounds of a fight.
The first artillery fire had come to them from the left, and Harris knew little of what Beauregard had done to secure that flank. But Bragg went into motion immediately, Harris following. Before Bragg could reach the rugged terrain where his own brigade had been the point of that sword, word came from Preston Pond that he had been forced back. An infuriated Bragg did what Bragg had always done, shifting his men where the fire was most severe, doing all he could to support Pond as he withdrew to a new position. But the assaults began to come more to the right, and Bragg had gone back to Beauregard, reporting that the Federals must have decided to offer a last desperate gamble, that perhaps Grant had ordered Sherman and Hurlbut and the other commanders to drive from their defenses in a mad suicidal dash. It was the kind of theory Beauregard seemed entirely willing to accept.
Harris had been sent out toward Pond’s new position, had seen the first of the prisoners brought in, a scattering of Yankee troops who had been caught up in a dense brush field that separated them from their main force. The surprise came when they identified themselves, a proud declaration that they weren’t fighting for Sherman at all. These men were a part of the Union Third Division. They fought under Lew Wallace.
Harris understood enough of what was happening to know that this information had to be sent back to Beauregard. With a growing sense of chaos spreading all across the left flank, the commanders there had mostly exhausted their couriers, staff officers focused more on keeping their lines together, shifting units where the Federal surge was starting to blow through. Harris had no choice but to return to Beauregard himself.
Harris was amazed to see a broad smile. Beauregard sat straight in the saddle, showed few signs of the months-long ailment that had put him on his back through so much of the planning. Instead Beauregard was energized, responded to the sounds of the fight on the left with a kind of enthusiasm that Harris had never seen in the man. Harris could not avoid the thought that, with so much at stake, and with a surprise assault exploding toward them, Beauregard was actually happy.
Bragg had already ridden away, was moving more to the center of the lines, a fight erupting there as well. Harris did the only thing that made sense to him: He rode close to Beauregard, ready to respond in the event the general required a courier.
Beauregard moved quickly, riding hard, his staff straggling behind, not used to the manic energy coming from a man who had barely crawled out of a sickbed. But Beauregard shared his enthusiasm with the men he met on the roads. They were scattered, pieces of regiments, small commands, most without officers. Whether they were shirkers, or simply lost in the confusion of yesterday’s fight, seemed not to matter to Beauregard at all. He spoke to them all, short, eloquent speeches, rallying them, gathering a force that actually had weight. With Beauregard leading them, the assembl
age took shape as a regiment all their own. Harris followed as closely as he could, the newly minted battle line rushing forward into what seemed to be a gap at one end of a brigade that belonged to Bragg.
Beauregard kept to one side, cheered them as they passed, the men returning that with a hearty cheer of their own. Beauregard searched his staff now, pointed at Harris, said, “Governor! You are witness to great deeds this day. Great deeds! You must ride back to General Polk, offer the bishop my most reverent respects and request that he advance his forces to this location. They must occupy any ground they find where the enemy threatens. Polk will know what to do, once he observes the situation.”
Harris saluted, moved away. He knew that the night before Polk had been pulled away entirely, that whatever troops he could gather had been drawn so far back, they were well behind Beauregard’s own headquarters. Harris had not been privy to the conversation that produced that result. All he knew now was that Polk was clearly too far away from any place he should be.
“Governor, may I see your map? I fear mine has been destroyed by the storm.”
Harris dismounted the horse, was surprised to see Polk without his coat. Behind Polk, just outside the opening of Polk’s tent, a black orderly was removing breakfast dishes from a wooden crate, a makeshift table. It was obvious that Polk had just finished his breakfast.
Harris withdrew the crushed roll of paper from his coat, handed the map to Polk, the same map Bragg had used the afternoon before. The details were small, nearly unreadable now, the rain doing damage to that paper as well. Polk seemed to squint, shook his head.
“I know the roads. Used them too many times. You say General Beauregard wishes us to advance again?”
“Those are his instructions, yes, sir. There is some urgency to the general’s request.”
Polk turned, called out to his adjutant, said, “Major, go to General Cheatham. Have him put the men into motion with all haste. Respectfully suggest that the general be certain his men have full cartridge boxes.”
The man seemed to hesitate, responded slowly.
“Sir … there is very little ammunition. The wagons we found last night were mostly empty. We had hoped we would not require fresh cartridges today.”
Polk stared at the man, now a quick glance at the governor.
“Why is that, Major?”
“Well, sir, if I may make the observation, last evening General Beauregard was most optimistic that this corps’s services would not be required today. Was that not the reason for our withdrawal, sir?”
Polk pondered the question, and Harris heard him let out a long breath.
“I brought the men back here with every hope they could be fed, Major. They have performed with the might of the Almighty’s sword, and, yes, I had hoped that by now, this battle might be concluded.”
Polk looked at Harris now.
“Is it your understanding, sir, that the enemy is not cooperating?”
Harris began to absorb the mood around him, felt a stirring uneasiness.
“General Polk, the enemy is pressing hard into our left and center. There has been word that they are also emerging from the landing itself, far to our right. Though I am not a military man, I have observed General Bragg responding to that with considerable energy, and though General Beauregard seems unconvinced of a threat, General Hardee has shifted his troops more to the right, to drive the enemy back. I have not yet seen General Hardee, but if I may offer, sir, there is considerable concern in General Bragg’s quarter. Any hope that the enemy would have surrendered … has been contradicted by what is happening right now. He has been reinforced on our left flank by the division of Lew Wallace.”
Polk nodded, kept his reaction to himself.
“And what of General Beauregard?”
Harris began to understand more clearly now. Polk had not been told anything of the fight. He was simply too far away.
“Sir, General Beauregard remains confident that this day, the campaign is ours. If I may suggest, sir, at this moment, from all I have seen, General Bragg would not agree with that optimism.”
Polk stared at him, sharp, stern eyes, and Harris knew the look, had often seen the same gravity from Johnston. Polk turned to his adjutant again.
“Go now to General Cheatham. Have all available troops put into column of march and advance to the enemy’s positions at once. Follow the sounds of the fighting. General Bragg and General Hardee must be informed once we are on the field. They will know where we should be placed. There is to be no hesitation. Do you understand?”
“Most certainly, sir.”
The major spun his horse around, was gone quickly. Polk showed a hint of frustration now, the first emotion Harris had seen. He moved toward the crate, sat. Harris kept silent, knew Polk was deep in thought, realized suddenly he was thinking of Johnston. Polk looked up at him, the steel in his eyes giving way to a soft sadness.
“Optimism is a curse, Governor. It clouds our vision, gives rise to carelessness. I am guilty of that, to be sure.” He paused. “Sidney would not have been so … sure of himself. He would have swept that away from our conversation. And so he would not have removed my troops so far from the field. He must … be furious. He would have known what to do. He would know that right now.”
Harris understood the meaning, that Polk would certainly believe Johnston was looking down on all that was happening. Harris felt a burst of anger, fought to hold the words back, but there was too much sadness, too much grief, his discretion too battered by all he had seen.
“Sir, with all respects, we cannot rely on the wisdom of angels.”
Polk looked at him again, tapped his chest with one hand.
“The angels are here, Governor. They do guide us. But they do not make us infallible.”
Harris heard a distant rumble, turned, Polk standing now, moving beside him. Harris said, “Artillery. Ours, I assume.”
“Most likely. We will find out soon enough.”
NEAR SHILOH CHURCH APRIL 7, 1862, 11:00 A.M.
Beauregard was back closer to the church, but not by his own choice. The Federals had pressed their attacks hard into any units Bragg could send against them, and even Beauregard began to understand that he could not muster the strength he needed to hold them back. The left flank was mostly a chaotic mess, the same ground that had served the Confederates so well now working against them. The deep cuts and thickets gave the Yankees cover, and artillery batteries had kept up the pace, splintering the guns that Bragg’s artillerymen had hoped would slow the advance. For every Federal battery destroyed, it seemed another took its place, and Bragg’s commanders on that part of the field had no such luxury. The guns that still fired were facing another problem as well, a spreading shortage of ammunition. Throughout the long, dismal night, no one had sent forward the supply wagons or fresh limbers. The gunners were making do with what little ammunition they had left.
Harris reached the church with the vanguard of Polk’s forces, stayed closer to Beauregard, was too uncertain just where Bragg might be to offer his help there. The fight had grown, Polk’s men stepping into a new hell in the fields and wood lines through the center of the position. There they were tied on the right to Hardee and whatever force Breckinridge had gathered together. It was the same all along the lines, and well behind. The Confederate forces were too jumbled, too few officers in places they needed to be. As the Federals advanced, the Confederate infantry rallied around anyone they could find, staff officers, gunnery officers, entire regiments following the first captain who raised his sword.
Beauregard was still in the saddle, rode with manic enthusiasm, pulling men out of the woods, the deep gullies, doing all he could to inject courage into men who had given up the fight. Harris rode behind him, watched in amazement as men responded, soldiers rising up with Beauregard’s call, some of those without weapons, some with wounds.
They rode close to the church, and Beauregard halted the horse, seemed to freeze in place, staring out. Harris did
the same, heard the variety of noises, far more activity now coming toward them to the left, to the northwest. Beauregard spoke out loud, a pronouncement not directed at anyone.
“They have turned the left flank. Bragg has failed us. Who do we have who can save that position?”
He looked around now, the staff silent, no one with an answer. Harris saw a rider, a hard gallop on the road to the north, the horse wobbly, thick froth on its flanks. It was Lockett, Bragg’s engineer.
“Sir! General Bragg offers his compliments and reports that General Ruggles has been unable to stem the tide. The enemy continues to sweep past our flanks!”
Lockett paused, turned, and Harris saw what caught his eye. Swarms of men suddenly appeared, far more than before. They ran toward the church, away from the sounds of the growing battle, refugees who had abandoned the fight. Beauregard ignored the engineer now, rode out to meet them, waved his hat, the horse rising up to its hind legs in a perfect parade ground maneuver. Harris saw the faces, the look of men who had nothing to give, who were feeling the panic, an infection spreading through them all. More came down the road, men stumbling out of the woods, more climbing slowly up from a deep thicket to the east of the church. Lockett rode close to Beauregard, the din of the battle closer to the east, shouted, “Sir! Do you have orders for General Bragg? Should he withdraw to this position?”
Beauregard spun the horse around, some of the men responding to him still, and he shouted out, “Good soldiers! Form a line! Form here! Weapons at the ready!”
Some of the men slowed their retreat, most others kept moving, pushing past Harris, blank stares, barefoot, and Harris felt a wave of helplessness. I’m a civilian, he thought. What do I do to stop this? He shouted out, joining into the chorus coming from Beauregard and his staff officers. The men were rallying, but not many, and Harris called out, the only words he could think of.
