A Blaze of Glory

by Jeff Shaara

  He looked at the staff, shook his head.

  “Nothing right now. See to your belongings, if they left you any. We must put this division back together as quickly as possible. I do not believe this fight is concluded.”

  Sanger responded, “Surely, sir, that is not the case. From all we have learned, the rebels have withdrawn completely. They are marching southward. Surely, sir, they will not come again. If anything, I had thought a pursuit was in order. With all respects, sir.”

  “Pursuit with what, Major? Look at these men around us. Go out to the camps and look at what we have left, who among the men is prepared to do this again. It can be no different in the other camps. Not even Buell’s men can have much left after today.” He paused, looked to the east, felt a cool, damp breeze. He knew they should have pursued the rebels, but already the Confederate commanders had placed a strong rear guard in their path, perhaps the only fighting men the rebels had left. Beauregard knows more about that than we do, he thought. Bragg, Hardee … they know very well that if we are careless, they can still give us a hard punch in the face. But there will be a pursuit. There has to be. That man in St. Louis will not understand what truly happened here, will not understand what this fight has done to us, to all of us. General Halleck will expect us to waltz right out of here and hammer those rebels like it’s a walk in the woods. And if Grant does not comply, nothing we did here will matter.

  “Gentlemen, I must go see General Grant.”

  ON BOARD THE TIGRESS, PITTSBURG LANDING APRIL 7, 1862, 8:00 P.M.

  “I should send a wire to General Halleck, informing him of today’s actions. I am quite certain General Buell has already done so.” Grant paused. “There will no doubt be two official versions of the same event.”

  Grant sat on a small wooden chair, Sherman across from him, both men smoking the ever-present cigars. Sherman tried to distract himself from staring at Grant’s injured leg, looked out toward a porthole into wet darkness. As Sherman had ridden eastward, the rain had come again, but not as bad, a steady light drizzle. He had not expected Grant to be back on the riverboat, but one look at Grant’s leg told the story. Grant saw him looking again at the swollen limb, said, “They had to lift me out of the damn saddle. Thing is swollen like a barrel. Doctor gave me hell, as much as he had the courage to do that. After what they’ve been through, I let him blow out as much steam as he needed to. Still had blood on his hands. Hard to fault a man who spends his whole day in men’s guts.”

  Sherman finished his own cigar, was suddenly nervous, kept his eye on Grant’s leg.

  “Is there some danger …?”

  “That they’ll cut the thing off? I don’t give them that much rope, Sherman. I just overdid the riding today. It’s not a damn wound, no open sores. Not like General Smith.”

  Sherman had forgotten completely about Smith, said, “How is he? We sure as hell need him now.”

  Grant shook his head, one hand pressing on the injured leg, kneading, a grimace on his face.

  “He’s worse. No idea why. The doctors scratch their damn heads. My injury ought to have been worse than his … and they say if he doesn’t improve soon, he might not improve at all.” Grant looked over to him with a sharp glare. “That information is not to leave this boat. You understand? His division fought like hell out there, took casualties as bad as anyone on that field. I’ll not have them reminded that their commander is sitting on this river being tended to by gloomy doctors.” Grant pulled another cigar out of his coat, and Sherman did the same. Grant seemed startled by a thought, said, “Oh! Not sure if you heard. They found Will Wallace. The rebels wrapped him up in a blanket and left him by the side of some damn road. Damned if he isn’t still alive. We hauled him back to his wife, out here on the river. I have to hand it to that woman. She held to her faith that he’d survive, that she’d see him again. Hell of a thing.”

  Sherman rubbed the dense stubble on his chin.

  “I’ll be damned. Pretty lucky there. I ought to go see him.”

  “Leave him be, for now. He’s not all that well. Doctors say he might not last long. If he’s awake at all, he’s got his hands full of lace. If Ann says it’s all right, then you visit. Otherwise, leave him be.”

  Sherman nodded, understood. He felt a sudden optimism, as though fortune was smiling on them all.

  “Any word about Prentiss?”

  Grant pulled at the cigar, the smoke rising.

  “No. Prisoners say he’s alive, taken back to the enemy’s headquarters. Probably questioned by Beauregard himself. That’s what I’d do, in his boots. They won’t mistreat him.”

  Sherman thought of his own tent.

  “If you say so.”

  There was a soft knock on the cabin door, and Grant tried to move, the pain in his leg shoving him back into the chair.

  “Dammit. Yes, what?”

  The door opened and Sherman saw Rawlins peering in, another stare at Grant’s leg.

  “Sir, General McClernand is here.”

  “Yes, good, send him in.” Grant looked over at Sherman now, said in a low voice, “About time he got here. Hates the rain, I guess.”

  McClernand came in, removed his hat, another stare at Grant’s leg, and Grant responded.

  “Oh, for God’s sake. The leg is fine. Just swollen up. Sit down, John.”

  John McClernand outranked Sherman, had already served as Grant’s second in command during Grant’s previous fights. Though he was capable on the battlefield, there was grumbling from some that McClernand was only in his position because he was a good friend of President Lincoln. Sherman didn’t know whether that was true, but he had little use for the man, for reasons that came mostly from a bottle, though Sherman had conceded that he had never actually seen McClernand drunk. Whether the rumors were true didn’t really matter right now. Sherman couldn’t avoid what McClernand’s First Division had done, holding on to Sherman’s left flank through much of the fight, performing as well on the battlefield as anyone else in the army. McClernand smiled at him, a brief friendly nod, the perfect signal of the man’s political skills. Grant held the cigar out toward McClernand, said, “We didn’t chase them down today. I’ll catch hell for that. Buell’s probably told Halleck all about that. That’s all right. I’ll tell Halleck the same thing about the Army of the Ohio, if it comes down to that kind of schoolboy name-calling. Fact is, we didn’t have it in us to chase anybody. You both know that. Buell does, too. He might still be out there in the field for all I know, trying to gather up half his army. Don’t much care about that right now. What I care about is tomorrow. The enemy is beaten, and they know that. I believe that with a little pressure, we can scoop up a whole passel of those boys. The goal here is still Corinth, and Halleck will remind me of that the first chance he gets. I’m expecting that wire to get here any time now. I want you to choose the most fit men you have left, and march them out in support of Colonel Taylor’s cavalry.”

  McClernand lost the smile.

  “Now?”

  Grant blew out a cloud of smoke.

  “Easy, General. Not tonight. First thing tomorrow morning. The rebels can’t move any faster in this rain than we can, and that’s why I want the cavalry out there with you, pushing south until you can find whatever rear guard Beauregard has thrown out our way. Move your people after those boys as quick as you can. It won’t be hard to follow the tracks of the rebs. Everything I hear says they’re in a full retreat, and they’ll be dropping off wounded men and any equipment they’re hauling every step of the way. But no carelessness. That bee still has some sting, and we’ve taken enough casualties as it is.”

  McClernand looked at Sherman, as though reassuring him.

  “We’ll get the job done, sir.”

  Sherman said nothing, was rolling the units through his mind, just who might be able to make that march. Grant seemed to relax, the cigar in his hand. He massaged the leg again, said, “If you’re lucky … maybe you can grab up the whole lot of ’em. Might be the only t
hing that’ll convince General Halleck I deserve stars on my shoulder. It wouldn’t hurt me any if Colonel Taylor rode his cavalry right into Corinth.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  SEELEY

  NEAR FALLEN TIMBERS APRIL 8, 1862, 11:00 A.M.

  Most of the Confederate army was already far to the south, the closest infantry a force of Breckinridge’s Corps, which held a strongpoint on well-chosen ground a few miles closer to Corinth. It was the best solution Beauregard had, to place a hard line of infantry capable of putting up one more fight. Breckinridge agreed, both men understanding that the Federal army might march out on the same roads in an energetic pursuit. But Forrest had no expectations that the Federals would move quickly at all. Like many of the other cavalry units, he had dashed in and around the second day’s fighting, had tried to assist anyplace horsemen might be useful, but on every part of the field, the astonishing number of casualties had been a clear sign that Beauregard’s decision to withdraw had been the only possible choice. Though Beauregard had responded to the obvious power the Federals threw against him, Forrest assumed from all he had seen that most of the Federal troops were hesitant, jittery, and as worn-out as the men who had retreated. Forrest had convinced his own men that the only reason the blue troops still held their ground was that Confederate cavalry had been poorly used.

  Seeley could only agree with his commander’s assessment, had seen plenty of the horrors of the second day’s fight. The Federal forces had seemed to come toward the Confederate infantry in continuous waves, as though their troops were created out of the air. When one blue line wavered, another appeared close behind, shoring it up, or falling in on the flank, adding to the power of a great blue fist the Confederate infantry could not hold back. Seeley respected Forrest, a feeling shared by the men around him, what seemed to be evolving into idolatry rather than simple obedience to the colonel’s orders. There was an infectiousness to that, and Seeley was not immune.

  Forrest had lined them up just back of a wooded ridge, with a clear view of a wide road, one of the primary routes that led toward them from the battleground. To one side were their hastily arranged camps, a scattering of tents and smoldering campfires, dampened by the constant drizzle of rain. Behind them spread a newly created hospital, a gathering of tents planted among a handful of ramshackle farmhouses. The smells were unavoidable, and Seeley had ridden past feeling a mix of wonder and sickening shock. He marveled at the dedication of the doctors, who had stayed in place, doing their awful work, even as their army left them behind. Not all of them had the luxury of an inside work space, and so the stretchers lined up outside as well, and Seeley could see them laboring feverishly over the torn bodies of more men than Seeley could count. The wounded were from both armies, soldiers and Federal prisoners, the doctors not seeming to notice uniforms at all. As at every hospital, the most horrifying sight was the growing pile of severed limbs, bloody and white, stacked beside every place where a surgeon did his work. Seeley had wondered about that, as much as he thought of the astonishing suffering of the victims. What happens to those? Are they just … buried, like the dead men, in their own graves? He had held back asking Captain McDonald, knew he would get that same stare, the response to yet another stupid question. Well, certainly they’re buried. Everything is buried, even the horses. That can’t be too hard. The ground around here is mostly mud anyway.

  Forrest’s cavalry was now the end of the line, the last to leave the area close to Shiloh Church, and so they did their work as usual, keeping hidden, observing the activity around the Federal positions, making sure the Yankees were not organizing massed columns to chase down the ragged men who stumbled toward Corinth. But there was no great surge. Instead the men who spread out across the churned-up battlefields were burial details, almost all men in blue. Most of the men Seeley saw were carrying shovels, not muskets, and he had watched with a painful admiration, knew theirs was a job he could not do. They dug long trenches mostly, directed by the commands of a sergeant, perhaps an occasional officer. In every case, the dead had been lined up beside the fresh trench like stacks of cordwood, and when the hole was thought deep enough, or the men too tired to dig any further, the bodies had been dragged in, one at a time. There were other kinds of graves as well, huge holes where the Confederate dead were placed, heaps upon heaps, mass burials with no markings, no way to preserve the identity of who those men were, no way for anyone’s family to find them at all. It was one more sad piece of the tragedy, that the Confederate retreat meant that there was no time to collect their dead, and that many of the wounded had to be abandoned as well.

  Leaving his own people behind had infuriated Forrest, but even the colonel’s passions for killing the enemy had been tempered by the job the burial parties were doing. Seeley had only guessed that perhaps Forrest, like the other horsemen who followed him, had no stomach for handling so many bodies, no matter which side claimed them. It had not escaped Seeley that a quick and violent raid against those men would have been a slaughter, that the few Yankees who were actually armed would have been no resistance at all, would most likely have scampered away in the face of screaming cavalry. But for a while at least, burial parties were not soldiers, no matter their uniforms. Seeley had been grateful that Forrest shared that notion, that those men were somehow serving God, that even the mass graves were the first step toward a peace those soldiers had earned.

  The cavalry along the low ridge numbered about a hundred fifty, but more were riding up, horsemen from other units sent back their way by Breckinridge, or other infantry commanders, who knew how important Forrest’s men were. It was, after all, a line of defense, and hospital or no, they were all that stood between Grant’s army and what dragged away behind them.

  Seeley turned toward the sound of hoofbeats, saw what seemed to be several companies of cavalry coming up the road, moving slowly past the hospital. Beside him, McDonald said, “Texas Rangers. Good many of them. That’ll help.”

  Forrest rode out that way, met their leader, rode alongside the man as they moved up in line, strengthening the horsemen already there. Forrest called out, “Gentlemen, this is Major Harrison, and these Texans are his men. Welcome them with a hurrah!”

  The cavalrymen responded, a single cheer, as though perfectly rehearsed. Seeley knew of Forrest’s annoyance with the cumbersome chain of command, that right here, Forrest was in command, and intended to keep it that way, and so Seeley picked up on Forrest’s mention of the Texan’s rank of major, no uncertainty among the Texans just who the ranking officer might be. Forrest had shared his disgust with his men the night before, that the clumsiness of their chain of command might have cost the entire army a victory that first night, close to the Tennessee River. The rangers moved up into line behind and to one end of Forrest’s men, and McDonald said, “More than three hundred now. I feel a whole lot better.”

  Seeley looked back, a smaller group of cavalry coming up the same road, and McDonald saw them as well, said, “Well, hello. Better still.”

  Forrest rode out that way, the formality of command, and Seeley saw an exchange of salutes, then a brief handshake. The men carried carbines, not the usual shotguns of Forrest’s men, and McDonald said, “I bet they’re from Morgan. That might be Morgan himself. Wish he’d have brought more than a handful.”

  Those men rode up into line as well, and Forrest slipped out to the front, watching as the new men added to his formation. Forrest shouted out, “General Breckinridge has given us very specific instructions. We are to make every effort to delay any Yankee march in this vicinity. And we shall do exactly that. The general has offered to march a column of infantry back this way, should we require them. I am counting on you to perform any action, so those infantry may safely continue their march to Corinth.”

  Seeley stood taller in the stirrups, said to McDonald, “Captain … what’s that?”

  Forrest had turned, more of his men pointing out to the north. The field there was wide, cut by a single creek, was stre
wn with cut trees, a natural obstacle for anyone to cross. Two horsemen rode quickly, the scouts Forrest had sent out to observe anything that might be advancing along the road. They rode with perfect skill, slipping gracefully past the fallen timbers, through the muddy creek. That was no accident, Forrest selecting his best horsemen as advance scouts. They galloped up the hill, reached Forrest, saluted, gave their report, and Forrest turned back toward the men along the ridge, said aloud, “They’re coming, boys. We have a job to do.”

  Seeley felt the rising excitement in the men around him, shared it, patted the horse, a brief show of affection, low words.

  “You hear him? It might be time for a fast ride.”

  He heard muffled drums, the men along the ridge quieting, listening, and now, across the field, cresting a distant hill, they could all see the blue. It was a column of Federal infantry.

  The Federal troops spread out quickly, battle formation, and Seeley pulled out his shotgun, the others doing the same, weapons loaded, checked, everyone watching as the Federals began their advance. Seeley could hear Forrest, nervous chatter to the other commanders.

  “They see us. Probably see our camp. But I’m betting they’re as jittery as squirrels. They have no idea how strong we are here, if we’re backed up by a whole division. That’s a huge advantage. Let’s see what they intend, and we’ll decide what to do about it.”

  The Federals continued their advance, and on the road behind them, another column crested the hill, a small gathering of horsemen and flags leading the way. Seeley watched the blue line making its way through the cut trees, felt the jitters himself, and beside him, McDonald said in a low voice, “Whole brigade. Maybe another behind them.”

  He raised his field glasses, and Seeley did the same, and suddenly Forrest was there, right in front of them. Forrest glassed them as well, said, “Ohio flag. Could be Sherman’s boys. I can see a flock of cavalry behind them, whole herd of horses back in those trees. They’re just watching us. That’s their first mistake, Captain. Their horsemen ought to be leading the way. You see any artillery?”