A Blaze of Glory

by Jeff Shaara

  Seeley scanned the trees frantically, heard McDonald say, “No. Not yet.”

  “If they intend to shove us away, there ought to be some big guns out there with them. Just depends how much they want us out of the way.”

  Forrest lowered the glasses, and Seeley watched him, saw the look he had seen before, the usual fire in the man’s eyes, changing to something far more dangerous. The words came out in a low monotone.

  “Let them get to the creek. Yankees don’t like to get their feet wet, so they’ll look for rocks, some shallow place. That’ll slow them down even more, and their lines will fall apart, the officers will lose control.”

  Seeley felt the thunder in his chest, looked to the side, to his own squad, the men all staring out to the oncoming lines of blue. He pulled the pistol from its holster, checked the cartridges, a full load, saw his men doing the same, following his silent command, a brief check of the percussion caps. He stared again to the oncoming troops, no sound but the distant drummers, the troops forced to crawl and step over the fallen trees. They were almost halfway across the field, their lines already breaking up, disorganized, and now Seeley saw exactly what Forrest had predicted. In the lowest part of the field, the men reached the creek, and Seeley knew the waters were swift, the creek swollen by rains most of the night, rains even now in a thick drizzle. The Federal line seemed to halt, gaps appearing as the men sought a crossing, and the voice came now, the single word, loud and long, carrying to every man along the ridge.

  “Charge!”

  Forrest led the way, the horsemen surging up and over the ridge, a hard ride straight at the Federal lines. Seeley held the shotgun tight against his right side, the horse’s reins in his left hand. He kept low, his eye on Forrest, stared again at the blue infantry. Smoke burst out from the Yankees, scattered volleys, and already men were stumbling into one another, utter confusion, some thigh-deep in the swollen creek, splashes as the men fought one another to back away. In seconds the horsemen were there, pushing through the creek without pause, the shotgun blasts and pops from the carbines erupting along the line. Seeley felt a scream coming out of him, some place deep and black, was surrounded by a panicked mob of blue soldiers. He released the horse’s reins, a quick second, aimed the shotgun at a man’s back, the horse moving him right up to the man who struggled with his musket, stepping clumsily over a cut log. Seeley pulled the trigger, the man punched down into mud and grass. He saw another man, facing him, trying to fix a bayonet, but the man seemed to understand the hopelessness of that, turned, running away. Seeley shot him as well, the man falling over another of the trees. The Yankees were still around him, a mad, desperate retreat, most of them offering no fight at all. Squirrels. Seeley jammed the empty shotgun back into its holster, pulled out his pistol, aimed, a man raising his musket, pointing out to one side, and Seeley shot, missed, shot again, the man firing the musket, then tumbling down, trying to rise, the wound on his shoulder. Seeley was closer now, a few feet away, the man looking up at him, terrified, and Seeley fired one more time, the ball striking the man’s head. Seeley felt his hard breathing, his own terror blending with the raw thrill of the chase.

  He rode forward again, another man running, the horse too quick, the pistol down, pointing at the man’s back, another shot, the man crying out, down as well. Seeley turned, saw Yankees moving toward him, men he had passed, and they tried to avoid him, but one man had a pistol of his own, an officer, and Seeley saw the man aiming at him. Seeley ducked, from instinct. He rose back up, pointed the pistol at the officer, fired, missed, fired again, the officer doing the same. Both men missed, Seeley cursing to himself, the officer rushing past him. Seeley pulled the trigger, but the pistol was spent, six shots, and he looked at it, cursed his own shaking hand. The pistol went back to the holster, and he drew the saber, yanked the horse to one side, saw another man with a bayonet, and the horse jumped past a fat log, the saber coming down in a hard chop, ripping the musket from the man’s hand, slicing a gash across his chest. The horse kept moving, and Seeley looked for another target, could still hear the crushing fire of the shotguns all around him, the ping and pop of carbines. Some of the Federal troops were trying to form a line, an officer holding a sword of his own, but the officer dropped to his knees, fell forward, the line dissolving, the men in blue still trying to make their escape. The horsemen pressed on, no one slowing, and from a small cluster of blue came a burst of smoke, a volley too quick, too high. Seeley was there now, the saber swinging wildly, a man’s shoulder, another, Yankees running alongside him, shielding themselves with arms, Seeley hacking down, not looking at the result. Around him were screams and shouts, from all of them, the terror of the Yankees, the mad energy of Forrest’s horsemen. It was one great chorus, the Federal line broken completely. Seeley searched manically for a target, still swinging the saber, slicing the air, felt a magnificent energy, pure raw adventure, the Yankees harmless, scattering like so many flies.

  The horsemen had chased most of them back to the road now, and Seeley saw blue cavalry, disorganized, the horsemen trying to advance. But the panic of their infantry drove right through them, and the horsemen didn’t hold their formation, began galloping away, parting shots from badly aimed carbines. Some of Forrest’s men had already reached them, the fight one-sided, the Federal horsemen struggling to retreat, Forrest’s men striking them down, shotgun blasts again, the men who had taken the time to reload. Pistol fire rang out as well, both sides, but the blue cavalry were making their escape, men riding hard past their own fleeing infantry, scampering past another formation, another line of infantry. Seeley hesitated, pulled back on the reins, saw another mass of blue, a battle line deep and solid, spread out across the road. He saw the volley, the air around him ripped, torn, men tumbling out of the saddle. It was a shock, unexpected, and he looked down, saw his own man, Hinkle, rolling, writhing, his blood smearing the grass.

  Seeley thought of the shotgun, but there was no time, the Federal line pouring out another volley, the air alive around him, a sharp zip close to his head. He suddenly felt helpless, weak, could see some of the fleeing Yankees falling into the line, more of the Yankees firing, another man close to him going down, the horse falling as well. The solid line was no more than a hundred yards in front of him, and Seeley searched for McDonald, knew the time had come, that they could not hope to drive back that many. But then he saw Forrest, waving the saber, calling out, pulling them forward. Forrest rode out straight toward the Federal line, the blue line wavering, the strange shock of Forrest’s maniacal attack still pressing the scattered Yankees, the men desperate to reach their main line. Seeley halted the horse, held tight to the reins, held the saber, but there were no targets now, most of the Yankees back out to the road. But still Forrest chased them, a pistol coming out, Forrest firing, a man close to him rolling over.

  The fight began to quiet, scattered shots, many of the Federals reloading, officers giving the commands, a cluster of horsemen close behind the main line, the Stars and Stripes. Seeley heard a command, loud and harsh, turned, saw the Texan, Harrison, waving the sword high above his head, motioning his men back. Others obeyed, and Seeley felt a burst of relief, could see what had to be a thousand Federals spread out along the road, more coming up behind, adding to their strength. The blue line threw out another volley, smoke and flame in a vast cloud, more of the horsemen dropping away. Seeley began to feel a panic of his own, saw McDonald riding back, calling out, heard the Texan again, the single command:

  “Fall back!”

  Seeley looked to his own squad, one empty horse, his men watching him, expectant, wide-eyed, and he turned the horse, pointed back to the ridge, repeated the command.

  “Fall back!”

  Close by, he heard the voice of McDonald.

  “Good God! What’s he doing?”

  Seeley turned, saw a single gray figure riding hard straight toward the blue lines. It was Forrest. Seeley held the horse, his brain screaming, no! Forrest still chased down the
fugitives, slashed at the men around him, firing the pistol again. The Yankees close to him seemed to understand what was happening, that this one officer had ridden too far, had left his own command in a one-man assault that had carried him straight into the enemy. Seeley wanted to ride that way, to help, expected Forrest to go down, McDonald shouting to the colonel, the infantry’s muskets aiming now at Forrest, who fought back with his pistol, then the saber. But Forrest finally seemed to understand, realized he was by himself, virtually swarmed over by surprised Federal troops. Seeley watched with desperate horror as Forrest spun the horse around, drove hard through the mass of blue, the saber lashing downward, clearing his own way, bayonets and blue arms reaching up, grabbing at him, musket fire still ripping the air. The word rolled again through Seeley … no … but Forrest kept riding, coming back toward them.

  For a long moment, the musket fire seemed to fade away, no danger to anyone but Forrest, every weapon of the enemy all seeming to target him, what they had to know was some great prize. But the main force still obeyed their officers, and another volley whistled past Seeley, and McDonald shouted out the order to retreat again, the men helpless to aid Forrest. Seeley ignored the order, could not just … leave. Forrest was still among a scattering of blue, bent low, hugging the horse’s neck, no fighting now, just survival. Seeley saw him ride close to a single man, reach down, a blue soldier hoisted up by the collar, arms flailing, Forrest pulling the man up behind him. Seeley saw that Forrest was using the man as a shield, the enemy responding by holding their fire. Forrest moved out beyond the last of the scattered Federals, kept the horse at a hard gallop, released the soldier now, the man tumbling down in a rolling heap. Seeley waited another long second, saw a sharp grimace on Forrest’s face, but he was closer, coming fast, safe. Seeley spun the horse, saw that most of the horsemen were already across the creek, making good their retreat, a few empty horses milling about, some standing above the fallen men who had ridden them. But most of the troopers reached the ridge, and quickly Seeley was there as well. He turned, gasping breaths, saw Forrest coming up behind him, bent over, blood on his side. Forrest dropped the saber to the ground, and Seeley saw the pain on the man’s face, saw the horse with a pair of gushing wounds. There was mostly silence now, officers moving quickly toward Forrest, helpful hands, questions, Seeley sharing their stunned bafflement. Forrest tried to straighten, leaned to one side, the blood spreading. He removed his hat, held it high, a short quick wave, and the horsemen around him responded, offered him one more cheer.

  Incredibly, Forrest was struck only once, but it had come at very close range, a musket ball driven into his hip, the ball lodging close to his spine.

  Along the ridge, the horsemen waited still, the ailing Forrest keeping them in line. But a few miles to the south, General Breckinridge had heard the commotion of the fight, and almost immediately a courier had appeared, giving Forrest and his cavalry a direct order to retire, the order instructing them to move south, to strengthen the rear guard of infantry that Breckinridge now commanded. With the Federal troops still to their front, Forrest obeyed.

  After a pause to regroup, the Federals pressed forward their advance, driven by a general who would not tolerate yet another utter collapse of a force under his command. They re-formed their brigade front and drove back out through the timbers, across the creek, and pushed on to the ridge. But the cavalry was already gone. Instead the blue troops and their red-haired commander found the camps that had been abandoned by Forrest’s men. Beyond that, they also found the hospital, the doctors continuing to do their work, caring not who the soldiers or their general might be. The Federal troops were ordered to destroy the cavalry’s camp, but the hospitals were allowed to remain. Without fanfare, the Confederate doctors were paroled, and the Federal troops added to their work by dragging up the Confederate horsemen who lay wounded in the field.

  On this day there would be no further Federal advance. The brief fight at the fallen timbers had been enough for their commander, an embarrassment explained only by the complete exhaustion of the men driven out to pursue the rebel retreat. Now the Federal brigades began a brief retreat of their own, returning to the camps near Shiloh Church. Forrest’s survival had come in plain sight of the general who commanded the Federal forces, who had ridden close enough to face the empty muzzle of Forrest’s pistol. The man’s fury was complete, and he knew that of course there would have to be an explanation, why fewer than four hundred rebel cavalry had driven back and panicked five times their number, and how a mass of blue troops could not find the point-blank aim to take down a single horseman. It only added to the disgust of the general who rode beneath the Stars and Stripes, on his way back to his own tent, the place where he had yet to replace his stolen bed.

  The one-sided fight at the fallen timbers had accomplished just what the Confederate commanders had hoped for. Any Federal pursuit had been delayed for at least a full day, and the relief Forrest had provided the desperate soldiers who trudged toward Corinth was welcomed as nearly miraculous. Whether Colonel Forrest would ever make a one-man charge again was a question his officers kept to themselves.

  Seeley rode past the ragged clusters of infantry, stragglers and walking wounded, some men already collapsed beneath shade trees, some foraging the woods for drinkable water, settling often for the muddy slop in rain-filled puddles. The cavalry units had gone their separate ways, the Texans and the others returning to where their senior commanders expected them to be. Still, they had a job to do, guarding the various routes the enemy could use to pursue. Forrest’s men had watched their commander carried away, no amount of protest from Forrest allowed to contradict the doctors, and Breckinridge, that Forrest be moved quickly back to Corinth, to be treated in some place other than a roadside shack.

  They stopped beneath a wide canopy of trees, McDonald and the other officers ordering them to dismount. The cavalry knew already what most of the army did not, that for now at least, there was safety. Seeley dismounted, felt a stiffness in his legs, examined the horse again for wounds, nothing, what he had to believe was another miracle. The men around him were mostly sullen, silent, every man having watched their commander survive what he should not have survived. But Forrest’s wound was severe, and there was a dreadful expectation that came from that.

  With the men down in the coolness of the shade, some sought sleep, and for others rations came out, but there was not much of that, most of their food left behind in their camp. Breckinridge could send them nothing at all, the infantry mostly without any rations of their own. Seeley had seen too many of those men. He sat alone, had already sifted through his pockets, a gesture of futility, nothing at all to eat. He was surprised to see Sergeant Gladstone, the old man limping, and Gladstone dropped down heavily across from him, kept his distance, chewed on what looked like a stick. After a moment, Gladstone broke the silence around them, his usual growl.

  “Fun, weren’t it?”

  Seeley was feeling the weariness now, had a sudden need for sleep.

  “What?”

  “That there fight. I saw you with that saber. Chopped some of those boys into stew meat. Best part of it, being a horse soldier and all. You get to watch ’em up close. You wipe off the blood?”

  Seeley recalled that now, a quick swipe against the horse’s flank, returning the saber to its scabbard.

  “Yes, I did. What difference does that make?”

  Gladstone shrugged.

  “It’s a damn sight harder if ’n you don’t. Get it off while it’s fresh. Get some on your hands, too. Healthy.”

  Seeley had no energy for this, leaned his head back, heard low talk from some of the others. He thought of the fight, the sounds still ringing in his ears. It was the first time he had done that, the first time he had been so close, had put a shotgun right into a man’s back. And the saber …

  He felt his heart suddenly racing, the sounds of the fight only a memory, but the images, the cries of the men, the horse driving right into them,
the saber.

  Gladstone seemed to read him, gnawing on whatever strange thing was in his hand.

  “It were fun, weren’t it?”

  Seeley was annoyed at the man, thought, none of your business. He wanted to turn away, to find another spot, or easier still, order the sergeant to go somewhere else. Chewing that damned … what? Crazy old man. But the images still wouldn’t leave him, and he glanced at his gloves, covering stiffening fingers, aching joints from holding so tightly to the saber, that marvelous weapon. He saw blood now, stains in the creases of the soft leather, wanted to pull the gloves off, waited, stared at the blood, thought of the shotgun again, right into that Yankee’s back, both barrels, two men down. Dead, most likely. Had to be. Right up close. He looked at Gladstone, who nodded, smiling at him. Seeley knew he couldn’t stay angry at the old man, knew, after all, he was right.

  “Yes, you farting old chicken gizzard. It was fun.”

  The heavy rains came again, and once more the roads that led out of Corinth became knee-deep troughs of stinking mud. The stink came this time from the refuse of the men too often left behind, the men who simply fell away, some dying from bloody wounds they could not survive. Any hint of order, of regiments and brigades, was mostly gone, the few officers who could command anything as desperately tired as their men. All along the road, every house had become a hospital, whether there was a doctor there or not. With an effort few knew they could still muster, they made the slogging march over the roads that had brought them to the fight, once more crossing swollen creeks, drinking filthy water, eating nothing at all. The shoes were mostly gone, backpacks and bedrolls and the muskets as well. But many of the men kept their legs in motion, inspired by the single thought, that they were still an army, still hated the Yankees, that their families and their officers still expected them to fight for the cause they believed in. Corinth was, after all, a great stout fortification, a place they had always expected to defend. The fight around Shiloh Church had come from the plans and ambitions of generals, and no matter the disaster of that, it was the foot soldiers who would still do the deed, who would be asked to decide the fate of the town, of the country, and more important to many, the fate of the men around them.