A Blaze of Glory (31 page)

T
he shooting had seemed to roll away, farther east and north, the ground closer to him clear of any kind of fight. As he moved past smoking hillsides, stands of cracked and shattered trees, the evidence of the fight was there, in every hollow, every hillside. The dead and wounded of both sides were mingled together in a horrifying smear of gruesome color, some men falling on top of their enemy, some of the men in pieces, shattered by the blasts of artillery.

As he moved among the lines, he had spoken to officers of every stripe, the men who served Hardee and Bragg and Polk, the commands now jumbled together in complete confusion. Any sense of order had been swept away, making a mockery of the carefully designed plan, what was so neatly drawn on paper by Beauregard and his minion, Colonel Jordan. Though Polk’s exuberant optimism had not set well with him, Johnston had seen the same kind of joy in many of the others, officers and their men cheering Johnston as he moved past, some reacting as though the day had already been decided, the enemy whipped, crushed, driven into the depths of the river. But farther to the front, the fighting continued, Federal troops making new stands in new fields, and close by, smaller eruptions of fire came from the endlessly uneven ground that kept some men in place, shielded from orders, or simply lost where they stood. There were still fights off to the north, toward Owl Creek, but those were not many, and the reports that had reached him had confirmed the optimism he met along the lines, that Sherman’s Division had mostly been routed, shoved backward in pieces. Farther to the right, the troops of McClernand and Prentiss were falling away as well, though their resistance had stiffened, the farther back they were pushed. But still, Johnston’s troops seemed to be advancing in nearly every part of the field, no matter the difficulty of the land or the enormous number of casualties. At the crest of each rise, it was plain to him that a hard fight was still raging farther to the right.

He led his staff up another brushy hillside, needed to push forward, to move close behind his men, to be certain that no one gave way. There could be no failures of command, not now, not when the advance still inspired so many. It was not all perfection, of course, and he had seen at least one of his regiments break, a scampering flood of troops that poured down a hill, their flag too distant for him to identify. But those officers did their work, rallied the shaken and panicked men, and if some of those men continued to run, others found their composure, fell into place with other units that advanced past them, and returned to the fight. He absorbed that scene, knew that panic was something you could not predict, that good men could be infected by a single coward, an entire line dissolving by the sudden collapse of an officer. It kept him moving forward, sliding to the right as he rode, as though he would see them all, every regiment, every company, would do whatever he could to inspire them, if not by his orders, then just by his presence.

The trees opened up to a wide field, flat ground, and he halted the horse, amazed at the sight spread before him. The field was one of the Federal encampments, a great formation of tents in neat rows, some of them ripped down, flattened, others standing as though nothing at all had happened here. Scattered throughout the camp were men, his own men, some emerging from tents carrying all manner of goods, one man parading in a blue officer’s coat, a show for his friends, who saluted him with raucous laughter. Others were sitting in a circle around a campfire, bottles passed around, more laughter there. There were horsemen moving through, officers shouting obscenities, ordering their men to continue the advance, but Johnston could see the paralysis, the temptations of the Federal camps too great. Many of his men had not eaten since the night before, and they could not pass by the Federal larders without taking advantage. Some men were doing only that, sitting cross-legged, eating something, anything, as though there were no battle at all.

He scanned the faces of the officers, tried to find someone familiar, but the horsemen were moving quickly, frustrated and furious. Some of them were successful, rallying their men back into formation. But many of the troops seemed utterly at ease, a celebration of the spoils of the fight they seemed to have forgotten. Johnston spurred the horse, shared the anger of his officers, shouted toward the men with the bottles, some of them turning toward him, still laughing, oblivious to command, certainly drunk. Others were pushing into the tents, exploring, ransacking, more tents collapsing, some ripped open with the bayonet. Trunks were everywhere, men dragging personal effects into the open, rummaging through letters and clothing, mementoes of men who were long gone. Others were admiring abandoned muskets, some shouldering bedrolls, replacing the rags they carried. To one side he saw a man pulling on a new pair of boots, covering bare feet. Johnston stopped close to one cluster of men, heard whoops of laughter as they read through a stack of letters, exaggerated playacting for some lover’s show of affection.

“That’s enough of that!”

They turned to him, some of them reacting to his authority, others seeming to test if he would do anything to them at all. From the closest tent an officer emerged, weighed down with clothing and other treasures, more than the man could carry without stumbling. Johnston saw the insignia of a captain, felt a surge of outrage, pointed a finger at the man, his voice rising, uncontained fury.

“No! We are not here for spoils! Resume command of your soldiers! Return them to the fight!”

The officer looked at him, seemed frozen, dropped the bundle, no words. Johnston could see a hint of shame on the man’s face. Yes, good. You know this is not why we are here.

Others were beginning to stand now, responding to Johnston’s presence, and he could see that they were gathering themselves, hearing him, some moving closer, as though seeking his authority. But others went about their business, and he fought the helplessness of that, dismounted, made a gesture to his staff to keep them back. Close to a smoldering campfire he saw a tin cup, bent low, retrieved it, made his way quickly back to the horse. Some of the men were watching him, and he took advantage of that, held up the cup, said, “There! This shall be my spoils from this fight. It is all I require, and it will be my reminder of this magnificent day! We need nothing more!”

He spurred the horse, saw the captain move to his own horse, climbing up, a hard shout to the men close by. More officers moved close, rallying their men, and Johnston moved forward, through the tents, past more of the men, displayed the cup, repeated the brief call. Close around him, some of the troops began to form up, a makeshift line, the captain, others on horseback pulling them together.

“Good! Now … make your way forward! There are good soldiers out there who require your assistance, who expect everything you can give them! The enemy is on the run! Do your part to keep them running!”

It had worked, at least for some part of those so distracted by the Yankee bounty. Johnston listened again for the direction of the firing, the hardest sounds coming from the right, and he made a quick motion to his staff, rode hard out of the field, toward the next place he might be needed.

T
hey had come to a halt at the edge of a small field, drawn by the waving hand of a galloping officer, Samuel Lockett, Bragg’s chief engineer. Johnston knew the man well, had hoped to hear much more from Lockett by now. The day before, the engineer was the one man sent far to the right, to scout the river, making note of the enemy’s strength. But Lockett had not made his report until early that morning. He was trailed by one other soldier, a sergeant, and they reined their horses close to him, the engineer removing his hat in a quick salute.

“Sir! The enemy appears to be massing in force, and is threatening our right! There is word from that part of the field that the bluebellies are seeking to turn our flank, sir!”

Johnston stared hard at Lockett, knew him to be a capable man.

“Are you certain of this, Captain?”

Lockett hesitated, something Johnston did not want to see.

“It appears so, sir. The enemy troops are in evidence far out beyond our right flank.”

“How many troops, Captain? Are they advancing?”

“The reports I have received suggest they could be. We could be in some danger there, sir.”

Johnston knew how to interpret the man’s words, heard more uncertainty than anything concrete.

“Does General Beauregard know of this? An hour ago I received a report from him that stated precisely the opposite, that the greatest crisis is on our left. I have ordered General Breckinridge to advance his reserve corps in that direction, and now you tell me that it is the
right
that is threatened?”

The air overhead split with the shriek of a shell, impacting in the trees behind them. Johnston held back his curse, another shell impacting to the left, in the open field. Behind him, Munford called out, “Sir! We are in the open here!”

Johnston pulled the horse around, said, “Down into that ravine. I will offer the enemy no careless opportunity.”

The staff and Lockett followed him down, the woods around them mostly quiet, the shelling seeming to move away, Federal guns seeking targets they could see.

Johnston halted the horse, felt a rising wave of frustration. Messages like this had been flowing toward him throughout the morning, many passing first through Beauregard’s hand. Johnston stared angrily to the ground, thought, this is idiocy.

“Allow me to make this clear, Captain. An hour ago, General Beauregard tells me we are in trouble on the left. From every report I had received before that message, I had been advised that the enemy there has been driven back in disarray. But I had to respond to General Beauregard’s message as though he knows something I do not. He is, after all, positioned to receive couriers from all parts of this field. So, what am I to believe?” He saw the engineer glance downward. “I depend on you, Captain. If what you are saying is accurate, it could mean disaster.”

“Sir, I observed enemy troops in the dense woods close to the river, the far left flank of their position. It appeared they were in a battle line, and I had to assume the worst. If I had ignored them … would that not have been the greater crisis?”

“How many? A division? We have not yet accounted for Hurlbut. Could you see their flags?”

“No, sir. I did not want to risk capture.”

Johnston understood now, one fantastic error. Lockett had been sent to scout the enemy’s flank nearly on his own, no cavalry, no show of force to draw the enemy outward. He stared out to the right, a gesture of frustration, looked toward Lockett again. He could not disguise his impatience, thought, why did you not push toward the river?

“Captain, you will ride to General Breckinridge. Offer the general my respects and communicate to him my direct instructions to shift his troops toward the right of the line. He is to disregard my previous order to move to the left. You will lead him into position yourself. Do you understand?”

Lockett seemed to appreciate the direct order, the precision welcomed by an engineer’s mind.

“Immediately, sir!”

Johnston pointed to the left with a sharp gesture, but he knew that Lockett would find the way, that Breckinridge would not hide himself. The engineer made a quick salute, galloped away, and Johnston looked at Preston, the others, saw the concern.

“Yes, gentlemen. I know. There was a failure to properly scout the enemy’s left flank, the ground closer to the river. Turning that flank, driving our forces between the enemy and his base at the river … that must be our goal, it should
always
have been our goal. Was I not clear to General Beauregard?”

Major Munford moved closer, Isham Harris beside him. Munford said quietly, as though keeping his words from the junior officers and the couriers who trailed out behind them, “Sir, we will drive away any threat. General Breckinridge will do his part.”

Johnston looked at Harris, saw a sharp nod, confidence in the governor’s eyes. He knew that Harris carried enormous respect for Breckinridge, who had, after all, been vice president of the United States. Harris’s seriousness broke Johnston’s gloom, and he reacted with a small laugh.