JOHNSTON PRESSES HIS RIGHT FLANK
He pushed the horse up a slight rise, his staff behind him, couriers and aides riding in and out with a steady flow of messages and orders. Johnston was aware of their progress with as much detail as anyone could provide him, and through it all, the excitement was building inside of him, the
adventure
of it. He would not show that to the staff, or the troops who marched past him, the units just arriving, still adding to the fight. He had offered them no grandiose cheer, thought, they will fight for themselves, not just for me. It is the Cause that is important, not the commander.
Behind him, protected by the fall of the hill, a horseman approached, one of many, and Johnston knew that if it was important, the staff would tell him. But he heard the voice, turned, was surprised to see Breckinridge.
“General Johnston, are you well this fine day?”
There was nervous exhaustion to Breckinridge’s words, a kind of agitation Johnston had not often seen. Breckinridge was every bit the portrait of a general in the saddle, straight-backed, his reputation secured by a family pedigree that would be difficult to match in either army. But there was more to the man than the experience and the ambitions of a politician, or the slickness that made mockery of so many who had made claim to a general’s stars. Johnston saw the agitation in the man’s eyes, said, “Is there a problem, General?”
“Sir, I hesitate to express my displeasure … but one of my Tennessee regiments will not advance. They simply will not fight, sir!”
To one side, Johnston saw Isham Harris, knew Harris would absorb this news with more than casual embarrassment. Harris moved closer, said, “General, please show me this regiment. If they are indeed Tennessee men, I shall put them to the task!”
Breckinridge seemed apologetic, clearly meant no insult to the governor. Johnston appreciated the decorum in both men, but the time was
now
. He said to Breckinridge, “Let the governor go to them. I share his confidence.”
“Very well, sir. Governor, if you will follow me.”
The men rode off, over a slight rise, dropping out of sight now. Johnston felt a twinge of fear, knew that Harris was riding into a situation he might never have experienced. The firing in that part of the woods was ongoing and severe, and Johnston rode forward a few steps, an effort to see them, felt suddenly protective, and beside him, he heard a low voice.
“God go with them.”
The words came from Preston, and Johnston forced a smile.
“Governor Harris will not accept that his own men have failed us. He will inspire them.”
H
arris had returned, exhausted and furious, and Johnston would not allow the governor’s pride to prevent him from making his report.
“Did they advance, Isham? Were you successful?”
Harris looked down, still catching his breath, shifting in the saddle, uncomfortable from the rapid pace of his ride.
“With some reluctance, sir. I had hoped they would respond to my presence with a bit more patriotism. I fear that some are crawling into cover even now. It is very difficult there, sir. I have never seen such a fight. It is likely my own fear showed through, despite my oratory. I do not envy the foot soldier.”
Johnston saw the shame in Harris’s face, completely unnecessary.
“We do what we can, Governor.” He paused, the roar and thunder opening up farther to the right, deeper in the woods.
“See? Another confrontation. We are pressing them back in every position. Do not be concerned. I, too, do not envy the man with the musket. We must always remember that
they
carry the weight here,
they
pay the ultimate price.”
He felt awkward, dissatisfied with his attempt to buck up Harris’s spirits. He stared out toward the new fight, said aloud, “We must move that way. All of you, stay close. We are engaging a new enemy position, and I must know what is happening. Who is in command there?”
Munford responded, “Jackson, and possibly Chalmers, sir. I believe we are close to General Breckinridge’s right flank. It is hard to keep order.”
“Yes, I imagine it is hard for them as well. If that is Chalmers, he is farther north than before. It means he is driving deeper past the enemy’s flank.” He absorbed that for a moment, could see nothing of the fight, just a thick haze of smoke, and the constant sounds of men firing weapons in enormous numbers, close together, volleys echoing through the dense thickets in a steady, horrible chorus. The excitement continued to build inside of him, and he rose in the stirrups, frustrated he could see so little. He tried to see James Chalmers in his mind, another good man who had to endure Bragg as a commander. There will be no complaint against you this day, no haranguing you for some minuscule failure. Bragg has his own difficulties to answer for. But not right now.
He crested another ridge, so much like the last, never-ending folds in the ground, more woods bordering a small field, and to the left a trio of farmhouses. There officers were pulling troops into line, organizing another advance. The troops had the look of men who had been in a fight already, small wounds, and worse, some lying flat behind the formation, cared for by one older man, unfamiliar, the man doing all those things a doctor would do. Johnston nodded toward the man, a gesture of respect, but the doctor paid no attention, was moving quickly through the row of wounded. Johnston thought of his own doctor, usually riding with his staff. That morning, they had passed through a group of wounded, many of them Federal prisoners, and Johnston would not ignore that. There seemed to be no one there equipped to care for the desperate wounds Johnston could see, so he ordered his own Dr. Yandell to remain behind, to make some attempt to establish a field hospital. Yandell had protested, but Johnston would hear none of that, had ordered the doctor to treat the men who required it. It was, after all, a luxury Johnston knew was excessive, too much like a martinet to have his own surgeon trailing behind him just in case Johnston stubbed his toe.
Johnston still watched the doctor in the field, the man kneeling in front of what seemed to be no more than a pile of remains, blood and torn bits of uniform. The doctor lowered his head, moved on to the next man. Johnston turned away, thought of the blood he had already seen this day, so many fallen men, disfigured and broken, so many beyond the reach of anything a doctor could do. I cannot see that, he thought. I cannot mourn, even for a moment, the loss of a soldier. It is my duty, after all, to regard this army as a single force, a single being. The whole, always the most important thing.
That
was the great failure of Beauregard’s plan, not making proper use of the
whole
. It is why Bragg is so frustrated, gathering up units as he can find them, pounding against the wall that General Prentiss has placed in his front. It is why I am out
here
, and not sitting comfortably in a sickbed, reading messages, pretending to know all that is happening, all that must be done.
The firing seemed to roll toward him from farther away now, northward, deeper into the woods where Chalmers must be. He focused, sharp attention, the uneasiness that it could be the Federal counterattack, the great mass of blue troops that the engineer, Lockett, had feared. But the firing seemed to move to the left, as though his men were pushing the enemy farther from the river, exactly what Johnston had hoped. If my staff is correct, he thought, if that is indeed Chalmers and Jackson, it means that the Federal flank is that much closer to turning, that even the gallantry of General Prentiss cannot prevent what will happen next. The single word came to him again, the meaning so clear, that simple stroke of glory, what Johnston could feel inching toward him, so close to his grasp.
Checkmate
.
“Sir, General Breckinridge has returned!”
Johnston turned, saw more of the frowning concern, his concentration shattered by the discouraging glare from Breckinridge.
“What is happening, General?”
“The brigade … re-forming into line. Those men have been in a stiff fight. Some are claiming they have done all they can. General Bowen insists with much regret that they will not fight, that their day is done. I fear, sir, I cannot compel them to make this attack.”
Johnston held in his anger, had only limited confidence in Bowen, the man commanding his brigade for a short few weeks. But he never expected Breckinridge to show such defeat.
“Yes, General, I believe you can compel them.”
“But I have tried …”
“Then I will help you.”
Johnston turned, saw Harris, the governor suddenly coming to attention, expectant now, waiting for the inevitable order.
“There are Arkansas men out here, Isham. Perhaps you can inspire them as well as you do your own. You will assist us. General Breckinridge will move his staff to the left, you to the right. I will assume the center position, and together we will show these soldiers the way to the enemy.”
Johnston didn’t wait, rode forward, down into the field, could see the thick lines of men, officers on horseback, just … waiting. Breckinridge rode farther down the line, toward the farmhouses, and Johnston maneuvered his horse through the men, halted directly in front of the lines. He had a small burst of inspiration, reached into a saddlebag, retrieved the tin cup he had picked up in the Federal camp. He held it up, removed his hat, wanted them to see him clearly, no mistaking who he was.
“This cup is my only reward, my only piece of the spoils from the enemy! There is much more to be accomplished here. I have tasted victory, and on a day such as this, there is no greater gift to be had. That victory is in your hands, right now. You must obey your commanders, and march forward to complete the task we have begun! The enemy is retreating even now, and with your help, we can finish the job!” He edged the horse along the line, men flinching slightly, as though expecting some kind of blow from his sword, but the sword was in its scabbard. He was not here to scold or shame these men; there was no need for a dramatic gesture. The soldier closest to him stood firm, and Johnston reached out, his hand slapping gently at the man’s bayonet. “The enemy has proven stubborn today!
These
must do the work!” He rode farther along the line, his hand still out, touching more of the weapons. “We must use the bayonet! And I shall lead you!”
He looked down the line, saw Breckinridge watching him, following his lead, moving out with his staff in front of the brigade. Johnston looked the other way, saw Harris down off his horse, standing in front of the men with his pistol in his hand, ready as well. Johnston glanced back at the captain nearest him, made a sharp nod, the man understanding the order, the order passed quickly to the right, where General Bowen gave his own command. In seconds the drums began, shouts all along the line, and with no hesitation the brigade began its advance. Johnston kept the horse in a slow gait, allowed them to move up close behind him, and then, past. He called out again and they responded to him, cheers, the kind of cheers that drove men to a fight, that carried them toward the guns of the enemy, the confidence in their commanders and in themselves that would bring them victory.
T
he fight exploded throughout the woods in front of him, the men on both sides suddenly confronted with an enemy at close range. Johnston stayed close, could see glimpses of Breckinridge, the man’s staff still with him, leading that part of the fight. The smoke was thick, blinding, and Johnston struggled to breathe, could hear shrieks and zips in the air around him, felt a tug at his side, glanced down, saw the tear where the ball had sliced his coat. He pushed that away, focused on what he could see, and more, the energy he could feel from the driving advance of Bowen’s Brigade. No matter what reluctance they had before, only a few men were dropping back, and Johnston ignored those, no time now to gather up the few whose courage had failed them. He pushed onward, glanced to the right, no sign of Harris through the smoke and clusters of trees. He thought of moving that way, could not avoid concern for his friend, but his attention was drawn by a glimpse of blue, a line of Federal troops breaking, falling back. He felt another rip along his arm, glanced down, no damage to anything but the cloth, but the horse suddenly jerked, seemed to slump slightly, struggling to right himself. Johnston patted the horse’s neck, felt another jolt just behind him, against the horse’s leg, the horse shifting from the blow.
“Fire-Eater, this shall be our day. Just stay with me! Stay in the fight!”
Johnston was surprised to see Harris riding up, the man wide-eyed, a mix of terror and pure joy, and Johnston started to speak, felt another punch against the bottom of his boot. The horse staggered again, and Johnston pulled his foot from the stirrup, saw the sole of his boot completely shot away. Harris saw that as well, said, “Sir! Are you all right?”
Johnston raised the damaged boot, laughed, said, “I am fine, it seems. But these boots are of little use.”
“Did the ball injure your foot?”
Johnston shoved his foot back into the stirrup, flexed his toes, said, “It seems not.”
Close to one side, an artillery battery suddenly opened its fire, brutal shrieks passing close overhead, the screaming of canister, tearing through the far flank of the Confederate line. Johnston couldn’t help a flinch, thought, very close … and very dangerous.
“Governor, Colonel Statham is in that vicinity. Go there, find him, and order the colonel to move troops toward that battery. It must be silenced.”
Harris said nothing, no salute, rode quickly away, the terrifying excitement stripping away the governor’s newly acquired military protocol. In front of Johnston, the soldiers kept up their march, more volleys blowing through on both sides and Johnston felt another tear in his coat, ignored it, no pain, the ball missing him yet again. He laughed again, could feel the triumph of the men before him, jabbed his fist into the air, could not hide an overwhelming joy. He spurred the horse lightly, the animal responding obediently, and Johnston tried not to think of that, would not yet look to the horse’s wounds. He patted the horse’s neck again, more low words, a sudden wave of affection for this servant that had carried him so far.