A Blaze of Glory (37 page)

There was more firing now, a pocket of blue suddenly rising from a deep trough, their fire answered by a fresh volley from men right in front of him. The two groups rushed together, shouting, all through that part of the line, the fight too close for muskets, and he saw men grabbing one another, knives and bayonets flashing through the smoke. The fighting seemed to swirl around him, the smoke from more artillery blinding him, and he saw a new flash of fire, close to his right, men in blue bolting away, his own in pursuit. Johnston pushed the horse up a low rise, crested the ridge, could see the fight more plainly now, saw another volley from a line of blue, that line giving way, offering its final defiant blow. Johnston felt a slight tug at his knee, glanced down, nothing to see, felt no pain, just a tingle in his leg, a hint of numbness. He ignored that now, rode forward again, down along the ridgeline, still following his men, more of them in a rapid chase to catch the Federal retreat. The horse slowed, lowering its head, and Johnston tried to avoid the pain of that, raised the field glasses, tried to see something, anything. In every part of the open ground, his own men filled his view, the last of the Federal position driven away. The firing slowed, but there were new volleys farther to the left, more artillery, the thunder of the shells wiping away the cheers of the men who had so bested their enemy. He wanted to cheer with them, but they were still moving, leaving him behind, and he felt a strange weakness, as though sleep was coming, lowered the glasses, his mind drifting, the sounds of the battle rolling into a soft hum, like music, deep bass drums, a chorus of violins. He closed his eyes for a brief second, to shake the nonsense away, and he fought to breathe, weakness there as well. He opened his eyes again, saw drifting smoke, men far away, and now hoofbeats, a voice, Isham Harris.

“General, your order is delivered. Colonel Statham is in motion.”

Johnston felt himself starting to fall, nothing to stop it, and suddenly an arm was holding him, keeping him upright.

“Sir, are you wounded?”

Johnston tested his breathing, still felt no pain, just the numbness in his right leg, wetness in his boot. He looked down, tried to focus, realized his boot was filled with blood, saw blood spilling out.

“Yes, Isham. And I fear seriously.”

Johnston felt the sleep coming, could not stop it, his hands releasing the reins, but Harris was close beside him, holding Johnston’s horse close to his own, and Johnston could feel movement now, the slow, lurching rhythm. He seemed to wake, felt hands on him, supporting him as he fell, but it was slow, gentle, the hands laying him down. He tried to talk, to ask, felt the hands on his body, tugging on his clothes, coolness on his chest, realized his shirt was open, his chest exposed. His mind was carrying him farther away, and he struggled against that, heard voices above him, faces mostly a blur, but Harris … his staff …

“General, do you know me?”

Johnston forced his eyes open, saw treetops and blue sky, a face, Preston, felt a hard tug on his leg, his boot pulled off, more of the voices, pieces of words,
“Bleeding …”

He didn’t respond, the energy gone, his eyes closing again, a single thought, that he could hear nothing of the fight, the silence strange, alarming. But the panic passed in a single moment, drained away, his mind engulfed by a strange, cold silence, and he saw her standing in the orchard, sweet Eliza smiling, tending to the beloved trees, and behind her, the ranch house, smoke from the chimney, soft lights in the windows …
home
.

HARRIS

EAST OF THE OLD COTTON FIELD APRIL 6, 1862, 3:00 P.M.

“
H
is heart has stopped! It cannot be … it is such a small wound.”

Harris was on his knees, felt Johnston’s face, already growing cold. Colonel Preston stood above him, others from the staff gathered close, low words. Harris could feel their despair, felt it himself, sickening grief, a horror of disbelief. He ran his hand down Johnston’s leg, felt the thickening blood, his fingers finding the hole behind Johnston’s knee. But it was barely a hole, more of a gash, a deep scratch. Preston saw what he was doing, was down beside him now, and Preston said, “Dr. Yandell should have been here. He would be alive. A simple tourniquet would have stopped the bleeding.”

Harris thought of Yandell, the man so vigorous in his protests that he should stay with the general. Harris spoke through tears now.

“He did not believe he required a surgeon. I suppose … none of us believe that. None of us expects … this.”

“You are wrong, Governor. I mean no disrespect, understand me. But a soldier must
always
expect this. The general knew that, certainly.” Preston was sliding his hands into Johnston’s pockets, removing papers, anything official. He suddenly withdrew a small strip of cloth, stared at it for a moment, showed it to Harris.

“My God, Governor, he carried one in his pocket. A tourniquet. He just … he must not have known of the wound. There must have been no pain, no sensation at all.”

Harris blinked through the tears, glanced at the tourniquet. He lowered his head, said, “He was directing the fight. There was nothing else that mattered. Look, his coat. He was struck by several balls. Death could have come at any time. It did not matter to him.”

“What’s this?”

Preston had removed Johnston’s coat, one hand deep inside a pocket, withdrew a small bundle. He cradled it carefully, and unwrapped it, and Harris caught a stinking smell. He looked away, had seen the bundle before, said slowly, “It is a sandwich. It’s the parting gift from Mrs. Inge.”

C
ouriers had continued to come in, and the staff had done all they could to shield prying eyes from the identity of the fallen officer. Preston had kept his calm, doing the job, taking command of the staff, and despite the grief that was so hard to disguise, every man knew that Johnston’s death had to be kept from the troops who were still pursuing the fight. Even more important, General Beauregard had to be notified. Harris felt no joy in the sudden realization that Beauregard now commanded this army. But that judgment had been made by others, and Colonel Preston recognized that with perfect clarity. Preston had sent a courier on his way, a message for General Breckinridge that said nothing about Johnston at all. Preston moved closer to Harris now, pulled him by the arm, away from the others.

“Governor, we are faced with two very important tasks. I shall supervise the transport of the general’s body to headquarters. We must remove him from the field, so that nothing … unfortunate should occur. He must not fall into enemy hands, certainly. But you must precede me to headquarters as rapidly as you can. Ride to that church with all haste, and notify General Beauregard what has happened.” Preston looked back toward the others. “Who among you has been to the headquarters?”

Several men nodded, motioned with their hands, and Preston pointed to one, Captain Wickham, the man attempting to wipe away tears.

“Captain, you will guide Governor Harris to the army’s headquarters. Make haste. Orders must still guide this army. It is possible that General Beauregard is unaware of the progress we have made on this flank. He must be informed. General Johnston would insist …” Preston stopped, seemed to choke on his words.

Harris walked slowly toward Johnston’s horse, his legs weak, trying to gather himself. He put a hand on the saddle, supporting himself. He turned toward Preston, said, “Colonel, I will do as you instruct.” He looked past Preston, to the others, saw the grief, the sadness on all of them. He could not remain silent, felt the need to ease the pain.

“We will endure this tragedy, gentlemen. We must. It is just … one more challenge we face.”

Harris didn’t believe his own words, felt his despair widening into a vast chasm of depression. He looked out toward the fighting, distant now, moving farther to the north and west. He turned, stared toward the river, and Preston moved closer to him, Johnston’s coat still in his hand. Preston seemed to struggle to control himself, to keep his composure in front of the staff.

“You share my thoughts, Governor. The river is a short distance from here. It would have been appropriate if the general had been allowed to make good on his promise.”

“Promise?”

“To water his horse in the Tennessee River.”

Harris patted the horse, said, “Well, perhaps that will happen still. My own horse is badly injured. I shall ride Fire-Eater to headquarters. He is a swift animal, strong.”

Harris climbed up on the horse, but the animal seemed to stagger, and Captain Wickham was there now, moving around the horse, examining, said, “He is badly wounded, sir. Three legs have suffered. Respectfully, sir, he is no longer of service.”

Preston tried to maintain his stoicism, said, “The orderlies … back there. They have other mounts. Use one of those, Governor.”

Harris stayed up on the horse for a moment longer, felt the added grief for the horse’s injuries, thought, they will wait for me to leave, and then his suffering will be ended. It has to be. He swung his leg over, dismounted, saw where Preston had pointed, the orderlies and several horses standing back in the trees.

“Go now, Governor. There can be no delay. I will follow behind, as rapidly as the general’s body can be transported.” He glanced at Wickham, then back to Harris. “Tell no one of this,
no one
, until General Beauregard is notified.”

Harris understood Preston’s urgency, but he hesitated, looked down one more time at Johnston’s face, saw perfect peacefulness, the serenity of a man whose burdens are lifted. He took a long breath, said a silent farewell, a new flow of tears, and moved away.

SHILOH CHURCH APRIL 6, 1862, 4:00 P.M.

Beauregard was standing tall on a cut tree stump, a column of men moving past him with joyous waves, shouts, which Beauregard acknowledged with a hearty wave of his hand. Harris rode close, tried not to look at the general’s smile. On the long ride, his grief had festered into anger, made worse by the painful gait of the horse he had never ridden. Captain Wickham had led him well, passing behind most of the troops, avoiding the vast fields of wounded, the farmhouses where rumors could have spread, where questions might be asked. As Harris came into sight of the church, and now Beauregard himself, the pain of the ride gave way to the pure misery of the job he had to perform. Beauregard saw him, seemed to puff up, kept to the stump, and Harris knew the trick, so familiar to a politician, the petite man doing anything he could to appear larger, a portrait that was more about image than anything else. Harris dismounted, Wickham as well, the captain keeping behind him.

“Well, Governor, are we faring as well to the right as we have over the rest of the field? Have you come to tell me of a great victory?”

Harris heard infuriating sarcasm in Beauregard’s voice, couldn’t avoid a growing hatred for the man. But the duty came first, the obedience, what now had to be absolute. He glanced around, no one else within earshot, but still he moved close, stood beside the ridiculous stump, and after a long breath, Harris said, “Sir, it is with deepest sadness that I must report the death of General Johnston.”

Beauregard seemed to flinch, jumped down from the stump, stared hard at Harris, a glance toward Wickham.

“Are you certain? Well, of course you are.” Beauregard seemed ready to burst with questions, kept them inside, and Harris saw nothing that resembled sadness. Beauregard nodded now, a strange gesture, said, “It is a tragic loss for our army and our nation, Governor. Tell me, how is the fight progressing in that part of the field?”

Harris felt a dismal calm, the grief drained from him by Beauregard’s casual need for facts.

“The fight is progressing extremely well, sir. The general … at the time of his death … was supervising the rapid advance against the Federal left flank. It was the general’s supreme wish that we drive between the enemy’s position and their base at Pittsburg Landing. If I may offer the observation, sir, it seems we are accomplishing that very success.”

“Yes, I know the general’s
supreme wish
. I designed this battle, if you recall.” Beauregard paused, seemed suddenly deep in thought, and he motioned for Harris to follow, began to move toward the small church. Harris noticed the building for the first time now, crude logs, a single doorway. He expected more, something larger, knew the churches in Nashville for their grand façades, the tall steeples that graced the skyline he so deeply missed. But there was nothing of Nashville, or even a village here. All around him, narrow roads led away, each one choked with the debris of the battle, wounded men, ambulances, men pushing through on horseback, some men doing … nothing at all. Close beside the building was an ambulance, what Harris assumed to be Beauregard’s place of rest. He followed Beauregard up the low steps into the church, the single room dark, lit only by a lantern. He studied the Creole for the first time now, still saw hints of the man’s illness, but Beauregard carried a new energy, his voice clear, purpose to his steps. Beauregard sat, no other chair for Harris, and Beauregard seemed to study papers on the small table beside him.

“At this moment, General Polk’s people are doing good work against the enemy’s position, and on his right flank, Bragg is performing well. There is considerable lack of organization, however, and many of their units are inexorably tangled. In that regard, General Hardee is no better off. At least, on our left, he seems to have secured our flank. But I am not yet concerned with the reorganization of the overlapping commands. That is a problem I will confront when the time is right. If you are correct that we are turning the enemy’s far flank … well then, the battle may as well continue.”

Harris waited for more, but Beauregard went silent. Harris said, “Yes, sir. I believe that is the best course. General Johnston would most certainly agree.”

Beauregard ignored that, studied a piece of paper, and behind Harris a courier suddenly appeared at the door, staff officers moving in without a knock. Harris felt a new wave of despair, not for Johnston, but for what he was seeing now, the business of this army moving forward as though nothing had happened, nothing had changed. He fought the urge to just … leave, to climb up on the horse and ride away, felt suddenly as though his usefulness to the army had ceased to exist. He thought of Corinth. I should just … ride, inform Mrs. Inge, certainly. But Colonel Preston might not approve. There is no need to alarm civilians, no matter the magnitude of the tragedy. And they will learn soon enough. What good can I do here? He stopped himself, thought of Johnston, the long talks, the friendship.
You
are still alive, and the general would not approve of this kind of melancholy. There must be someone, some command who can make use of me.

Beauregard’s staff officer was reading from a paper, a message from Hardee, that all was going well, the enemy making no attempt at a counterattack. Beauregard seemed immensely satisfied by that, and Harris still felt as though he was in the way. He fought with himself for a long moment, to leave or not, tried to stay out of the way as men passed by him. Beauregard was clearly drawn to other matters, and Harris thought, I
chose
this duty. I did not come to this army just to serve one man, to serve a friend. And you know what Sidney would tell you to do. And it would not be a
suggestion
. He waited for the conversation to pause, a quiet moment, then said, “Sir, with circumstances as they are now, it is appropriate that I offer my services to your staff, if you will have me, sir.”