A Blaze of Glory (48 page)

DESPAIR

HARRIS

BEAUREGARD’S HEADQUARTERS TENT APRIL 7, 1862, DAWN

T
he governor had stayed close to Braxton Bragg, and Bragg had succeeded where Colonel Forrest had not. He had not only located Beauregard’s new command center; Bragg had slept in the same tent. But both men had been called out, responding to the surprising sounds of a fight.

The first artillery fire had come to them from the left, and Harris knew little of what Beauregard had done to secure that flank. But Bragg went into motion immediately, Harris following. Before Bragg could reach the rugged terrain where his own brigade had been the point of that sword, word came from Preston Pond that he had been forced back. An infuriated Bragg did what Bragg had always done, shifting his men where the fire was most severe, doing all he could to support Pond as he withdrew to a new position. But the assaults began to come more to the right, and Bragg had gone back to Beauregard, reporting that the Federals must have decided to offer a last desperate gamble, that perhaps Grant had ordered Sherman and Hurlbut and the other commanders to drive from their defenses in a mad suicidal dash. It was the kind of theory Beauregard seemed entirely willing to accept.

Harris had been sent out toward Pond’s new position, had seen the first of the prisoners brought in, a scattering of Yankee troops who had been caught up in a dense brush field that separated them from their main force. The surprise came when they identified themselves, a proud declaration that they weren’t fighting for Sherman at all. These men were a part of the Union Third Division. They fought under Lew Wallace.

Harris understood enough of what was happening to know that this information had to be sent back to Beauregard. With a growing sense of chaos spreading all across the left flank, the commanders there had mostly exhausted their couriers, staff officers focused more on keeping their lines together, shifting units where the Federal surge was starting to blow through. Harris had no choice but to return to Beauregard himself.

H
arris was amazed to see a broad smile. Beauregard sat straight in the saddle, showed few signs of the months-long ailment that had put him on his back through so much of the planning. Instead Beauregard was energized, responded to the sounds of the fight on the left with a kind of enthusiasm that Harris had never seen in the man. Harris could not avoid the thought that, with so much at stake, and with a surprise assault exploding toward them, Beauregard was actually
happy
.

Bragg had already ridden away, was moving more to the center of the lines, a fight erupting there as well. Harris did the only thing that made sense to him: He rode close to Beauregard, ready to respond in the event the general required a courier.

Beauregard moved quickly, riding hard, his staff straggling behind, not used to the manic energy coming from a man who had barely crawled out of a sickbed. But Beauregard shared his enthusiasm with the men he met on the roads. They were scattered, pieces of regiments, small commands, most without officers. Whether they were shirkers, or simply lost in the confusion of yesterday’s fight, seemed not to matter to Beauregard at all. He spoke to them all, short, eloquent speeches, rallying them, gathering a force that actually had weight. With Beauregard leading them, the assemblage took shape as a regiment all their own. Harris followed as closely as he could, the newly minted battle line rushing forward into what seemed to be a gap at one end of a brigade that belonged to Bragg.

Beauregard kept to one side, cheered them as they passed, the men returning that with a hearty cheer of their own. Beauregard searched his staff now, pointed at Harris, said, “Governor! You are witness to great deeds this day. Great deeds! You must ride back to General Polk, offer the bishop my most reverent respects and request that he advance his forces to this location. They must occupy any ground they find where the enemy threatens. Polk will know what to do, once he observes the situation.”

Harris saluted, moved away. He knew that the night before Polk had been pulled away entirely, that whatever troops he could gather had been drawn so far back, they were well behind Beauregard’s own headquarters. Harris had not been privy to the conversation that produced that result. All he knew now was that Polk was clearly too far away from any place he should be.

“
G
overnor, may I see your map? I fear mine has been destroyed by the storm.”

Harris dismounted the horse, was surprised to see Polk without his coat. Behind Polk, just outside the opening of Polk’s tent, a black orderly was removing breakfast dishes from a wooden crate, a makeshift table. It was obvious that Polk had just finished his breakfast.

Harris withdrew the crushed roll of paper from his coat, handed the map to Polk, the same map Bragg had used the afternoon before. The details were small, nearly unreadable now, the rain doing damage to that paper as well. Polk seemed to squint, shook his head.

“I know the roads. Used them too many times. You say General Beauregard wishes us to advance again?”

“Those are his instructions, yes, sir. There is some urgency to the general’s request.”

Polk turned, called out to his adjutant, said, “Major, go to General Cheatham. Have him put the men into motion with all haste. Respectfully suggest that the general be certain his men have full cartridge boxes.”

The man seemed to hesitate, responded slowly.

“Sir … there is very little ammunition. The wagons we found last night were mostly empty. We had hoped we would not require fresh cartridges today.”

Polk stared at the man, now a quick glance at the governor.

“Why is that, Major?”

“Well, sir, if I may make the observation, last evening General Beauregard was most optimistic that this corps’s services would not be required today. Was that not the reason for our withdrawal, sir?”

Polk pondered the question, and Harris heard him let out a long breath.

“I brought the men back here with every hope they could be fed, Major. They have performed with the might of the Almighty’s sword, and, yes, I had hoped that by now, this battle might be concluded.”

Polk looked at Harris now.

“Is it your understanding, sir, that the enemy is not cooperating?”

Harris began to absorb the mood around him, felt a stirring uneasiness.

“General Polk, the enemy is pressing hard into our left and center. There has been word that they are also emerging from the landing itself, far to our right. Though I am not a military man, I have observed General Bragg responding to that with considerable energy, and though General Beauregard seems unconvinced of a threat, General Hardee has shifted his troops more to the right, to drive the enemy back. I have not yet seen General Hardee, but if I may offer, sir, there is considerable concern in General Bragg’s quarter. Any hope that the enemy would have surrendered … has been contradicted by what is happening right now. He has been reinforced on our left flank by the division of Lew Wallace.”

Polk nodded, kept his reaction to himself.

“And what of General Beauregard?”

Harris began to understand more clearly now. Polk had not been told anything of the fight. He was simply too far away.

“Sir, General Beauregard remains confident that this day, the campaign is ours. If I may suggest, sir, at this moment, from all I have seen, General Bragg would not agree with that optimism.”

Polk stared at him, sharp, stern eyes, and Harris knew the look, had often seen the same gravity from Johnston. Polk turned to his adjutant again.

“Go
now
to General Cheatham. Have all available troops put into column of march and advance to the enemy’s positions at once. Follow the sounds of the fighting. General Bragg and General Hardee must be informed once we are on the field. They will know where we should be placed. There is to be no hesitation. Do you understand?”

“Most certainly, sir.”

The major spun his horse around, was gone quickly. Polk showed a hint of frustration now, the first emotion Harris had seen. He moved toward the crate, sat. Harris kept silent, knew Polk was deep in thought, realized suddenly he was thinking of Johnston. Polk looked up at him, the steel in his eyes giving way to a soft sadness.

“Optimism is a curse, Governor. It clouds our vision, gives rise to carelessness. I am guilty of that, to be sure.” He paused. “Sidney would not have been so … sure of himself. He would have swept that away from our conversation. And so he would not have removed my troops so far from the field. He must … be furious. He would have known what to do. He would know that right now.”

Harris understood the meaning, that Polk would certainly believe Johnston was looking down on all that was happening. Harris felt a burst of anger, fought to hold the words back, but there was too much sadness, too much grief, his discretion too battered by all he had seen.

“Sir, with all respects, we cannot rely on the wisdom of angels.”

Polk looked at him again, tapped his chest with one hand.

“The angels are here, Governor. They do guide us. But they do not make us infallible.”

Harris heard a distant rumble, turned, Polk standing now, moving beside him. Harris said, “Artillery. Ours, I assume.”

“Most likely. We will find out soon enough.”

NEAR SHILOH CHURCH APRIL 7, 1862, 11:00 A.M.

Beauregard was back closer to the church, but not by his own choice. The Federals had pressed their attacks hard into any units Bragg could send against them, and even Beauregard began to understand that he could not muster the strength he needed to hold them back. The left flank was mostly a chaotic mess, the same ground that had served the Confederates so well now working against them. The deep cuts and thickets gave the Yankees cover, and artillery batteries had kept up the pace, splintering the guns that Bragg’s artillerymen had hoped would slow the advance. For every Federal battery destroyed, it seemed another took its place, and Bragg’s commanders on that part of the field had no such luxury. The guns that still fired were facing another problem as well, a spreading shortage of ammunition. Throughout the long, dismal night, no one had sent forward the supply wagons or fresh limbers. The gunners were making do with what little ammunition they had left.

Harris reached the church with the vanguard of Polk’s forces, stayed closer to Beauregard, was too uncertain just where Bragg might be to offer his help there. The fight had grown, Polk’s men stepping into a new hell in the fields and wood lines through the center of the position. There they were tied on the right to Hardee and whatever force Breckinridge had gathered together. It was the same all along the lines, and well behind. The Confederate forces were too jumbled, too few officers in places they needed to be. As the Federals advanced, the Confederate infantry rallied around anyone they could find, staff officers, gunnery officers, entire regiments following the first captain who raised his sword.

Beauregard was still in the saddle, rode with manic enthusiasm, pulling men out of the woods, the deep gullies, doing all he could to inject courage into men who had given up the fight. Harris rode behind him, watched in amazement as men responded, soldiers rising up with Beauregard’s call, some of those without weapons, some with wounds.

They rode close to the church, and Beauregard halted the horse, seemed to freeze in place, staring out. Harris did the same, heard the variety of noises, far more activity now coming toward them to the left, to the northwest. Beauregard spoke out loud, a pronouncement not directed at anyone.

“They have turned the left flank. Bragg has failed us. Who do we have who can save that position?”

He looked around now, the staff silent, no one with an answer. Harris saw a rider, a hard gallop on the road to the north, the horse wobbly, thick froth on its flanks. It was Lockett, Bragg’s engineer.

“Sir! General Bragg offers his compliments and reports that General Ruggles has been unable to stem the tide. The enemy continues to sweep past our flanks!”