A Blaze of Glory (44 page)

McDonald seemed to be talking to himself, making his own observations, and Seeley began to feel the man’s excitement, still wasn’t sure why. He stared out again through his own glasses, another boat crossing the river, several more seeming to sit in a line to one side, spread along the far, eastern shore. He caught a flicker of motion, much closer, from the center of the river, realized now there was another boat there, dark and very large, realized with a jolt it was one of the Federal gunboats. He wanted to say something to McDonald, but the captain was looking that way as well, said in a low voice, “There they be. Like two she-devils, spittin’ fire. Wonder when they’ll start shootin’ again. Those boys ain’t sittin’ out there catchin’ catfish.”

Seeley’s heart was jumping. He knew exactly the power of those craft, so close offshore. By now the entire army knew that the Federals had anchored two of their powerful gunboats, the
Lexington
and the
Tyler
, with their heavy artillery sending enormous shells out toward some part of the fight, usually with more fury than effectiveness. He scanned each of those, saw only a hint of lantern light from inside, glimpses of movement on the decks, sailors going about their nightly routine. He felt an itchiness, whispered to McDonald, “We could pick those boys off from here. Never know what hit ’em.”

McDonald was staring again toward the landing.

“You cannot possibly be that dense, Lieutenant. They’d see the flashes of our muzzles, and we’d have barrel-sized shells falling on us in a half second, and a regiment of Yankees hustling down here to chase us away. I don’t care a whit about those two gunboats. Look at the landing, and across, the other side of the river. Those boats are going back and forth, like some kinda ferry crossing. The colonel’s gotta see this. He’ll know exactly what this means, and he’ll bust a horse’s gut to tell the generals about it.”

F
orrest knelt on the peak of the Indian mound, stared out through his glasses toward the landing. Beside him, McDonald crouched low, Seeley just behind both of them. They could hear bells now, different tones, rhythms, and Forrest said, “They’re signaling each other. Easier than shouting your lungs out. Something like, make way or I’ll ram you.” Forrest lowered the glasses. “That’s the only thing we didn’t want to see.”

Seeley couldn’t contain his curiosity, said, “Sir, forgive me. What are they doing? They pulling their people out of here? Everybody says we’ve got ’em whipped.”

Forrest seemed to have much more tolerance for the lieutenant’s questions than McDonald did. He sat, let out a breath, seemed to stare out toward the river, the gunboats still anchored right offshore, the bustle of activity continuing downstream at the landing. Forrest turned toward him slightly, said, “Not leaving. They’re arriving. Those are Buell’s men. The Army of the Ohio. They’ll be crossing over to this side of the river all night long, until every one of them is planted in line next to Grant’s people. We whipped some of Grant’s boys, no doubt about that.” Forrest stood now, a tall shadow outlined by the distant lights. “We had our chance. By God, we had our chance.” He paused, seemed lost in thought for a long silent moment. He looked around, began to ease his way down the side of the mound, said, “Captain, pull your men back to our camp. I have to get word of this to General Beauregard.”

Forrest slipped down the side of the mound, moved to a waiting horse, and quickly was up and gone, soft hoofbeats in the wet creek bottom. McDonald started down as well, the men gathering, a shadowy line, waiting for their orders. Seeley heard pattering taps on his hat, looked upward. He blinked, water in his eyes, lowered his head again, heard the others reacting as well, and now the patter became heavier, the trees around them peppered with rain, a whistle of wind beginning above, the rain spreading past them, spreading out into the river. Seeley gathered his own squad, heard the cursing, the grumble from Sergeant Gladstone. He still had questions, wondered about Buell, the same bluebellies they had harassed weeks before. Now … they’re here. I guess … that’s really bad. But he had only one job now, lead his men out of the swampy ground, mount up and pull back to the south.

As they reached the horses, the rains grew heavier still, the ground beneath them already churning into mud. McDonald led them away from the river, but not far, the men on a trail that led them along higher ground, a ridgeline. The captain kept them just below the crest, no outlining the men in silhouette, even though, as the rains grew heavier, Seeley knew it was unlikely anyone could see or hear them coming. They trusted the captain’s instincts for direction, followed in column, the horses moving at a slow pace, the trail parallel to the river, McDonald keeping them out of the deeper ravines.

Farther inland, the Confederate troops who had been ordered to sleep on their arms struggled mightily to find any kind of cover. The fortunate ones had been positioned directly in the captured Federal camps, and even the wrecked tents offered some kind of shelter. But many more of Beauregard’s army had nothing to shelter themselves but their own coats and the limbs of trees, and so thousands of men curled themselves into whatever small space they could make, beaten down by the kind of storm they had seen before, cold and relentless. Fires had been forbidden, the commanders knowing any light could draw sniper fire, and that surely the Yankees had slipped sharpshooters out close to their position. But that mattered very little now, since any Federal soldier who intended to remain in these woods would be as miserable as the men he was sent to observe. Those men had certainly withdrawn to the relative luxury of the camps at Pittsburg Landing, where many found shelter beneath the cannon, the limbers, and wagons, many piling into the hastily arranged tents, brought onshore from the boats that ferried the Army of the Ohio to their side of the river.

All across every part of this enormous battleground, wounded men of both sides lay in helpless agony, the wet darkness blanketing them all in complete blindness. There was little chance any of them would be pulled back to the makeshift hospitals. If a man was still mobile, he could seek some kind of shelter, but too many had sought the safety of the deepest troughs, what had offered them protection from the deadly sprays of canister, or the random flurries of musket balls. Now, as the storm continued, those bottoms grew wet, creek beds swelling, swirling water through the darkness, mud and debris engulfing the men who could not move at all, whose wounds were too severe. Some of the wounded welcomed the rain for the relief it brought to their desperate thirst, but then the shivering chills came, their soaked clothing stripping many of their last bit of energy. The one blessing came from the sound of the storm, wiping away the soft, horrible cries of men in pain, of men terrified of dying, of men calling for loved ones, or one another. For the men without wounds, the soldiers who had been ordered to endure this night, to renew their fight at dawn, the rains at least kept away those awful voices, the cries of the helpless.

And then, out on the river, the
Tyler
and the
Lexington
began a new mission. If they could not obliterate the rebel troops, they could at least prevent Beauregard’s army from having any kind of peace at all. With perfect clockwork precision, both gunboats began to launch their shells aloft, the thunderous roars streaking through the rain. There was no aim, no targets. It was simply noise, minute by minute, man-made thunder and lightning, adding to all that came from the skies.

F
orrest made his ride. From General Chalmers to General Breckinridge, the only response he drew was the suggestion that he take his observations to General Beauregard himself. Riding to Shiloh Church, Forrest found that Beauregard had changed the location of his headquarters, and no one who had holed up around the church had any idea where that new headquarters could be. But Forrest kept moving, located General Hardee, related what he had seen to the one man in the army who would appreciate its meaning. But Hardee had seen too much slaughter on this day, and so he would not pay heed to Forrest’s urgency, would not even invite the colonel into his dry tent. Once again Forrest was ordered only to pass his information directly to Beauregard. And so Forrest continued the ride, the infuriating gallop through blind woods, over roadways where no guide could help him, where no officer could give him direction. After hours in the saddle in a storm that seemed to have no end, a different kind of storm fired through Forrest’s brain. He had witnessed the arrival of a full Federal army, an army that possibly doubled the strength that Grant now had packed tightly into his position at Pittsburg Landing. To his furious astonishment, no one in the entire Confederate hierarchy seemed to care. And worse, the man responsible for issuing the orders, for making the preparations for the new day’s challenge, was nowhere to be found.

SHERMAN

PITTSBURG LANDING APRIL 7, 1862, MIDNIGHT

S
herman had come back to the landing through the driving rain, had hoped to find Grant there. He was unsure whether Grant would return downriver to Savannah. He had prepared himself to be angry at that, that Grant should not leave this army for the comforts of that damn mansion, that across these woods and fields, an army had suffered as badly as any army could, and by damned, a commander should see that, understand what kind of price these men had given. Along the way, Sherman had allowed his temper to blossom, imagining every kind of curse, the indiscreet blasts into the face of a man who had done so many things wrong. But Grant had surprised him, had drained away Sherman’s fury by a fury of his own. It was the one reaction Sherman did not expect, and the one he most respected.

He had found Grant close by a log dwelling at the landing, the place Grant had intended to use as his own headquarters. But the place was a hospital now, a grim necessity not even the commanding general could object to. They sat on horseback, close beneath the spread of a fat oak tree. Sherman kept his coat as tight around him as he could, but the rain found its way inside, always, and he fought the shiver, could see enough of Grant’s expression in the glow of the lanterns that Sherman felt as though a great muzzle was engulfing him, holding him silent. Clearly Grant had something to say.

“He’s here. He’s finally here. How in hell did it take him so long to make that march? Rawlins tells me that Wallace sent his people out on the wrong road, and then he countermarched them. But instead of turning them around where they stood, he shifted their whole damn position, brought his vanguard all the way to the front of the line, like turning around a big damn snake inside a narrow pipe. All he had to do was march them tail first, save three hours. I’ll find out why, before this is over. General Wallace says I wasn’t definite enough, that my order wasn’t urgent. It’s the same thing I heard from Nelson, that his division didn’t know there was any need to hurry it up. And of course, Buell is backing
him
up. No surprise there. That’s what Halleck will hear. A hatful of bellyaches from men who sat out there all damn day and listened to more cannon fire than any of them have heard in their lives. And they didn’t think there was
urgency
?”

Sherman saw Grant struggle with something in his hand, realized it was a cigar, no chance of lighting it. Sherman felt that need as well, but it would have to wait. Sherman had been as desperate as anyone on the field for the arrival of Lew Wallace’s Division, a division that had only arrived with great fanfare after dark. As Sherman absorbed the overwhelming punishment on his right flank, he had wondered if Wallace might suddenly appear, might so stun the rebels that a sharp flank attack along Owl Creek by thousands of fresh troops might drive them back completely. But Wallace had never arrived, not even a hint of where his division could be. It was not up to Sherman to launch any kind of fury at Wallace, and obviously, Grant was carrying enough of that to go around. Sherman said, “He’s here now. I’ve seen his people moving up on my right.”

“Yes, he’s here
now
. A great many men lost their lives today … because Lew Wallace is here
now
.”

Sherman let it go, knew that any problems caused by Wallace’s delay had been solved, at least for Sherman. Whether Wallace had caused a greater problem for himself was not anything Sherman could address, at least not publicly.

He glanced down, saw a reflection off a badly bent scabbard lying against Grant’s leg.

“I heard you were wounded. Is the leg—”

“It’s fine, dammit. Wandered right into a mess, nearly got myself killed.” Grant reached down, held the scabbard in his hand. “Hurt like hell. Could have been worse. Wonder if the damn rebels even knew who they were shooting at.” He looked toward Sherman’s fat bandage, pointed.

“How’s the hand?”

“Hurts. Not bad. Damn nuisance trying to hold the reins. Hard to shoot the pistol without falling off the damn horse.”

“Then don’t shoot the pistol. You’ve got no business leading your troops into a fight. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

The fury in Grant’s voice was unusual, more emotion than Sherman had heard before.

“You’re right. But there were times today … when there was no alternative. The damn rebels rolled right over some of my lines. We had flanks just fall away, like leaves blowing in the wind. The enemy took full advantage, and I had to pull some of my people out of good strong ground, pull ’em back, form up as best we could. Only brigade that held up was Buckland. He needs a promotion. The rest of ’em … they need a firing squad.”

“And what do I do with
you
? You’re their commander. It’s your responsibility, after all.”

It was a question, and Sherman knew the answer already. He waited, knew there was no good response.

“We’re here. We held ’em back. Finally. Cost us too many men, and we gave them too much ground. But we held ’em back. I’ll file my report, and I’ll not hold back on the names. Heroes and cowards. Smart actions and stupid ones. Plenty of both.”

Sherman saw Grant looking at him, no words, knew exactly what Grant was thinking. Yes, Sherman, how much stupidity belongs to
you
? Sherman waited for more, Grant silent, and Sherman said, “Learned a lot today. Learned something about my men … about the enemy. They came to fight. No mistake about that. They pushed regiments through the worst ground you ever saw and came out the other side with muskets in our faces. Took everything we had, and gave it back to us. Yep. Learned something today. Lots of mistakes. Lots of blundering.” He looked at Grant, as though trying to convince him. “Won’t happen this way again. If I’m allowed to keep my command.”

“Shut up, Sherman. Only one likely to lose his command is me. This fight isn’t over, and once it is, there’s people with bigger britches than you or me who’ll make those decisions. Damn them to hell.”

There was another silent moment, Sherman feeling the awkwardness, his brain seeking another road. He peered out past Grant, to the cabin, saw the horror of a stack of severed limbs, saw a naked leg suddenly appear, tossed through a lone window, tumbling down the pile. Inside, a sharp scream rolled out, muffled only slightly by the rain. Sherman shifted in the saddle, had no need to hear this, had heard too much of it all day long. But Grant was planted firmly beside the tree, a hint of shelter from the storm, and Sherman would endure. Grant seemed to study him, pointed back toward the cabin.

“Damn mess … the hospital. No place to shelter the men. They laid a bunch of wounded under some canvas back over there, and a damn undertaker’s wagon starts picking them up, the crew thinking they were dead. You never saw so much of a commotion. Scared hell out of everybody involved. The wagon … I don’t know where they ended up.” Grant paused. “We’re putting as many wounded on the boats as we can fit, but Buell’s commandeered a good many of those for his own purposes. He’s hauling his people over here as fast as he can, and I can’t object to that. Those men … they’re moving in here like we don’t even matter. At least they’re getting a taste of this infernal weather.” Grant paused, peered at him under the brim of his hat, tilted to one side. “This was not a good day, Sherman. Not for any of us. It was a near thing.” Grant seemed to stare past him, said again, “It was a near thing.”

Sherman thought a moment, felt the need to defend at least … something.

“Not so near. We drove ’em back, time and again. Took a hell of a toll on those graybacks. They’ll not likely do that again.”

“They’ll try. They have to. No other reason for them to still be out there. That’s why they came up here, to knock our teeth down our throats. They damn near did.” Sherman heard the anger in Grant’s voice, felt like he had to say more.

“We made mistakes. We had too many untested troops. In the wrong place.”

“There’s never a right place to put untested troops, not in a fight like this.”

Sherman felt a generosity in Grant’s statement, shook his head.

“They were the first line of defense. Wrong place.”

“Oh hell, Sherman, it’s only the wrong place because we know
now
it’s the wrong place. You didn’t expect this fight, and neither did I. I have some explaining to do about that. Maybe you, too. Maybe every damn one of us. Lew Wallace goes on a flower-picking jaunt around Crump’s, instead of bringing his people where we need ’em. Buell takes his sweet lovely time bringing his people toward the sound of what he damn well knows is a fight he should be a part of. Whether either one of them did that for a reason …” Grant stopped, and Sherman knew that wasn’t an accusation he could make lightly. Sherman felt the need to change the subject.

“I guess you know … Prentiss is gone, captured. Will Wallace is gone, dead or captured. His own staff says they had to leave him behind, and he was in bad shape out there. Horrible thing.”

Grant lowered his head.

“More horrible. Ann Wallace is out there on one of the boats. Arrived this morning, looking to see her husband. All perfume and lace and romance.”

“Does she know?”

“Do we? We had to give her all the news we had, and what the hell do we know? Her husband is out there somewhere, maybe drowned in the mud, maybe with half his head shot off. And you know what she’s doing? Right now? She’s out there on that river helping the doctors, stepping those petticoats through guts and pools of blood. No place for a woman … not a general’s wife. She should be back home sipping tea in her parlor. What the hell was she thinking, coming down here? Who the hell authorized that?”

Sherman had met Ann Wallace only briefly, the perfect picture of an officer’s wife. He couldn’t picture the image now, blood on her dress, hands covered in … everything. He stared out into the rain, more ambulances coming in, making their way in deep muddy ruts toward the hospital. Sherman saw a man emerge from the cabin, walk into the rain, not wounded at all. He saw the man’s apron now, a massive bloody stain.

“One of the doctors …”

Grant glanced that way, turned back, stared down at the landing, a fresh column of Buell’s troops making their way up the slope.

“There have been a few … just leave their posts.”

Sherman bristled at that, stood higher in the stirrups.

“Well, to hell with that! I’ll round him up, send him back to do his job.”

“No you won’t. If he can, he’ll come back. Some of ’em, they’re done. Seen that before. So have you. Only so much you can make a man do, even a doctor. By tomorrow maybe, he’ll be back, pick up the saw, do what he has to do. But right about now, he’s sitting under a tree, pulling out a bottle, trying to make it go away. It won’t.”

Sherman felt the image of that too close to a dangerous place in his own mind. He had heard most of the fight out to his left, once his own lines were fairly secure, once the rebels had exhausted all they could seem to do to drive him back. He tried to add a hint of cheer to his words, said, “Prentiss saved our bacon.”

“I suppose he did.”

Sherman had never had much to do with Prentiss, no great affection between them, was fairly certain Prentiss disliked him altogether. Prentiss wasn’t alone. Sherman realized he might never see the man again, and thought again of Ann Wallace. Does Prentiss have a wife? Children? Somebody will have to tell them about this. He looked at Grant. Yes, you.

Grant removed his hat, slapped away a spray of water, put it back on his head.

“I’ve heard that Sidney Johnston is dead.”

Sherman was surprised.

“You certain?”

“No. Not certain of anything. But there were several prisoners, brought in over on the left. Said he was wounded, died leading some Tennessee boys.” Grant looked at him, again from under the brim of the hat. “
Leading
. I’ll not have that nonsense, not in this army.”

Sherman tried to ignore the scolding.

“The left? That’s where I sent Stuart’s Brigade. Wonder if it was his boys that did the deed.”