A Blaze of Glory (8 page)

“See here, sir? We got us a bluebelly and a handful of hardware along with him. You like my idea now?”

Seeley said nothing, thought of the captain, the orders not to engage anyone.

“Let’s just get him back to the others. We’ll let the captain tell us if this was a good idea.”

M
cDonald leaned close to the man’s face, said, “He’s stinkin’, that’s for sure. River water and piss. Who’s got a match?”

“Here!”

Seeley stood close beside McDonald, a crowd of the others gathered close behind them, and now the match ignited, blinding, and Seeley saw the prisoner’s face, clean-shaven, handsome man, and very scared.

“Please don’t kill me.… ”

“Oh, shut the hell up, boy. Only reason we’ll kill you is if you don’t answer my questions, that’s all.”

The match went out, and Seeley blinked hard, tried to see anything of the prisoner. The man was held down tightly on both sides by Gladstone and Hinkle, but there was nothing of escape in this man, the pure terror draining away any
soldiering
he might have brought to the uniform.

“Who … who are you? You a
secesh
?”

McDonald kept his voice hard, said, “Now that’s your second mistake. I ask and then you answer. Your first mistake was swimming straight into a full regiment of the Confederate army’s finest cavalry. What jackleg officer ordered you to do something that stupid? It was pretty stupid now, wasn’t it, Private?”

Seeley thought, regiment? But he understood what McDonald was doing. No one needs to know there’s two dozen of us, and a million damn Yankees across the river. The question was a trick as well, and the prisoner fell flat-faced into it.

“Captain Danforth’s orders. Told us we needed to set up watch over on this side of the river, make sure nobody snuck up on us. The captain asked us if we could swim. I used to all the time … at home … all the time … Sandusky Bay. Corporal Boynton … said he could, but I knew he wasn’t strong. He got swept away. You find him? He’s always trying to be a hero, volunteering for everything. I knew he’d have trouble in that current. Tried to grab him … awful …”

“Oh for God’s sake, son, I asked one simple question. This Captain Danforth, what company he command?”

“Company C, sir. Uh … maybe I ought not be telling you this. They told us …”

“Listen, son, you know what a Tennessee toothpick is?”

“N-n-no, sir.”

“Somebody light another match.”

The captain’s order was obeyed, a flash of light bursting between them. McDonald was squatting within arm’s length of the prisoner and Seeley could see that he had already drawn the long knife. The captain made a quick show, held it out, turning the blade to reflect the flicker of light. The match went dark, and McDonald said, “We all carry these, son. Sharp as the day I was born. They’re real good for gutting a hog, or, even better, they’ll split a Yankee from his chin to his soft privates. Sharp on both sides, so you can spin it around right inside a man’s chest. Now, you can tell me what I want to know, or I’ll show you just how sharp this blade is.”

“Ohio, sir! Forty-ninth Ohio! Colonel Blackman! General McCook’s Division! Please …”

“McCook?”

Seeley knew the name meant something to the captain, had to be important.

“How many more behind you?”

“Don’t know, sir. Really! Don’t know. Bunch of us, though. I heard the colonel talking. Said something about General Nelson … somebody else … oh Lord … I can’t remember …”

The prisoner began to cry, hard sobs, and Seeley couldn’t avoid feeling sorry for the man, a flash of thought, never be a prisoner.
Never
.

“Oh, wait … I heard the supply sergeant … said something about the river.”

“The one you swam across?”

“No, sir! The Tennessee River! Some town, like in Georgia … I heard of it.”

“Georgia? You’re not making sense, son. You’re in Tennessee.”

“Savannah! That’s it. Something about going to Savannah. The sergeant made a joke about it. Stupid generals gonna make us march all the way to the ocean. But somebody cussed him out for being stupid, said there was another one … another Savannah … in Tennessee!”

Seeley felt McDonald stand up tall beside him, and the captain said, “Lieutenant, get the men in the saddle. We can’t wait. Bring this boy with us, until we can hand him off.”

“How’ll he ride, sir? No spare horses.”

“You decide to let your sergeant run your command, Lieutenant?”

Seeley had waited for this, wondered if the value of the prisoner outweighed the risk they had taken. Of course, he thought. He knows I didn’t make this plan myself.

“Sir, I saw an opportunity to grab a prisoner, get some information. Had to make a quick decision.”

“Well, when you make decisions that go against my orders, you’ll pay for it. Even good decisions. This boy’ll ride with you. Hey, Yankee.”

“S-s-sir?”

“You’re gonna be tied up real snug to my lieutenant here. You ever ride a horse?”

“Not much, sir.”

McDonald slapped Seeley on the shoulder.

“Enjoy your ride, Lieutenant.”

Seeley waited for the prisoner to be pulled up to his feet, thought of the rope they would use, something stout to tie the prisoner against him. It was the only way in the dark, no chance for the man to fall off, slip away. He began to move, felt another hand on his arm, heard the familiar deep growl close to his ear, the voice of Gladstone.

“Nice of you to take the blame and all. But, beggin’ your pardon, sir. For takin’ the credit, you owe me a bottle.”

JOHNSTON

ROSE COTTAGE, CORINTH, MISSISSIPPI MARCH 23, 1862

T
he newly assembled army around Corinth had been designated now the Army of the Mississippi, and though Beauregard had insisted the command belonged to Johnston, his actions suggested that Beauregard believed himself to be in the best position to manage the army’s affairs. On the march from Murfreesboro, Johnston had to suffer through lengthy communications from Beauregard that could only have been interpreted as
orders
. The missives included a steady stream of requests and the requirements for Beauregard’s own plans for troop movements, distribution of supplies and ordnance, and the proper construction of the defenses to protect the railroad. Beauregard’s display of so much authority made Johnston wonder once again if Jefferson Davis had sent Beauregard west for this very purpose, but Davis’s letters showed no sign of any lack of confidence in Johnston’s command. Beauregard’s behavior was simply … Beauregard.

To the Creole’s credit, he was an efficient organizer, and his standing among the civilian population had produced significant results, new volunteers answering his call, the other commanders throughout the Mississippi Valley answering as well, supplies and troops continuing to march toward the crucial railway. Beauregard’s success was an obvious contrast to Johnston’s inability to produce the same kind of enthusiastic effort, one more example of the blame levied against Johnston for so much of the bad news that had come from the army’s failures in Kentucky and Tennessee. Johnston was grateful as well that Beauregard had assumed control of an essential part of the army’s change of positioning, since Johnston had to focus his attention on the rapid transport of the twelve thousand men he brought from Murfreesboro. That march also included the precious supplies gathered at Nashville, plus the urgent need to monitor any pursuit by the enemy, particularly the Federal cavalry. With Beauregard establishing his headquarters at Jackson, Mississippi, Johnston had allowed the Creole the authority to do whatever maneuvering was necessary to assemble as much strength as possible in Mississippi. On March 23, when Johnston arrived at Corinth, he could not avoid feeling seriously impressed by the success of Beauregard’s efforts. Around Corinth, and throughout northern Mississippi, the Confederate forces numbered close to fifty thousand. Whether Beauregard expected to actually lead those troops in the field was an issue that Johnston knew he would have to confront.

Beauregard was a small, wiry man, handsome in the extreme, a trait that had made easy work for the newspapers in proclaiming him to be the South’s most gallant hero, his French background offering easy grist for the public mill quick to proclaim him their own Napoleon. Johnston carried the annoying memory inside him still of a quote from a Richmond paper that declared with great emotion that the South’s survival depended exclusively on
God and General Beauregard
. Johnston had wondered often, and he wondered now, if Beauregard believed that as well.

At the moment, in Johnston’s new headquarters, he was more concerned with the man’s appearance. Beauregard had been extremely ill for some weeks now, and it showed. The illness, something in the man’s lungs, was draining his strength so severely he could barely stand. Beauregard’s condition had not been helped at all by the journey from Jackson, where he was still quartered. But summoned by Johnston, he had gamely made the journey, and both men knew that very soon, Beauregard would make the move to Corinth.

Their meeting had been brief, but already his voice was giving out, Beauregard lying back on a couch in the living room of the private home that now served as Johnston’s office.

“I am concerned for you, General. You did not have to make the journey here in such circumstances. This meeting could have waited. I apologize.”

“For what? My duty requires me to be where you require me to be. I am pleased to report that your army continues to be assembled as we speak. I congratulate you on the swiftness with which your orders were carried out. No retreat is a joyous affair.”

There was a hint of sarcasm in Beauregard’s praise, and Johnston tried not to notice. After a silent moment, he said, “I have believed for a very long time … that hope is God’s gift to the young. This army still believes in our cause, and I am certain that the men who made the march from Murfreesboro still have the spirit for the fight. It is not so easy to share their spirit when one views this war through tired eyes …” He stopped, suddenly realized Beauregard was appraising him, measuring every word, a test perhaps, maybe even something ordered by President Davis. Johnston cleared his throat, chose his words with more care.

“Despite the condemnation of this army’s performance by those who … well, those who were not
there …
no matter our past difficulties, we must do what the country requires of us.”

Beauregard coughed, harsh and liquid, a handkerchief to his mouth.

“I am not here to replace you. Surely you are confident of that.”

“I am not confident of very much these days. There have been mistakes made, errors by some that were out of my control. In my position, losing control is an error itself. There is much yet to be learned by the men in this command who are not accustomed to the stench of war. If God has given me any of that
hope
, it lies in believing that failures will be corrected.” He paused. “Pierre … if I may address you that way …”

“Address me any way you please, sir. I am in your service.”

The arrogance was unmistakable, but Johnston took him at his word.

“Thank you. However, your
service
is something we should discuss. I do not have to explain to you the outcry against my command, the lack of faith from the people, from the politicians, from many in this army. I propose … with President Davis’s approval of course … that my command of this army be placed in your hands. Your work here has been exceptional, and I am confident that will continue. Beyond that … you inspire a confidence from our soldiers that … for some time now … I have not. If you feel there is greater benefit to this army, that you command the campaigns we must surely confront here, I will not object.”

Beauregard seemed surprised, the handkerchief dropping away from his mouth. He stared at Johnston for a long moment, the sickness apparent in the darkness of his eyes.

“A most generous gesture, sir. In different circumstances, I could see us shoulder to shoulder, inspiring this army to great victories. But this is your command. I serve as I am called upon to serve, and now that you are here … by rank, and by the confidence of the president, this is your army.”

Now Johnston was surprised. Beauregard coughed again into the white cloth, lay back, the effort behind his magnanimity seeming to pull the last bit of fire from the man.

“Can I get you anything? Water? Something … stronger? I do not keep spirits in my headquarters, but surely Mrs. Inge has something in the house. She is a most gracious hostess.”

Beauregard shook his head, and Johnston watched him, didn’t know what else to do. He pondered the man’s words …
different circumstances
. Yes, if he was well, this might be his stage after all. But even he knows a sick man cannot lead a fight. And … the president does not like him, not at all. That must play into this. But still … the army needs this kind of man, needs something to give them more
hope
than I have done. Johnston said, “Your loyalty to this command is noted and I must say … appreciated. As an alternative, I would recommend to the president, with your approval of course, that you be designated as my second in command, effective immediately.”

Beauregard reacted only with a weak wave of his hand, a slow nod. The cloth stayed on his mouth, the sound of labored breathing making Johnston uneasy. Beauregard made no effort to sit upright, said in a soft voice, “That will be most acceptable. Great good will come of this, I am certain of that. There are good men commanding this army.”

Johnston nodded.

“I suspect that very soon, they must demonstrate just how good they are.”

A
fter the Federal victories at Forts Henry and Donelson, the withdrawal of Johnston’s army across the vast Kentucky–Tennessee line included outposts that stretched to the Mississippi River. But one key outpost was too important to abandon, the crucial river strong points at New Madrid, Missouri, and nearby Island Number Ten. Both had been well fortified with troops and heavy artillery, and they were a formidable barrier essential to preventing Federal gunboats from sweeping southward to Memphis. In early March, when Federal forces pressed their attacks toward those strongholds, General John McCown had seemed to lose confidence in his own command, and had withdrawn his forces from New Madrid with what Johnston considered to be careless haste. Though the position on Island Number Ten was continuing to hold out against a relentless siege by Union general John Pope, Johnston felt he had no choice but to relieve McCown, and so, he replaced him with his own chief adjutant, Colonel William Mackall. Whether Mackall could fare any better would be decided by the ingenuity and power that Pope’s overwhelming forces brought to bear. But Johnston’s confidence in Mackall had come from years of service with the man, who was as much a friend as an efficient staff officer.

Mackall had served Johnston as far back as California, well before the war. Then, both men wore blue, and Mackall had kept his loyalty to Johnston even as the War Department did not. As commander of the U.S. Army’s California district, Johnston had widespread and absolute authority in a place very far from the eyes of Washington. It had been a difficult command, covering territory that blanketed thousands of square miles, from his headquarters at Benicia, near San Francisco, all the way to the newly established border with Mexico, below the San Diego Mission. Much of the population of California was Mexican, most of whom knew little of politics, and why, in 1848, their flag had suddenly changed to the Stars and Stripes. The American victory in the Mexican War put California and most of the Southwest into American hands, and with the sudden discovery of gold a year later, California took on enormous significance. A strong military presence was essential, and Johnston had been chosen without controversy as the man for the job. But the election of Abraham Lincoln changed the complacency of many of the residents, including the newly arriving Easterners.

The angry talk of secession from the Southern states encouraged something of a rebellion among many of the locals around San Francisco and the smaller town of Los Angeles. Noisy voices and angry calls from newspapers and other ambitious leaders began to suggest that a war that would divide the Union might create an opportunity for California, that the state should look first to its own interests. If California seceded, there would be very little that Washington could do to control such a problem so very far removed from the spreading violence east of the Mississippi. Johnston was suddenly confronted with a stirring cauldron of unrest, stoked by the fires from ambitious political forces who longed for California to become an independent nation. Johnston made every effort to strengthen the army’s presence, quieting some of the voices, but when Johnston’s adopted home state of Texas voted to secede, Johnston was faced with a far more personal problem, one of conscience. Like so many of the army’s Southern officers, he knew he could not continue to serve a Federal army that might force him to wage war against his own home. His resignation sent deep shock waves through California, but unbeknownst to Johnston, those shock waves struck harder in Washington. His statement of loyalty to Texas, and thus, the Confederacy, produced an aggressive response from the War Department, who sent General Edwin “Bull” Sumner to relieve Johnston as quickly as Sumner could make the journey westward.