A Blaze of Glory (14 page)

“Sorry. I know you’re hurt.”

Smith shook his head.

“No sorrier than I am, Sam. I’ll be back on my horse as quick as I can.”

Sherman could see affection for Smith on Grant’s face, a slow, hopeful nod. Like Sherman, Grant had studied in Smith’s classrooms at West Point, and Sherman knew that Smith had performed as well as any commander on the field at Donelson. At the very least, the ailment that had driven Smith to his bed was an inconvenience to the command structure of the army, and Sherman knew that Grant already had all the
inconvenience
he needed. He had every right to feel frustrated. Grant looked at the map again, and Sherman saw him staring away, seemed lost in thought for a long moment. Sherman wanted to speak, waited, allowed Grant his thoughts. Finally, Grant said, “I’ve wired General Halleck of my arrival. I’ve wired him of our troop disposition. I’ve wired him of my intention to attack the enemy at the earliest opportunity.” He paused. “He wired me … wait for Buell. No attack … until we’re
ready
.”

Smith tried to sit up, struggled, Sherman moving that way, the older man scowling at him.

“Cump, I told you to stay the hell away from me. I can manage.” He propped himself on his elbows, said, “I should advise you, Sam, that my orders from General Halleck were very explicit. I told him about Cump’s excursion upriver, our efforts to wreck the rail bridge at Eastport. He approved that plan with one condition. He told us that we can make every effort to destroy any part of the railroad …
as long as we don’t disturb the enemy
.” Smith’s strength gave out, and he lay back on the white linens that draped over the narrow bed. “We succeeded at half the mission. No enemy was disturbed.”

Sherman interrupted.

“Well, we did bump one cavalry unit out of their beds.… ”

“Keep that to yourself, General. Halleck said … well, I just told you what Halleck said.”

Grant let out a long breath.

“My orders are no different from yours. At last report, the bulk of Buell’s troops are camped around Columbia, about eighty miles from here. He’s on his way, but General Halleck isn’t screaming too loudly at him to get here any faster than he’s moving now.” Grant sniffed, glanced at Sherman, as though cautious. “Took Buell two damn weeks to cross the Duck River. Not sure how long it will take him to reach us here. But General Halleck’s orders are clear. We’re not going anywhere until we’re united.”

Sherman caught the mention of rank, suddenly realized that every time Grant spoke of Halleck, he was formal about it. Well, he thought, he’s being careful. Guess he’s learned that lesson, too. Grant looked at him again, and Sherman suddenly felt he was being appraised. Grant took the cigar from his mouth, seemed to study it for a second, then looked at Sherman.

“Nothing I say leaves this room, you understand that?”

Sherman knew why the question was asked, stiffened, but he couldn’t fault Grant for his caution.

“I have learned that talking out of turn is unwise. Nothing said here will be repeated.”

Grant smiled, pulled hard on the cigar, smoke rising up in a hot cloud around him. Sherman was surprised by the reaction, and Grant said, “No matter what everyone else says, you’re not insane. Just … stupid. I mean no insult by that, I assure you.”

Even Smith laughed now, and Sherman absorbed Grant’s words, still saw the smile. Sherman wasn’t sure how to respond, wasn’t accustomed to being the butt of a joke that hadn’t turned out to be deadly serious. He tried to play along, forced a smile.

“I’m guilty of stupidity, but not every day. I promise you that.”

Grant turned again to the map, the good humor fading. He used the cigar as a pointer, said, “Four divisions in place at Pittsburg. Good ground. Plenty of room to maneuver.”

Sherman nodded, bent closer to the map.

“All good ground. Cut up with gullies and creeks, so there’s plenty of good water. Open fields, plenty of room for drill. We’re drilling every day now. So many new troops, worries me a little. But we’ll get them in shape.”

Grant stuck the cigar back in his mouth, Sherman doing the same, and Grant said, “You digging in?”

Sherman looked toward Smith, whose eyes were closed. Smith offered a weak flow of words.

“No. That was my order, and it came from Halleck. This is an offensive operation, and we’re to regard it that way. I ordered no spades be issued the troops.” He opened his eyes, fought for strength. “Begging your pardon, Sam, but Cump isn’t the only division commander who’s got a passel of new troops. Too many boys are nervous how they’ll do, what the enemy is like, all of that. We hand them spades and pickaxes and tell them to protect themselves with dirt … well, morale will collapse. Not sure how much fear there is in this army, but if we show them
we’re
scared what the rebels might do to us … it won’t help. Like Halleck said, this is an offensive mission. Am I correct?”

Grant nodded, more smoke from the cigar.

“That is my understanding, once General Halleck decides we’re …
prepared
.”

Sherman nodded, felt relieved by Grant’s attitude.

“Exactly. I need my new men to learn more about fighting than digging a ditch. Right now, I’ve got every regiment on drill, every one of them, even the veterans. I just wish I had more veterans.”

Grant turned from the map, stuffed the stub of his cigar into the glass ashtray, next to Sherman, who did the same with his second one. Grant noticed that, said, “Heard about you and cigars. Never seen a man suck one to a nub so fast. You ought to try enjoying the thing once in a while.”

Sherman was surprised, had never paid attention to how fast the cigars disappeared. Grant said, “Never mind. That’s your business. As long as you can keep a good supply of the things, doesn’t much matter how many you smoke.”

Behind him, Smith spoke up, still the weak voice.

“Does everything like that. Most nervous man I’ve ever seen. Heaven forbid he runs out of cigars. He’ll tear every hair out of his head, pull every button off his coat. Just make sure when the fight starts, he doesn’t spur his horse so hard he ends up a half mile in front of his men.”

Grant smiled, but it faded quickly, and Sherman knew the talk that had spread through the army, the jokes losing their humor, especially to him. It was inevitable that the stain against him from the newspaper stories would be slow to fade away, and if his reputation was to be rescued, no one could do that but him. He fought with his own demons every day, and even now kept a scouting patrol in the woods out beyond the camp of his division, one more precaution against any surprise by the enemy. But the teasing, the ridicule was infuriating to him, far more than it embarrassed him. Even now he wanted to protest, but he knew that Smith respected him, and Sherman had sensed nothing from Grant that felt any different. Grant had demons of his own, mainly the one who sat in a plush office in St. Louis. Sherman could see the strain on Grant’s face, despite the glimpses of good humor, and Sherman couldn’t help but like the man. There was something to be admired in a man who made every effort to stand tall while suffering under the thumb of a martinet like Halleck, a man who believed in no one’s abilities but his own, whose jealousies toward anyone else’s success had done nothing but create discord and confusion throughout his command.

Sherman had discovered to his dismay that he had one thing in common with Halleck. They both suffered from an unreasonable fear of the enemy. Halleck’s orders seemed to show clearly that he suffered that agony even now, but Sherman had pushed himself to fight that, had been helped considerably by the surprising thoroughness of the rebel retreat. Johnston’s withdrawal out of Kentucky and most of Tennessee had offered a kind of comfort to Sherman that far outweighed the morale boost for the rest of the Union command. Since Grant’s victory at Donelson, that enemy had seemed to grow considerably more benign, and now, their strengthening defenses at Corinth was a clear sign that the rebels must surely believe what Sherman believed himself, that no earthworks could hold back the kind of strength the Federal armies were assembling. One more great fight could end the war. There was nothing about that to drag Sherman back into the dark misery of his own panic. For the first time since the war began, Sherman began to feel comfortable with the spreading disdain the others felt toward these rebels, and he felt the same impatience he knew Grant carried, and Smith, and maybe Don Carlos Buell. If Halleck would just give the order, the operation would be spectacular, a victory that would secure Halleck’s reputation, and the rest of them as well. Why Halleck seemed so uncertain of that was a puzzle that Sherman had to ignore. He would, ultimately, do what he was told.

IMPATIENCE

BAUER

FOUR MILES SOUTHWEST OF PITTSBURG LANDING MARCH 28, 1862

W
ith so many fresh troops embarking from the transports at Pittsburg Landing, Grant had to confront the challenge of just how to organize such a flood of new volunteers. Every division in his command had more than their fair share of these untried soldiers, a situation that any senior commander had to take seriously. None of the division commanders knew how these men would react the first time they confronted the enemy. With so many new volunteers arriving at the encampments, Grant made the decision to take some of that pressure away from the five existing divisions of his army. Those divisions, under Sherman, Lew Wallace, Stephen Hurlbut, John McClernand, and the injured Smith, whose troops were now under William Wallace, were to be supplemented by the addition of a new division altogether. On March 26, Grant received approval from Halleck to create a sixth division under his command, led by Benjamin Prentiss. Prentiss was not a West Pointer but had caught the eye of the army’s high command during the Mexican War, serving primarily under Zachary Taylor. Months before, as the Confederates solidified their lines across Tennessee and Kentucky, Grant had placed Prentiss in command of the fortifications at Cairo, Illinois, at the crucial junction of the Mississippi and the Ohio rivers. Though the rebels had not made any serious move against Cairo, it was a vulnerable target, and Grant had never doubted that Prentiss was the man for the job.

Prentiss was a Virginian by birth, something no one in the high command seemed overly concerned about, even if some newspapers grumbled. But those papers had also grumbled about General George Thomas and the original general in chief, Winfield Scott, Virginians as well. None of those men had seemed as conflicted as many of the Confederates when it came to the passionate loyalty to their home states. Like Thomas, Scott, and several other Southern-born men of rank, Prentiss had never agonized over his oath as an officer in the Federal army. Prentiss’s conflict had been eased considerably, since well before the war, he had relocated his own residence to Illinois. With competent commanders a critical need for the Federal army that had lost so many good men to the South, Grant had considered Prentiss to be one of the best men available to him.

The biggest concern Prentiss would have was the same concern shared by every one of Grant’s division commanders. With so many new troops in the field, it was essential to impart as much discipline and training into these new men as they could. It was the one blessing of Halleck’s frustrating delay in ordering the final advance against Corinth. At least with the camps now well established west of Pittsburg Landing, the men would have plenty of time to learn how to behave like an army. Whether they would behave as well under fire was something Grant would have to find out later.

T
hey stood shoulder to shoulder in long rows, more rows close behind them. Out front, Bauer could see Colonel Allen, sitting upright on his horse, staring out with the stoic look of a man trying to show confidence in those men in the formation who were his own. Beside Allen, three other colonels, regimental commanders, sat silently on their own horses, each man seeming to sit more straight than the man beside him. After several minutes, Bauer saw movement through the trees, and another officer appeared, riding in a slow procession, trailed by a staff of a half-dozen men. Along the line, a few men were speaking, low voices mostly, the gathering of brass having the intended effect, keeping most of the troops orderly and, hopefully, attentive. The newly arrived staff officers moved to one side, clustered together with the staffs of the other regimental commanders, and now the new man rode forward, gave brief greetings to the four colonels, who kept their horses in rigid formation. Bauer had heard so many speeches that one more didn’t inspire much more than vague curiosity. But this was the first time since they had left the Tennessee River that any senior officer had taken the time to talk to them at all.

Bauer had noticed another difference from the usual assemblies. There were no civilians present, something others around him were noticing as well. Newspaper reporters seemed always to find their way to the camps, the senior officers paying them more gracious attention than they seemed to pay the men in the ranks. But no reporters were there. The newly arrived officer stepped his horse carefully toward the lines of troops, stopped a few feet from the front rank. Bauer could see his face, a good deal younger than Colonel Allen, who Bauer knew to be in his fifties. This man had a thick, compact beard on his chin, curled hair that flowed from his hat just down over his ears, and Bauer could see now that even on horseback, the man was huge, thick-waisted, even his horse larger. The youthfulness in his face didn’t show any sign that he outranked any of the others, but clearly the man carried some authority that held the regimental commanders in their place. Behind the man, a single staff officer rode up close, shouted out, “Attention, Brigade!”

Beside Bauer, Willis said in a whisper, “When did we join a brigade?”

The men were mostly silent, and the staff officer spun his horse in a neat twirl, withdrew to merge in with the other aides. Bauer focused on the man close to him, could see the officer’s shoulder straps, a silver eagle, felt disappointed.

“Not even a general. Thought they were gonna bring us Grant.”

Willis shrugged, and they both waited, as the officer seemed to take a deep breath, preparing himself. Willis said, “Here comes the speech.”

“Hush up.”

“Gentlemen, I am Colonel Everett Peabody, until recently the commander of the 25th Missouri Regiment of Volunteers, those men down on the right flank of this formation.” Peabody paused, waited for the inevitable cheer that rose up from that end of the line. The cheers faded quickly, and Peabody continued. “I am most honored to have been placed in command of the First Brigade of the newly organized Sixth Division of General Grant’s Army of the Tennessee. That division, and all of you, are now under the command of Brigadier General Benjamin Prentiss. General Prentiss offers you his respects, and is now meeting with General Grant and the other division commanders, finalizing the organization of this army. The First Brigade standing before me now is composed of my own 25th Missouri, the 21st Missouri, the 12th Michigan, and the 16th Wisconsin. Many of you men have never served alongside … well … anyone. Certainly not men outside your own state. That will change. I have no doubt, and I share the confidence of General Prentiss, that you will make your mark on the reputation of this army, and of your country. Those of you who have stood tall against the enemy understand that the rebel is a man without dignity, without honor, a man who is fighting to destroy this grand nation, to soil our flag under the boot heel of an ungodly rebellion. With the blessing of Almighty God, we shall crush this rebellion, and reunite this nation under our beloved flag. If any man here is not confident of that, if any man here does not feel he is superior to the enemy he will face … there is no place for you in my command. For now, as we await our marching orders, your duty is here, in these fields. Your regimental commanders and their subordinates will be instructing you on the proper art of war. Learn those lessons well. We stand today on ground that the enemy claims solely as his own. We are said to be invaders of his sacred soil. He is only partially correct. This is sacred soil. It is American soil. And no man shall stand in our way as we raise the Stars and Stripes on every flagstaff in this land. Gentlemen, return to your camps. You are dismissed.”

P
atterson sat across the fire from Bauer, stabbed the low flames with the point of his bayonet, said, “Not much of a speech.”

Bauer stuck a small log into the heat of the fire, watched as Patterson poked at the food on a tin plate, stuffed it into his mouth. Willis emerged out of the darkness, carried more firewood, others doing the same, the fires stretching across the field in a long row. Willis dropped the wood into a diminishing pile a few feet away from the fire, and Bauer looked at Patterson, said, “That speech was just fine. Short. Told us what we needed to know, what we already knew. That’s what those speeches are for. Keeps us from forgetting why we’re here.”

Willis sat down heavily next to Bauer, held up his hands toward the fire.

“You’re both pea brains. You’re wearing a blue uniform. You have a musket and a bayonet. Somebody have to explain to you why you’re here? Best part of the whole thing was watching the colonel sit out there trying to pretend he was proud of us.”

Patterson sniffed, tested the hot point of the bayonet with the tip of his finger.

“They should have made me an officer. Told ’em I know how to do everything they needed. I can fix things, I can ride a horse, mule, anything else they’d need me to do. I know how to write, and I bet I can make a pretty good speech, too. Used to stand up in Sunday school and the whole lot would stare at me like they were in the presence of the angels.”

Willis and Bauer stared at the man in silence, and after a long moment, Willis said, “Only angel that’ll have anything to do with you is the one who’s with your wife right now.” He softened his voice, thick with sarcasm. “Watching over her, keeping her safe, all those long nights …” He spoke louder now, anger spilling into his words. “… when her big-mouth husband is off pretending to be a soldier.”

Patterson never seemed to be affected by the harshness of Willis’s jabs, ignored this one as well, a surprise to Bauer. Bauer could feel Willis’s heat, knew there had been a letter the week before that Willis had taken badly, something from home he wouldn’t share, not even with Bauer. As the days in camp grew more boring, Willis’s anger seemed to leak out, squeezed from inside, often aimed at Patterson, or anyone else who deserved a hard knock. He had even spouted off to the sergeant, a thoroughly bad idea, the result a heavy blow from Williams’s right hand that had given Willis a truly impressive black eye. But Willis didn’t seem chastened. Bauer had rarely received a jab directed toward him, and when they had come, he tried to see the humor in it, realized that Willis was usually right about someone’s jackass behavior, even if he spoke up about it too often. But the letter had changed him, made him more fiery, and more indiscreet, and Bauer continued to wait for the right time to talk about it, hoped that sooner or later Willis would confide in the best friend he had.

Bauer had always been the peacemaker, felt the need for that now.

“Look, they made officers out of people that got here first. Right? The bigwigs in every town who brought us all together. Besides, you can’t have a whole army of officers. Somebody’s gotta be out here to do the trigger pulling.” He looked at Willis. “Sammie, I bet they make you a lieutenant before this is over. Then you can bless somebody out, and it’ll be official. Like to see the sarge’s face if they put a gold bar on your coat.”

He laughed, Patterson ignoring him, Willis nodding, easing away from whatever bad place he had gone. Bauer continued.

“Besides, if somebody decides Patterson needs to ride an army mule … he’ll smell worse than he does now.”

Patterson continued to ignore him, oblivious, said, “I bet I could sit down with General Grant …”

Willis leaned back, his head settling in the grass.

“Oh, for God’s sake. How did this mush brain get into the army?”

Willis rubbed his stomach, and Bauer said, “You doing better? You haven’t been talking about it.”

“My belly’s calmed down. Ain’t had to scramble my pants down all day.”

Bauer had noticed that Willis seemed to feel better, the problems with the camp gripes easing off. There had been too many others who had succumbed to the sickness, and some of those had simply vanished, no word coming whether they were being tended to on the boats, or maybe just … gone. Bauer knew he had been lucky so far, tried to avoid drinking any water he couldn’t see through.

“Glad to hear it, Sammie. You were giving me some worry.”

Willis reached over, a quick slap on Bauer’s shoulder.