A Blaze of Glory (42 page)

Beauregard’s staff officer seemed to wait patiently for his moment, politely allowing the governor to deliver his message. He spoke up now, soft and fluid, the familiar smoothness of a politician.

“Governor Harris, with all respects to you, I bring orders from General Beauregard that this day’s fighting has already been concluded, by his order.”

Ruggles still looked at Harris, said, “You must return to General Bragg. He must be informed of this. Surely the general expects me to obey his orders, but I cannot disobey General Beauregard.”

Harris was enormously confused, felt prickly anger toward the colonel, who reminded him too much of those men in Nashville whose efforts suited only themselves. Harris said, “You bring this order from General Beauregard? I assure you, sir, this day is hardly
concluded
. There is considerable fighting taking place to the north, as you can hear. If I may suggest, perhaps you should return to headquarters and inform General Beauregard how close this affair has become. General Bragg is in position to drive straight into Pittsburg Landing!” Harris’s words seemed to have no effect on the colonel’s smug self-assurance, and Harris had an uneasy thought now, was suddenly suspicious.

“May I ask, colonel, who you are?”

The man seemed surprised at the question.

“Certainly, Governor. I am Colonel Augustin, one of General Beauregard’s senior adjutants. We have met before. But that is hardly the important issue here. The general has issued an order that is being delivered to every commander in every part of the field, that their forces are to withdraw out of range of the guns of the enemy, and seek whatever shelter they may find, presumably in the very camps the enemy has abandoned. The enemy has generously graced us with substantial amounts of ammunition and rations, and our men can find adequate shelter in the enemy’s own tents! General Beauregard is confident that his officers can use this evening to sort through their commands.”

“But …
why
?”

It was a question only a civilian could ask, and the colonel looked at Ruggles now, smiled.

“The governor is not accustomed to following orders. I suppose that is to be expected. However, General Ruggles, you are. As is General Bragg.” He looked again at Harris. “Governor, I must admit to some surprise at your reaction. I am aware that you have been near the front lines most of this day. Surely you have observed how completely we have bested the enemy. This is a day of triumph. But this army has done all it can for this day. General Beauregard is deeply concerned by the number of stragglers he has seen near his headquarters, and he is very well aware, as are you, sir, that this army is in something of a tangle. We must reorganize as quickly as possible on the morrow, and then we shall complete the job. If I may dare to quote General Beauregard, upon issuing his orders to those of us in the saddle, the general stated with great pleasure that we have General Grant right where we want him. I should think you would be greatly pleased, Governor. Your friendship with General Johnston is well known. Is this not the most positive result we could have hoped for?”

Harris would not think of Johnston, that effort made simpler by the bursting disgust he felt for this colonel. He thought of Bragg, could still hear the firing close to Pittsburg Landing.

“I must report this … to General Bragg. This is—”

“This is General Beauregard’s order, Governor. If you wish to convey that order to General Bragg yourself, that would be appreciated. However, I shall accompany you. I am under the strictest of orders to communicate the general’s disengagement order to every senior commander I can locate, and to be sure they pass that order along to their subordinates.”

Harris saw a glare from Ruggles, so much like Bragg. Ruggles pointed skyward now, said, “Colonel, we have a full hour of daylight still to come. Does the general not wish us to complete this task … today?”

Augustin smiled, shook his head.

“I do not question the general’s orders. Nor should you. Now, excuse me, gentlemen. I must continue my mission. Governor, shall we ride? We must make every effort to communicate this order to those men who are engaged up that way. That firing must cease.”

Ruggles looked at Harris, seemed struck speechless. After a long moment, he said, “Governor, you must return to General Bragg. He must certainly be questioning why I am not moving up in support. I do not envy you the task.”

The colonel raised his hat, a salute, as though he were in a parade.

“General! Governor! You seem to feel that this is some sort of tragedy! I assure you, as will General Beauregard … this is a glorious day! We have a victory here, and if you are concerned about proper recognition, I am quite certain General Beauregard is well aware of your accomplishments here! Tomorrow will be General Grant’s final day in the field. The general is certain of that! A celebration is in order!” Augustin lowered his voice, as though passing along a privileged secret. “If I may, gentlemen … as I left our headquarters, I heard General Beauregard making arrangements to communicate this magnificent news by wire to President Davis. Soon this entire nation will know of our triumph!”

GRANT

PITTSBURG LANDING APRIL 6, 1862, 6:00 P.M.

H
e watched as they came ashore, men moving with purpose, but not nearly fast enough to suit Grant. He had chafed at that kind of slowness all afternoon, but Buell’s men had not been the worst offenders. By late morning, Grant’s order had gone back to Crump’s Landing for Lew Wallace to put his division into rapid motion, to march along the road closest the river, adding his seven thousand men to a fight that had clearly gone the way of the enemy. Grant could only expect that Wallace would do exactly that. He could vividly recall the man’s assurances from their meeting early that morning that Wallace’s Division was prepared to move at the first order they received. The distance between the two landings was less than ten miles, and given the urgency of Grant’s order, he had fully expected Wallace to make that march in no more than two hours. Yet by early afternoon there was no sign that Wallace was anywhere near Pittsburg at all.

For much of the late morning and early afternoon, Grant had ridden close to some of the most furious fighting, engaging in short meetings with Sherman, Prentiss, Hurlbut, and any other commander whose men were facing what could only be interpreted as bloody repulses in nearly every quarter of the field. Thus Wallace’s failure to appear had been that much more infuriating, especially since Grant had expected Wallace to appear on the right flank close to Pittsburg, exactly where Sherman’s men were being driven back and exactly where a fresh division of blue troops was most required. By mid-afternoon, Grant’s fury with Wallace’s absence had become absolute. Grant could only dispatch two more of his senior staff to ride northward, to find out just how long it would take those critical troops to reach the field. By late afternoon, with most of Grant’s army falling back on itself around Pittsburg Landing, Wallace had still not appeared. By then, Grant had too many problems close at hand, was faced with too many retreating men to organize, and the mammoth task of organizing some kind of defensive position that would prevent the rebels from driving straight into his last remaining strong point at the landing itself. All he could hope for was that Wallace might arrive in time to be of some assistance.

P
ittsburg Landing was as congested as it had ever been, but Grant was at least able to organize a line of artillery to face the draws and rough country where the enemy’s advance seemed most certain. The task had fallen to Colonel Joseph Webster, Grant’s chief of artillery, and Webster had performed with the kind of speed and efficiency Grant had hoped to find in all of his subordinates. On the high plain that made up the landing itself, Webster had gathered every available artillery piece, and had positioned those guns in a solid line, their crews ordered to prepare for the enemy’s assault certain to come from the south, the boggy ground closest to the river. Already the collapse of the left flank had brought most of the infantry from the left back toward the landing, and Grant had ordered them put into line, that any man who was still equipped to fight be put into place in support of the artillery, spread out on the many wooded ridgelines that snaked along the swamps fed by Dill Branch.

To the west, Sherman and McClernand had continued to strengthen their positions, so much so that the enemy had mostly halted their attacks. It was obvious to anyone at Pittsburg that the greatest efforts by the rebels were now coming from the south. Grant knew of Prentiss’s collapse, and the talk had reached him of Prentiss’s capture, and the loss of what might be as many as three thousand men. Grant had no real facts about Prentiss’s whereabouts, or even if the man was alive. But Prentiss’s failure had provided the Federal forces with a magnificent gift, the gift of time. Though the flanks protecting Prentiss on both sides had given way, Prentiss’s Division had held back the rebel advances for several precious hours, time that Grant’s commanders had used to shore up and improve their lines in a tight arc around the landing. Grant had not yet considered who Prentiss’s replacement might be. Until the ragged remains of his army could be sorted out, Grant had no way of knowing just how much of Prentiss’s Sixth Division still existed.

The tide of fugitives had continued to flood back toward the river, thousands of men carrying the disease of panic and hopelessness. Every transport boat, every supply boat had been met with the same challenge, each one settling against the wharf, only to confront a violent attempt by hordes of men to force their way aboard the vessel, as though that boat would carry them to some other place, some place where there was no enemy to pursue them. Grant had tried to rally pockets of those men himself, with no more success than any other officer. As the enormous crowds of men packed along the bluffs of the river, their desperation forced them farther, some taking hold of timbers or anything else that would float, a feeble and usually hopeless attempt to cross the river on their own. Grant had heard of that as well, dozens of men swept away by the current, presumed drowned, their final escape.

As the daylight began to fade, Grant had seen the vanguard of Don Carlos Buell’s men arriving at the landing. The march by Nelson’s Division had finally brought them opposite Pittsburg, and the smaller transports had begun to ferry those men across. The progress of the crossing was agonizingly slow, made more hazardous by the mobs that awaited the boats. Nelson’s men had employed the bayonet, and when Nelson’s men could finally push their way ashore, they were met with the same cries the sailors had heard all day, that any man who joined this fight was doomed, that slaughter would be their reward. To Nelson’s credit, most of his fresh troops pushed past that, their officers keeping them focused on the job at hand. The imminent danger was close at hand, and Grant made certain that the fresh troops were put into place to hold the line alongside Webster’s artillery.

H
e lit another cigar, watched as Nelson’s men thickened their lines overlooking the deep gash south of the landing that spread out into the swampy ground split by Dill Branch. The fight there had already begun, rebel artillery first: probing, aimless shots that did very little harm. The infantry had come then, and Grant had seen for himself that the ground the rebels had to cross would be a disastrous advance in the face of the strength he had assembled there. But still they came, a surge of troops that rolled toward the massive power of Webster’s guns with that same yell that the enemy seemed to bring with them into every fight. But this rebel yell was muffled, not only by the lay of the land, with most of those men far down in the broad expanse of swampy bottom, but drowned out as well by Grant’s own guns, and the thunderous firing from the gunboats on the river.

He rode nervously, ignored the pain in his leg. He tried to hear anything from the west, if the rebels were driving into Sherman the way they were pressing the defenses close to the river, but Sherman’s lines were mostly quiet, and Grant watched the sun, settling far into the trees, knew that if the rebels did not come very soon, they would likely have to halt and await the new dawn. That was a luxury he could not yet enjoy, the sun seemingly frozen in place, no darkness coming for an hour at least. He chewed the cigar, moved the horse again toward Webster’s guns, then held back, knew that no matter his nervousness, he had to let Webster be, no orders necessary, the artillery commander understanding exactly what he had to do. From a distance, Grant watched the colonel revealing his own nervousness, pacing his horse back and forth along his gathered assembly of guns, every variety, every size. Some of those gunners had already begun seeking the targets that stubbornly shoved toward them from the hidden ridgelines in the south.

Grant watched the thick smoke flowing out toward the river, saw a line of troops fire a volley, someone making out targets on their own, the first surge of rebel infantry close enough to be seen. Grant wanted to ride forward, to see that himself, couldn’t avoid a strange admiration for those men making the effort to do what so many of his own troops had feared, the effort that had succeeded for most of the day, that had driven a disgusting number of his men away from the field in utter panic. He didn’t know yet the casualty counts, assumed he would not know for many days, but already the officers who had come back to him reported losses to both sides that were staggering. But, so far, the collapse of his lines had given Grant a great advantage. With the enemy’s successes, Grant’s lines were now compacted, tightly woven into a much more powerful defense, with interior lines of communication and supply, allowing orders and materiel to flow to any point that had the most urgent need. He could not help thinking of a book he had read, knew that the author was out there, William Hardee. Hardee would know better than anyone on the field that no matter the earlier defeats, Grant’s position had become much stronger, the ground now favoring the defender. But still … Grant could not escape the tension. Other than Prentiss, not one of Grant’s division commanders had shown they could hold back the enemy’s relentless advances, and for the rebels to push across the low ground of Dill Branch would require a relentless attack indeed.

Grant moved closer to the big guns, his ears ringing from the firing. He tried to see his infantry, saw a thick line of fresh uniforms, Nelson’s men, firing down toward the ground out below them. Above Grant the whistle of musket balls passed high, the enemy close enough to return fire, and Grant felt the certainty of what they faced, that whoever was out there, whoever commanded those men had to know that this was their last, best opportunity to shatter the defenses that protected Pittsburg Landing. They could do it, he thought, and he glanced around, felt enormously guilty for believing that. Already the new recruits that made up so much of his army had succumbed to that rabble, led by the officers who had betrayed their flag, who dared to believe they could destroy this nation by first destroying its army. He tossed the spent cigar to one side, focused on the smoke and the sounds of the fight, felt the gut-twisting anxiety of the moment. He stared hard at the backs of his own troops, and Nelson’s, half expecting that horrible sight, any one of them suddenly leaping to his feet and running away, joining the uncontrollable mob at the river’s edge. It was the most horrifying sight of a horrifying day, those men who had already brought shame to themselves, to their general, to their country. They were still there, thousands of them, no officer able to encourage more than a handful to rejoin the fight. He had kept away the thoughts of what to do with them, if anything could be done at all. Grant focused now on the men out on the ridgelines, hidden by the smoke of their own muskets, the men still fighting, who kept their courage, who had absorbed a vicious, bloody day and still kept their ground. As the sunlight faded, he felt a wave of tearful emotion, clenched his fists, spoke aloud, his words swept away by the growing roar of the fight.

“Hold on, men. For God’s sake. You have to hold. Today, this is all we have left. It’s my last line.”

He stayed in place, nowhere else to go, a glance at the darkening sky. And then, the firing seemed to slow, the smoke clearing, the big guns gradually quieting. The infantry quieted as well, some scattered musket fire, single pops far out in the woods, a few more out to the right. Men began to call out now, some toward the enemy, others just cheering, as though something glorious was happening. He eased the horse forward, close to Webster, who noticed him now, shouted out toward his gunners.