A Blaze of Glory (26 page)

SHERMAN

NEAR SHILOH CHURCH
APRIL 6, 1862, 7:00 A.M.

T
he sounds that brought him out of his tent had been curious at first, a scattering of musket fire that annoyed him as much now as it had for the past several days. But with the hint of daylight came far more, many skirmishes in many places, the fights growing more intense.

With the sun almost into the trees to the east, he lit the cigar, his first of the day, moved slowly toward the horse. His orderly, Holliday, was waiting with the reins.

“Private, this should not be. It just should not be. We have pickets in force across the entire front. There would be word from someone out there if there was trouble, if all that commotion was something … different. There should be, at any rate. I am not at all pleased with the abilities of my senior officers.”

He turned, saw a pair of staff officers emerging from his tent. He had left them behind to complete a report for General Grant, one more note to reassure the army’s headquarters that in these camps farthest from the river, there had been signs of a
saucy
enemy, but that Sherman had no concerns the army was under any kind of serious threat.

He looked toward Captain Hammond, saw the paper in his hand, said, “Have you completed the message?”

“Yes, sir. Should I order a courier to deliver this—”

The young man stopped, seemed to notice the growing volume of sounds that spilled toward them, said, “Sir … forgive me, but that does not sound like a skirmish. There … that’s artillery, sir.”

Sherman still looked at the paper in Captain Hammond’s hands, thought of Grant. He is injured, and I don’t know how badly. That is not helpful, not right now. By damned, I wish he could ride out here, hear this for himself. Sherman was truly annoyed now, clamped the cigar hard in his teeth.

“Dammit, I’m going out there. Mount up, both of you. Color bearer, too. These men are so damn agitated, I don’t want anyone mistaking me for the enemy. Bring at least three couriers with us.” He paused, turned toward the loudest sounds he could hear. “That artillery is coming from Hildebrand’s Brigade. I want to know whose cannons are raising so much hell, and why.”

Hammond and Major Sanger moved to their horses, taking the reins from another of the aides. Both were up now, Sanger motioning for the color bearer to move close, the man already unfurling the Stars and Stripes. Hammond focused on the woods, and Sherman could see nervousness in the young man’s face. After a moment, Hammond said, “General, the firing is coming from down that way as well … toward General Prentiss.”

Sherman looked to the left of the church building, could see nothing but a glimpse of the next open field, the rows of white tents. Now he heard drums, steady, the
long roll
, a commander’s signal to bring his regiment into a battle-ready formation.

“Who the hell is doing that?”

The question went unanswered, another chorus of drums rising up through the woods, and now more artillery, hard thumps not more than a quarter mile from the church.

Sherman took the reins from Holliday, said, “Mount up, Private. Let’s go find out who’s doing all this confounded firing. If those damn rebels are driving in our pickets, I want to make sure we respond with enough force to drive them all the way to Corinth. I don’t trust Hildebrand or McDowell to know what order to give.”

He turned again to the officers, saw the expectant face of Lieutenant Taylor, one of his youngest aides. Taylor was a competent staff officer but had made a nuisance of himself by pressing Sherman for permission to ride forward too often, especially when word came from the brigade commanders of any kind of skirmish. But Sherman appreciated the young man’s enthusiasm, knew that Taylor only wanted to see something of the rebels that an aide-de-camp might never observe, a kind of adventure that the young man seemed afraid he would miss completely.

“Well, Lieutenant, I suppose you intend to accompany us?”

“With your permission, sir.”

“Fine, perhaps this morning you will finally get a good look at those rebels who are making you so impatient. If you were a little less useful around here, I’d send you out there for good, let you serve this army as a field officer.”

Taylor spurred the horse up alongside Major Sanger, beamed a smile.

“Thank you, sir.”

There was a new burst of firing to the northwest, out toward Sherman’s right flank, the right flank of the entire army, which had been anchored along the marshy swamp that ran along Owl Creek.

“Now what?”

Again there were no answers, and Sherman climbed up on the horse, spit out the spent cigar. He glanced toward the color bearer, ever present, the couriers scrambling into line, but still his attention was drawn to the musket fire that rolled toward him all across the front lines, interrupted only by the drums, the long roll now coming from camps farther to the left, toward Prentiss’s Division. Well, hell, he thought. Do any of those people intend to tell me what’s happening?

“Let’s ride, gentlemen. We’ll head straight for the Third Brigade. I want Colonel Hildebrand to tell me firsthand why we’re using up so much ammunition.”

T
he closer Sherman rode to Hildebrand’s camps, the louder the firing in what seemed to be clusters, as though the skirmishes were taking place in every isolated hole where the pickets had kept their positions. But along the roadway, Sherman was dismayed to see ambulances moving back toward him, a clatter of wheels and rattling boards, driven by men who had no interest in stopping. But they could not help seeing the flag, and every teamster knew him, knew that if Sherman ordered a halt, he had best halt. Sherman watched three move past, dust rising around him, and he was growing more angry, still had received no direct word from any of his commanders. Down the narrow road, another ambulance clattered forward, and he lurched the horse directly into the path, held up his hand, his other on the pistol in his belt. The teamster understood perfectly, yanked hard on the reins, the horses jolted to a halt. Sherman moved to the rear, looked inside, saw three men, lying flat, close beside one another, one of them awake, staring back at him, blood on the man’s legs. There was a sharp moan from one of the others, and Sherman saw an arm shattered, wrapped in dirty cloth, a ripped, blood-soaked shirt. He looked at the third man, saw foam spreading on the man’s chest, and he caught the sweet damp smell he had tried to forget. He pulled the horse away, said to the driver, “Who are these men? Who ordered you to the rear?”

The man stared at him, silent, intimidated, and Sanger was beside Sherman, said, “You will answer the general!”

Sherman didn’t need the assistance, leaned closer to the driver, a hard stare into the man’s wide eyes.

“I said—”

“Captain Yancey, sir. These men are hurt bad. He said to haul them to the river.”

“Who are they?”

“Soldiers, sir. Ohio soldiers.”

Sherman felt the helplessness of a man shouting at a rock.

“Go! Don’t stop until you find a hospital. Captain Yancey is right. They’re hurt bad.”

The man seemed happy to leave, slapped the reins on the horse, the ambulance rattling away. Sherman fought through the dust, said to Sanger, “I’m not familiar with this Yancey.”

“Fifty-third Ohio, sir. Company commander. Not sure which one.”

“Doesn’t matter. That’s Appler’s regiment, and if we can’t find Hildebrand, we’ll find Appler.”

They rode hard, a cloud of dust of their own, the roar of musketry steady to the front, more erupting out to the left. The road turned into a wide field, and he knew the place, solid rows of tents, the camps of Hildebrand’s Brigade. They didn’t stop, Sherman driving past the tents, only a few men there, some hurrying to get dressed, to join what was blossoming into a hard skirmish not more than a few hundred yards away. Sherman ignored them, pushed closer to the most intense sounds, heard artillery firing in a tight rhythm, six quick shots, an entire battery, and he moved that way, followed the rising smoke. They climbed a rise and Sherman halted the horse, could see the guns in the cluster of trees, their crews scrambling around them, the good order of men who knew their jobs. He saw faces look his way, but no one came toward him, and Sherman ignored that, knew those men were taking orders to fire from someone who might actually know what they were firing at. The staff halted in line behind him, and he scanned the trees, smoke in every direction. He searched for horses, flags, someone in command, his hand probing the pocket of his coat, the instinctive search for the cigar. No, dammit, not now. To one side was another clearing, more tents, and he turned, saw Captain Hammond watching him, waiting for the question.

“Whose camp is that … over there?”

“That’s the 53rd Ohio, sir. Colonel Appler.”

Sherman scowled, kept up his horse’s hard pace, thought, Appler. Useless. Sees a flock of cavalry and sends his entire regiment chasing after them. He’s probably the one who ordered these guns to join the festivities.

“Let’s see if we can find Colonel Appler.”

He spurred the horse hard, led them into Appler’s camp, the sounds of the fights not far to the west. Around the tents, men were in quick motion, some half dressed, stacks of muskets knocked to the ground, coffeepots spilled beside campfires. The men seemed to be scrambling in every direction, a handful of officers on horseback galloping through the tent rows, rousing what seemed to be stragglers from their tents. Sherman watched the scene, cold fury inside, thought, this is just
marvelous
. Perfect discipline. I’ll find Appler and wring his damn neck.

“Over there! That way!”

He pushed on, the woods past Appler’s camp giving way to a wide field. The smoke was drifting everywhere now, and he caught the sulfur stink, looked out across a field a quarter mile wide, heard a chorus of musket fire down toward the left, near a thick tree line. There were men in motion there, and Sherman could see a mass of blue moving out of the trees, some in a full run, an obvious retreat. He cursed to himself, raised his field glasses, stared that way, tried to see details through the smoke. There were officers on horseback, more than one color bearer, all of them falling back out of the wood line. He fought the urge to ride that way, a small voice inside him keeping him in place, one tiny flicker of panic, the infectiousness of watching men running from a fight. He shouted aloud now, deflected the voice outward, toward the men on horseback, the men who were supposed to be in control.

“Stop them, damn you. Do your job!”

He kept his glasses on the scene, the woods seeming to belch hordes of blue troops, the officers retreating with as much energy as their men, no one making an attempt to rally the men at all. Sherman felt the horse buck slightly, realized he was pulling hard on the reins, the horse’s head up, protesting. The urge to ride into the smoke was growing, the need to grab the man in command, any officer he could find, toss the man out of the saddle.

“Damn them! What are they doing? I want one of you to find Appler, then find Hildebrand! This is idiocy!” He held the glasses with one hand, tight to his eyes, shouted again, “Turn them, damn you! What in hell are you running from?”

He forced himself to calm, to observe all he could, knew there would be a remedy to this, that he was too strong, and that close by, the other camps could help whatever crisis had erupted in front of Appler. He kept the field glasses at his eyes, one hand pulling a cigar from his pocket, reflex, and he stuffed it into his mouth. Immediately the young Holliday was there with a match, the orderly always efficient. Sherman ignored him, but the cigar was lit, the smoke calming him, and Sherman kept his focus on the far end of the field, some men forming a line, firing a volley into the woods. He still wanted to ride there, to see what he could not from the knoll, the smoke filling every open space. He was surprised to hear Hammond, close behind him.

“Sir! Colonel Appler is said to be in these woods to our right!”

Sherman still watched the fight, more of his men returning to the line of fire, absorbing the retreat like a thin blue sponge, thickening, holding their ground.