Johnston felt a bolt of lightning cut through him, could feel the surprise of the others, every man seeming to step closer to Beauregard, who once again slumped in weakness. Polk turned to Johnston now, said, “I have heard nothing to indicate that the enemy is entrenching. We have heard no shovels or axes, no felling of trees.”
Bragg was louder still.
“Nothing of the sort! No scout, no picket has reported that the enemy is doing any more than he has done for the past two weeks! I admit to being furious at the stupidity of the men in our command who have jeopardized the element of surprise. But there is no indication that the enemy is doing anything to prepare for an attack. If I am not mistaken, this very spot is no more than two miles from that country church, which I have been told is the headquarters of General Sherman’s Division. If they were digging trenches there, we would know of it with perfect certainty. And you would have us withdraw?”
Beauregard nodded, seemed utterly defeated.
“We have no alternative. For the sake of this army … for the sake of this cause.”
Polk looked at Johnston, the question hard in his eyes.
“If we order this army to withdraw … we will destroy what morale we have given them. Sidney, you have said it yourself, we have all said it. This army needs a victory. To concede a defeat before the first volley …”
Beauregard looked at Johnston as well, as though measuring him, a test of just who was in command. They all looked at him now, and Johnston lowered his head. He felt his heart racing, could not avoid the sudden gravity of the moment. He turned, motioned to his staff officers to advance, felt the sudden need for someone he could trust to hear his words. There was Polk, of course, and he looked at the bishop now, saw hope in the man’s face, the optimism that Johnston would make the proper decision. He watched as Harris and Munford and Colonel Preston drew closer, saw the rabid curiosity on their faces, but his staff would ask nothing, would know only that he wanted them close. He looked at them all, one by one, saw the same optimism from Colonel Gilmer, saw Bragg’s glare at Beauregard, a look of utter disgust. In the distance he saw Colonel Jordan, the man straining to hear all that was said, and Johnston could not help thinking of the old phrase the power behind the throne. Is this what you have counseled Beauregard? Or is this from his own heart? Is this Beauregard’s way of protecting his reputation, so that if this plan fails, he can claim it was not his idea after all? What kind of absurdity drives this man, drives both of them? It cannot be. It can never be.
“We have been forced to a delay, but this army is prepared for a fight. This army is positioned for a fight. If we require additional rations, there is most certainly an adequate supply close by in the enemy camps. Gentlemen, we will attack at daylight tomorrow.”
He turned, did not wait for a response, would not hear any more of Beauregard’s outrageous backtracking. He moved toward his own staff, put a hand on the horse, saw Polk staring at him with a slight smile, a respectful nod of the head. The others were moving away from Beauregard now, the sickly man still standing in the middle of the road, silent, seeming to stare at nothing. Johnston climbed the horse, his officers close, waiting for the next order. To one side, Colonel Preston eased close, said in a low voice, “Is General Beauregard correct … that we are greatly outnumbered?”
Johnston realized, of course, they had heard it all, every word. Good.
“Colonel, it does not matter. I would fight them if they were a million.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SHERMAN
SHILOH CHURCH APRIL 5, 1862, 3:00 P.M.
He had sent his report to Grant, then amended it, sent another, offering nothing in the way of alarm. The reports coming in from his front lines were growing in number, and in every case, Sherman was infuriated by the men who were in command, and felt no need to cause any more excitement at Grant’s headquarters at Savannah than the ridiculous rumors warranted. Sherman was beginning to understand that this was the price he was paying by having too many untested officers commanding too many inexperienced troops. The anxiety had spread among many of the regimental commanders, had affected even his brigade commanders, who often were less experienced than the officers beneath them. Two of those, John McDowell and Jesse Hildebrand, were much older men, with virtually no military experience at all. Colonel McDowell had the good fortune to be the elder brother of General Irvin McDowell, who had led the Federal troops at the Battle of Bull Run. But John was still learning the most basic of command decisions, not helped at all by the fact that one of his own regimental commanders was the astonishingly annoying Colonel Worthington.
In Sherman’s Third Brigade, Colonel Hildebrand insisted on managing his command without the assistance of a real staff, no officers to spread around the various tasks required of any commander. As well, Hildebrand held tightly to the command of his own regiment, the 77th Ohio, even though his sphere of control included three other Ohio regiments. Sherman understood the flaws in this organization, but Sherman was still trying to familiarize himself with the personalities above him, the chain of command that had passed through both General Smith and General Grant, all of them suffering under the twitching thumb of Henry Halleck.
The apparent nervousness of his senior officers was inspired by an increasing number of confrontations with bands of rebels. Sherman was perfectly comfortable with the Confederate cavalry patrols that were doing all they could to watch his movements. It was their job, after all, and one he would have expected from horsemen in any army. As the picket lines strengthened across Sherman’s front, more and more of those sightings were confirmed, bands of gray-coated horsemen gathering in distant fields, often fully in view, some of those seeking some opportunity to sweep in for a rapid capture of the unprepared platoons of Sherman’s men, those who were careless, or just unfortunate. But the more capable of Sherman’s officers had refused to allow the rebels the perfect freedom to conduct any kind of harassing operation. Colonel Ralph Buckland commanded Sherman’s Fourth Brigade, and Buckland had little patience for watching his men plucked right out of their picket posts. Even after the incident that resulted in the capture of the rebel prisoners, Buckland had kept a strong force out in front of his camps, and the resulting confrontations had grown stiffer, the aim and the maneuver more efficient. As his infantry shoved out toward the Confederate cavalry, Buckland’s men began to trade fire with more vigor than most of the Confederates seemed willing to share. It was only then that Buckland’s men received a surprise that halted them in their tracks. As the rebel horsemen retreated, the jubilant Federal pursuit was suddenly met with fire from rebel artillery. Buckland’s infantry responded appropriately. They retreated back to their picket lines.
Sherman had heard the artillery, had stood outside his tent near the crude church and tried to measure the distance, a task made difficult by the undulating ground and the great patches of woods. It had surprised him as well, but his mind worked through that, and he justified it by the simple explanation that any sizable body of cavalry would most likely have field artillery in tow. The rumble from the rebel guns had been a positive sign that Buckland’s men had done the job, and the rebels were falling back, more frightened now than the men they had targeted.
SHILOH CHURCH
APRIL 5, 1862, 5:00 P.M.
I have caused injury to my leg. A nasty spill on my horse in the torrent of last evening. I trust my presence is not required in your vicinity today, as the ride would cause me considerable discomfort. The doctors advise me to rest, and insist that by the morrow, I will be more mobile.
Sherman put down the note from Grant, thought, yes, one more casualty. Hope he heals well. Halleck doesn’t need any more excuses to shove Grant out of the way. He’s a good horseman, too, not like some of these city boys out here who claim to be soldiers. I wonder how many of my officers have more experience stepping in horse manure than they do sitting in the saddle? He scolded himself. No, don’t dwell on that now. You have to put the best appearances on this
you can. They are a nervous and agitated bunch, and I have to be the one who shows them some decorum. He glanced into a small dressing mirror hanging on the tent pole beside him, said aloud, “And that’s not your best talent, Sherman.”
He heard a crack, too familiar, a musket shot from far out in the woods west of his camp. There were others, a chorus of firing, the sounds flowing toward him from a half mile away. He stood, moved to the opening of the tent, thought of riding out. No, you’ve done that already. It’s just more of the same damn thing. Buckland’s taking care of things in his front, for now. But what is it with these damn rebels that causes them to be such a nuisance? They’ve even cost us casualties, though not as many as we’ve taken from them. Not sure about that, actually, but damn it all, I have to assume I can trust my officers to tell me the truth.
After a minute or more the musket fire grew silent, and he waited for more, saw others across the headquarters clearing staring that way, all of them doing the same as he was. No, he thought, just one more episode, one more report somebody will send back so I know the world is about to end. He moved back to his small camp chair, thought, they even have you jumping up and down like a grasshopper. This can’t be good for the morale of the men anywhere out here. Prentiss is probably going through the same thing, but I have more new recruits than he does. We should drill them again, keep it up, especially with the weather improving. Until General Buell gets here, we’re not moving at all, so if the sun decides to shine, we should make good use of that.
He stood again, retrieved a cigar from his pocket, lit it with a dry match, something he no longer took for granted. He moved again to the opening in the tent, looked toward the church close by, thought of the rebel prisoners the night before. They were gone now, escorted back to the river by men who volunteered for the job with a little too much enthusiasm, men who seemed anxious to be somewhere other than rebel countryside. That had bothered him, and again he blamed the officers. Jumpy, too damn jumpy. Can’t have that. Maybe I need a council, bring every damn colonel back here and sit them down. He imagined that scene in his mind, the gray-haired old men who had never seen combat. Worthington, Hildebrand, and McDowell were all older than the generals who outranked them, and Sherman wasn’t certain that any of them might be older than Charles Smith. At least some of the younger ones are West Pointers, he thought. But not enough. It’s all up to a bunch of new recruits, might as well be a mob. They gather in their hometown, elect the richest, mouthiest bastard among them to be their colonel, and he puts on his cap, clamps his legs around a horse, and rides out here like he’s gonna whip the rebs all by himself. Before he even gets here, he’s already made every damn one of his soldiers mad at him for one thing or another. There must be some manual somewhere, something that teaches these jackasses that the best way to lead their men is to figure out how to be hated by one and all. Yep, that’s good leadership. Hell of a way to build an army.
The cigar warmed him, the delicious smoke rolling around his face, a soft breeze blowing into the tent. He lowered the cigar, took a long breath, thought, God grant me simple pleasures. Maybe some that aren’t so simple. Like finding me better officers. He glanced up, blue sky and sunshine, thought, guess I oughta thank You for this. The weather stays this nice, I’ll order this whole damn division out on maneuvers. Maybe send the whole lot of them on patrol. I can convince Grant it’s just … drill. Drive through these woods and clear out every damn reb, like a net through a fishpond. Then parade those gray-backed devils through here so every damn one of my boys can get a close look at just how ferocious these creatures are who’re giving us the jumps. The colonels will be first in line to see that. Worthington in front.
He looked toward the church again, knew some of his staff was inside, doing the good work, supply mostly, trying to negotiate for the food and forage the division required. The forage was becoming a new problem. For reasons no one had adequately explained to Sherman, the cavalry was being reorganized, the units that had been attached to each division being shifted, the commands changing. Has to be Halleck, he thought. That’s how he keeps control. Make changes so nobody understands what the hell is going on without asking him.
The transferring of the horsemen had come as recently as the night before, and Sherman had to grit his teeth as he watched his 5th Ohio Cavalry riding to their new post, to report wherever the paperwork decreed to be their new home. To replace them, Sherman was expecting the 4th Illinois to arrive at any time, those men who would be his new eyes. Colonel Dickey, he thought. Don’t know the man. Hope he’s decent at his job. All I can ask.
He pulled smoke from the cigar again, saw it was already shortened by half, thought of Grant. Hell, I like the things. Shouldn’t be anybody’s business if I smoke ’em faster than he does. He stared at the church, saw an officer emerge, moving to a horse, a quick climb, a sharp shout at the mount, the horse turning, carrying the man quickly away. Sherman shook his head. Hell of a hurry to go nowhere. Now Major Sanger emerged, stood in the narrow entranceway to the old building, raised his arms in a leisurely stretch. He saw Sherman now, was suddenly self-conscious, pulled himself together, and Sherman waved toward him, no, don’t worry. No scolding for enjoying a blessedly warm day. Sanger stepped down, moved toward him, but even now there was no urgency in the man, and Sherman appreciated that.
“Nice to see you aren’t in a panic, Major. Sets you apart from everyone else in this command.”
“Oh, uh, no, sir. Just went through all the requests for supply, and I was surprised to see an urgent request from General Hurlbut, asking if we could supply some of his men with ammunition. Seems one of the Michigan regiments was sent out from the river with no cartridges at all. With your permission, sir, I’ll have the ordnance officer send over some of our supply. We have plenty, as best I can figure.”
“Bull. Tell Hurlbut to get some from the supply boats. We hauled all that weight out here, he can do the same.”
Sanger didn’t seem surprised at the order.
“Of course, sir. I’ll have a messenger relay that … in polite terms, of course, sir.”
“Unless Hurlbut is sober, manners won’t make a damn.” Sherman regretted the words, knew that Hurlbut’s reputation as a hard drinker was hearsay. “Don’t repeat that, Major.”
“Certainly not, sir.” Sanger glanced around, changed the subject.
“Those prisoners, sir, last night … they were a motley group. Never heard so much big talk from so few useless men. I guess, when you’re captured, you can make all the claims you want. They kept telling anybody who would listen that the greatest horde of graybacks you ever saw was going to come sweeping through here. Wouldn’t shut up about it. When we got them ready to march to the river, I had to weed out a couple of the guards. Replaced them with some of our hard cases. I hope that isn’t a problem, sir.”
Sherman pondered that, said, “Why’d you have to change the guards?”
“Their sergeant told me that some of his boys were taking the rebel talk too seriously. Sergeant Lassiter it was, sir. He said it could be bad to let these men spout off all that rebel nonsense, might spook some of the people at the river. You know how rumors get started, sir. So I authorized the sergeant to take along a few of our disciplinary problems instead. I did receive a courier this morning that the prisoners were received by the provost, none the worse for the trip. But I would imagine that if they kept up all that chatter, one of the boys Lassiter picked might have decided to loosen a few rebel teeth.”
Sherman cocked his head to one side, the cigar clamped in his teeth.
“What kind of hard cases? Liquor?”
“Yes, sir. We had to stockade a few of the Illinois boys. Seems some hard cider got in through the provosts. Made for a problem over in the far field. They mixed it up with some of the Iowa boys. All this sitting still, got some of these boys too nervous for their own good. That musket fire, all the talk of cavalry …”
“Yes, I know all that. But not sure it was a good idea put
ting hard-case troublemakers alongside a bunch of rebels. You sure they got to the river without any trouble?”
Sanger seemed to hesitate.
“They got to the river intact, sir. That’s what the courier said.”
“Don’t do that again, Major. I don’t want any vigilantes in this army. Those rebs were just talking, and our boys are probably doing the same thing out there somewhere. Yep, now you’re gonna get it, Johnny Reb. Hardly ever heard of a prisoner who can keep his mouth shut, no matter how hard we train ’em to do it.” He paused, lit another cigar. “Maybe the rebs have the same problem we do. All these men come running to join up to the cause, and nobody’s got the time to train them to be an army.”
Sanger glanced away self-consciously, looked toward the church, but no one was moving, still nothing that required him to be anywhere else. He looked at Sherman again, seemed to inflate slightly, said, “I’ve been thinking about this, sir. There’s a good deal of talk, and I’m thinking it’s true. We’ve got nothing much to be concerned about when it comes to the rebs. Begging your pardon, sir, but you know they’re dug in tight at Corinth. Smartest place for them to be, according to all I’ve heard. They’re not an army fit to make an offense, so if I was their commander, I’d build me one strong defense, and settle in right there. Troubles me though that a good many of our boys might shed blood trying to drive them out of that place. We’re giving ’em too much time to dig in. I’ve heard that Corinth is a fortress.”
Sherman had heard this kind of talk from most of his colonels, didn’t want to hear it from his own staff officer. But Sanger seemed oblivious, stared out toward the soft whisper from the trees, then went on.