“We’re done for! They’s right behind us!”
Grant watched the man slide past him, stumbling about in a daze, staring at the river, another man beside him, looking up at Grant, shouting, “We gotta get away! Get to the boats! They whipped us!”
His staff had surrounded him, obvious protection, Rawlins close to him.
“Sir! We have to get up the hill, away from the river. It is not safe here!”
Grant looked at him, saw Rawlins’s usual concern, everything in its place, every bow tied precisely. But there was nothing precise here. Grant shouted again, “I must find what is happening! I will ride forward, but keep some of the aides here, have them locate someone in authority! I must know what is happening!”
A horseman came down the steep passageway through the rocky embankment, pushed his way through more of the fugitives, aimed his way toward Grant. Grant recognized him, an aide to General Hurlbut, and the man drew up close, shouted, “Sir! It is good you are here! We must move inland with all haste!”
Grant saw a hint of panic in the man, said, “What is happening here, Major?”
The man seemed to ignore the flood that continued to pour down onto the riverbank, as though this scene had been playing out for a while.
“Sir, if you please … we must move inland! The enemy has engaged us across our entire front! There is much confusion.”
Grant felt a spring uncoil in his brain, fury at the man’s obviousness.
“Why is there confusion, Major? Who commands these soldiers? By damned, what is happening?”
The man offered no response, his attention caught by a horseman close by, Grant seeing a young lieutenant waving his sword, striking hard at the shoulder of a man who ran past. Downriver, the scene was repeated, officers making some attempt to control the mob, hard shouts for the men to return to duty, to make a stand. But the panic in the men swept away the commands, more calls from the men who came down the hill, a chorus of terror and despair, that all was lost, every man doomed. Grant spurred the horse, had no more need of the major, could see too clearly that his army had been struck by a blow that had ripped away their spirit, their hearts, their ability to fight. He pushed the horse up the hill, past the wagons, saw the two small buildings, run-down cabins, wounded men lying there as well, more coming, too few doctors to help them.
Grant rode farther along the road, saw horses standing about, no riders, wagons untended, teams of artillery horses jogging past, linked together, trailing leather straps, no sign of their limbers or the artillerymen who had manned the guns. Through it all, the sounds of the fight continued to roar across the ground in front of him, distant yet close, unceasing, a fight that seemed to grow wider and louder, as though swallowing his army completely, a fight he had never expected.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
JOHNSTON
NEAR SHILOH CHURCH APRIL 6, 1862, 10:00 A.M.
From first light he had stayed close to the front lines, brief and frantic meetings with his commanders. The fight had grown chaotic almost immediately, the plunging strike into Federal forces destroying most of the organization of the neat lines of battle. The confusion had more to do with the lay of the land than the defense put up by the Yankees, the treacherous ravines and thickets preventing any kind of order. In every part of the field, regiments were splitting apart, their individual companies losing touch with one another, men fighting in small pockets wherever their enemy happened to be.
It was obvious to Johnston, as it was to Hardee and Bragg and anyone else up front, that the attack thus far had been an astounding success. Johnston had seen for himself what the cavalry had reported for more than a week, that the Federals had made no preparations to receive an assault. There were no trench works, no abatis, the Federal troops thrown into line often in complete disarray. Those fights had been the easiest, the Confederate troops driving their enemy back in a complete panic, Federal officers as well as their men scampering away with the first few volleys. But others had held their ground, and Johnston saw that as well, vicious firefights, often yards apart, men shooting through thickets where the enemy was only a flicker of movement, artillerymen aiming cannon toward clouds of smoke, the only hint they had where the enemy might be. On both sides, the artillery seemed to be accomplishing the most effective work, and the big guns were soon targeting the enemy’s artillery as much as enemy troops. All across the fields, batteries were dueling batteries with horrifying results for the men and their horses. With the help of the infantry, cannons were captured, lost, recaptured, and often the men who had manned the guns were long gone, shot down or swept away in a panic, while the fate of their guns had become one part of an enormous bloody contest.
Johnston had spent his first couple of hours close to Hardee’s men, had heard for himself the great push that had driven back Sherman, and then Prentiss, the enemy prisoners never hesitant to reveal who they served. The Federal troops had made efforts in every part of the field to find a new position of strength, backing to another ridge, another thicket, where their fight could begin again. It was completely expected that the men in blue would not do what so many had predicted, those mindless claims of their utter cowardice, that no Union man could make a stand against the raw dedication of the man in gray. Johnston knew better, saw it now, in every ravine, on every hill. While many of the blue-coated men had chosen escape, a great many more had stood up to fight, and many of those had fallen on the ground where they had made a stand, dead and wounded spread across every piece of ground where Johnston’s men had made their push. But there was no mistaking that, so far, most of the dead were wearing blue, and some of those had not been in the fight at all. The Confederates had shoved hard right through the camps of the Federals anchored farther to the west, Sherman’s Division in particular, and so, many of those men had not had time to gather into effective formations to receive the assault. Some had been in the midst of breakfast, some still in their tents, the sick and injured still in their bedrolls. Some made the effort, but the Confederates had every advantage, swept through and past the unprepared enemy with brutal efficiency. The message was clear now to Johnston, and to anyone else who saw the standing tents. This attack, the tactics and strategy of the great surprise, had worked.
THE CONFEDERATE ATTACK, AS LINES SPREAD OUT
The fighting closest to him was scattered, sudden bursts of musket fire through smoky brush, men on both sides stumbling into their enemy, blinded by smoke and thickets of briars and vines. Johnston could hear the whistle of the musket balls, looked back toward the trailing line of horsemen, most of his staff following, some of the men reacting to the sound of the firing with lowered heads.
“Careful, gentlemen. I want no casualties here. If you see the enemy, move quickly away!”
He followed his own order, ducked low beneath a broken tree limb, could smell the spent powder in the air around him, sulfur burning his lungs. He knew the staff would stay close behind him, and he spurred the horse hard, jerked the reins, saw a massive flash of fire in front, artillery erupting very close. He had no idea who they were, pulled away, putting distance between his staff and the guns, thought, ours, certainly. Has to be. We have not yet ridden anywhere the enemy is in force. But still …
He led them up a knoll, saw officers, a cluster of horses and flags, felt a glimmer of relief, grateful for the calming presence of Leonidas Polk. Polk saw him coming, stepped the horse out toward him, a smiling salute.
“A glorious Sabbath, General! May I say, this army is performing in a most excellent manner. Most excellent, indeed.”
Polk’s smile was usually contagious, but Johnston felt a stab of something very uncomfortable.
“It is the Sabbath?”
“Yes, of course. Surely you knew …” Polk stopped, seemed to realize that Johnston had no idea. “It is all right, Sidney. God does not fault us for victory. And from what we have accomplished, a victory seems assured.”
It was a strangely optimistic statement, and Johnston??
?s discomfort turned to alarm. Polk seemed to sense where his words had taken his friend, the smile fading.
“I’m sorry, Sidney. But there is no harm in striking your enemy when the cause is just in the eyes of God.”
Johnston didn’t respond, looked past Polk’s staff to a rising cloud of smoke, more hard thumps coming from a nearby hill, batteries firing eastward, Polk’s batteries. The muskets began again, more distant, and in the low ground to one side, the rebel yell exploded in a chorus of terrifying passion, a surge of men Johnston couldn’t see, pushing their way up the hill, toward an enemy somewhere beyond the next rise. The fight consumed everything around him, smoke and noise, deafening and magnificent, and he tried to feel Polk’s optimism, the pure joy of a victory, his army seeking their triumph so close to him. But there was something still rattling hard through Johnston’s brain, a scolding, the lesson from his grandfather, so long ago, a young boy who sat spellbound while the old man preached to him of hell and damnation and the wrath of the Almighty, all those lessons that terrified the young. The old man had died nearly forty years ago, but some of those fearful lessons had stayed with Johnston, and he thought of it now, felt a wave of new sadness. This is Sunday. We should not be making the fight … this day. Polk should understand, he thought. It was all of the delays … the interminable rains. I did not consider the calendar, the days of the week. We could have waited one more day. He knew that wasn’t true, the voice of the general taking command of his wits. We took great risk as it was. One more day … and the enemy might be driving into us.
Johnston was drawn by a new round of volleys, farther out to the left, Polk’s men again, still coming forward, more of the rebel yell.
“Yes, pray for us all, Bishop. This day is not yet done, and the enemy is still very dangerous. We must not become overconfident.”
The fight close by seemed to fade, musket fire in slow pops, more yells from the men as they crested the far hill, in pursuit of a retreating enemy. Polk had his field glasses up, said aloud, “We have driven them back once more!” He turned to Johnston again. “You see? The Almighty watches us, our every move, and He strikes our enemies with the punishment they have earned. This is glorious, Sidney. Glorious!”
Johnston wanted to feel that joy, could not escape the scolding of his grandfather.
“Perhaps. But remain vigilant, remain aggressive. The wagons must maintain pace with your advance. Ammunition can become a problem, and I want these men supplied!”
Polk responded, “Of course. I shall see to it. But you had best put those wagons to a gallop! We are driving for that river, Sidney! God is providing the path!”
Johnston turned his horse, was still unnerved by his friend’s overwhelming cheer. He turned to Major Munford, closest to him, said, “We will move farther to the right. If General Bragg can be found quickly, I would speak with him. I must know if progress on his front is as it is here.”
He spurred the horse, did not look back at Polk, felt nervous, agitated, thought, it cannot be wise to assume God is standing with your men, that God wields the weapons that will drive the enemy away. We are still men. And this fight is being made by men on both sides who are dying for their honor. Which of those men has God’s greater blessing?
There was another firefight in the trees before him, a fresh line of troops moving up from the right. He saw the flag, Arkansas, men pushing through the brush with another wild cheer. They passed by him, unseeing, their focus on where the enemy might be. From far to the left, the brush erupted into a single burst of smoke, Federal troops lying in wait, the volley punching through the Arkansans, men collapsing within a few yards of where Johnston sat. He turned away from that, realized he was in a very bad place, that the woods could disguise anyone, anywhere. The staff needed no instruction, followed as he dipped down into a gulley, riding through a narrow creek bed, away from the smoke. They climbed up into clear ground again, and across the field he could see another battle line, Texans this time, another advance, at least a full regiment, their far flank disappearing into a thick stand of trees. Men saw him now, and muskets rose, the cheering directed toward him, whether they recognized him or not. What they saw was a commander, sitting tall, and now their own officers appeared, one man riding toward him at a rapid trot. Johnston knew the man, tried to recall his name, the insignia of a colonel.
“Sir! With all respects … this is not the place for you! You are exposed to the batteries of the enemy! Please, sir, withdraw. The Yankees are on that ridge … there!”
As the man uttered the words, the ridgeline in front of the colonel’s men burst into a furious cascade of firing, the sharp whistle of the shells impacting all across the field, punching great fiery gaps through the lines of men. The colonel turned, attentive to his men, a quick glance back at Johnston. “Sir! Please!”
Johnston waved the man away, the colonel needing no instructions, the man now following close behind his men, the entire line dropping away into low ground, disappearing into a billowing fog of gray smoke. More artillery came down now, a half-dozen blasts, and Johnston turned the horse again, shouted to his staff, “That was excellent advice! Let us retire beyond those trees!”
He led them again, pushed through a stand of thinly spaced hardwoods, saw more of his men coming forward, a fresh line, some of the men making way for him to pass. He searched for their flag, had to know, saw Alabama now, grim-faced men who acknowledged him with calls and shouts. Their officers rode up close, fought their way through the timber, but Johnston did not stop, had no need to halt men who were marching forward. There was nothing these men should care about a general riding where he should not be. Unless they falter, they do not need me to tell them anything.
The shooting had seemed to roll away, farther east and north, the ground closer to him clear of any kind of fight. As he moved past smoking hillsides, stands of cracked and shattered trees, the evidence of the fight was there, in every hollow, every hillside. The dead and wounded of both sides were mingled together in a horrifying smear of gruesome color, some men falling on top of their enemy, some of the men in pieces, shattered by the blasts of artillery.
As he moved among the lines, he had spoken to officers of every stripe, the men who served Hardee and Bragg and Polk, the commands now jumbled together in complete confusion. Any sense of order had been swept away, making a mockery of the carefully designed plan, what was so neatly drawn on paper by Beauregard and his minion, Colonel Jordan. Though Polk’s exuberant optimism had not set well with him, Johnston had seen the same kind of joy in many of the others, officers and their men cheering Johnston as he moved past, some reacting as though the day had already been decided, the enemy whipped, crushed, driven into the depths of the river. But farther to the front, the fighting continued, Federal troops making new stands in new fields, and close by, smaller eruptions of fire came from the endlessly uneven ground that kept some men in place, shielded from orders, or simply lost where they stood. There were still fights off to the north, toward Owl Creek, but those were not many, and the reports that had reached him had confirmed the optimism he met along the lines, that Sherman’s Division had mostly been routed, shoved backward in pieces. Farther to the right, the troops of McClernand and Prentiss were falling away as well, though their resistance had stiffened, the farther back they were pushed. But still, Johnston’s troops seemed to be advancing in nearly every part of the field, no matter the difficulty of the land or the enormous number of casualties. At the crest of each rise, it was plain to him that a hard fight was still raging farther to the right.
He led his staff up another brushy hillside, needed to push forward, to move close behind his men, to be certain that no one gave way. There could be no failures of command, not now, not when the advance still inspired so many. It was not all perfection, of course, and he had seen at least one of his regiments break, a scampering flood of troops that poured down a hill, their flag too distant for him to identify. But those officers did their work, rallied the sha
ken and panicked men, and if some of those men continued to run, others found their composure, fell into place with other units that advanced past them, and returned to the fight. He absorbed that scene, knew that panic was something you could not predict, that good men could be infected by a single coward, an entire line dissolving by the sudden collapse of an officer. It kept him moving forward, sliding to the right as he rode, as though he would see them all, every regiment, every company, would do whatever he could to inspire them, if not by his orders, then just by his presence.
The trees opened up to a wide field, flat ground, and he halted the horse, amazed at the sight spread before him. The field was one of the Federal encampments, a great formation of tents in neat rows, some of them ripped down, flattened, others standing as though nothing at all had happened here. Scattered throughout the camp were men, his own men, some emerging from tents carrying all manner of goods, one man parading in a blue officer’s coat, a show for his friends, who saluted him with raucous laughter. Others were sitting in a circle around a campfire, bottles passed around, more laughter there. There were horsemen moving through, officers shouting obscenities, ordering their men to continue the advance, but Johnston could see the paralysis, the temptations of the Federal camps too great. Many of his men had not eaten since the night before, and they could not pass by the Federal larders without taking advantage. Some men were doing only that, sitting cross-legged, eating something, anything, as though there were no battle at all.