“Promise?”
“To water his horse in the Tennessee River.”
Harris patted the horse, said, “Well, perhaps that will happen still. My own horse is badly injured. I shall ride Fire-Eater to headquarters. He is a swift animal, strong.”
Harris climbed up on the horse, but the animal seemed to stagger, and Captain Wickham was there now, moving around the horse, examining, said, “He is badly wounded, sir. Three legs have suffered. Respectfully, sir, he is no longer of service.”
Preston tried to maintain his stoicism, said, “The orderlies … back there. They have other mounts. Use one of those, Governor.”
Harris stayed up on the horse for a moment longer, felt the added grief for the horse’s injuries, thought, they will wait for me to leave, and then his suffering will be ended. It has to be. He swung his leg over, dismounted, saw where Preston had pointed, the orderlies and several horses standing back in the trees.
“Go now, Governor. There can be no delay. I will follow behind, as rapidly as the general’s body can be transported.” He glanced at Wickham, then back to Harris. “Tell no one of this, no one, until General Beauregard is notified.”
Harris understood Preston’s urgency, but he hesitated, looked down one more time at Johnston’s face, saw perfect peacefulness, the serenity of a man whose burdens are lifted. He took a long breath, said a silent farewell, a new flow of tears, and moved away.
SHILOH CHURCH APRIL 6, 1862, 4:00 P.M.
Beauregard was standing tall on a cut tree stump, a column of men moving past him with joyous waves, shouts, which Beauregard acknowledged with a hearty wave of his hand. Harris rode close, tried not to look at the general’s smile. On the long ride, his grief had festered into anger, made worse by the painful gait of the horse he had never ridden. Captain Wickham had led him well, passing behind most of the troops, avoiding the vast fields of wounded, the farmhouses where rumors could have spread, where questions might be asked. As Harris came into sight of the church, and now Beauregard himself, the pain of the ride gave way to the pure misery of the job he had to perform. Beauregard saw him, seemed to puff up, kept to the stump, and Harris knew the trick, so familiar to a politician, the petite man doing anything he could to appear larger, a portrait that was more about image than anything else. Harris dismounted, Wickham as well, the captain keeping behind him.
“Well, Governor, are we faring as well to the right as we have over the rest of the field? Have you come to tell me of a great victory?”
Harris heard infuriating sarcasm in Beauregard’s voice, couldn’t avoid a growing hatred for the man. But the duty came first, the obedience, what now had to be absolute. He glanced around, no one else within earshot, but still he moved close, stood beside the ridiculous stump, and after a long breath, Harris said, “Sir, it is with deepest sadness that I must report the death of General Johnston.”
Beauregard seemed to flinch, jumped down from the stump, stared hard at Harris, a glance toward Wickham.
“Are you certain? Well, of course you are.” Beauregard seemed ready to burst with questions, kept them inside, and Harris saw nothing that resembled sadness. Beauregard nodded now, a strange gesture, said, “It is a tragic loss for our army and our nation, Governor. Tell me, how is the fight progressing in that part of the field?”
Harris felt a dismal calm, the grief drained from him by Beauregard’s casual need for facts.
“The fight is progressing extremely well, sir. The general … at the time of his death … was supervising the rapid advance against the Federal left flank. It was the general’s supreme wish that we drive between the enemy’s position and their base at Pittsburg Landing. If I may offer the observation, sir, it seems we are accomplishing that very success.”
“Yes, I know the general’s supreme wish. I designed this battle, if you recall.” Beauregard paused, seemed suddenly deep in thought, and he motioned for Harris to follow, began to move toward the small church. Harris noticed the building for the first time now, crude logs, a single doorway. He expected more, something larger, knew the churches in Nashville for their grand façades, the tall steeples that graced the skyline he so deeply missed. But there was nothing of Nashville, or even a village here. All around him, narrow roads led away, each one choked with the debris of the battle, wounded men, ambulances, men pushing through on horseback, some men doing … nothing at all. Close beside the building was an ambulance, what Harris assumed to be Beauregard’s place of rest. He followed Beauregard up the low steps into the church, the single room dark, lit only by a lantern. He studied the Creole for the first time now, still saw hints of the man’s illness, but Beauregard carried a new energy, his voice clear, purpose to his steps. Beauregard sat, no other chair for Harris, and Beauregard seemed to study papers on the small table beside him.
“At this moment, General Polk’s people are doing good work against the enemy’s position, and on his right flank, Bragg is performing well. There is considerable lack of organization, however, and many of their units are inexorably tangled. In that regard, General Hardee is no better off. At least, on our left, he seems to have secured our flank. But I am not yet concerned with the reorganization of the overlapping commands. That is a problem I will confront when the time is right. If you are correct that we are turning the enemy’s far flank … well then, the battle may as well continue.”
Harris waited for more, but Beauregard went silent. Harris said, “Yes, sir. I believe that is the best course. General Johnston would most certainly agree.”
Beauregard ignored that, studied a piece of paper, and behind Harris a courier suddenly appeared at the door, staff officers moving in without a knock. Harris felt a new wave of despair, not for Johnston, but for what he was seeing now, the business of this army moving forward as though nothing had happened, nothing had changed. He fought the urge to just … leave, to climb up on the horse and ride away, felt suddenly as though his usefulness to the army had ceased to exist. He thought of Corinth. I should just … ride, inform Mrs. Inge, certainly. But Colonel Preston might not approve. There is no need to alarm civilians, no matter the magnitude of the tragedy. And they will learn soon enough. What good can I do here? He stopped himself, thought of Johnston, the long talks, the friendship. You are still alive, and the general would not approve of this kind of melancholy. There must be someone, some command who can make use of me.
Beauregard’s staff officer was reading from a paper, a message from Hardee, that all was going well, the enemy making no attempt at a counterattack. Beauregard seemed immensely satisfied by that, and Harris still felt as though he was in the way. He fought with himself for a long moment, to leave or not, tried to stay out of the way as men passed by him. Beauregard was clearly drawn to other matters, and Harris thought, I chose this duty. I did not come to this army just to serve one man, to serve a friend. And you know what Sidney would tell you to do. And it would not be a suggestion. He waited for the conversation to pause, a quiet moment, then said, “Sir, with circumstances as they are now, it is appropriate that I offer my services to your staff, if you will have me, sir.”
Beauregard looked up at him, rubbed a hand on his chin, nodded slowly.
“Yes, that would be acceptable. You have a horse, so make use of it. Keep me informed of events on the right. You will find me here at all times. This is, after all, the army’s headquarters.”
Harris backed away, had endured all he could of Beauregard’s utter lack of humility. More staff officers were moving in, past him, Beauregard hidden by the clean gray of their uniforms. He stepped out into cool air, saw Wickham, wet sadness on the captain’s face. Harris moved to the horse, stopped, looked upward, blue sky flecked with white clouds, stared for a long moment, the sun settling slowly into the treetops to the west.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
PRENTISS
NORTH OF THE PEACH ORCHARD, NEAR THE POND APRIL 6, 1862, 3:30 P.M.
The rebel artillery kept up their fire, directed mostly to the
right now, a new surge by troops against his flank. For a long while, that part of Prentiss’s position had been wide open, a deep gash in the overall Federal lines that had attracted waves of attackers, coming up out of the trees not more than a quarter mile away. But the gap had been filled by the magnificent response of William Wallace, who had recognized the critical importance behind Prentiss’s desperate call for help. Now Wallace’s troops had filled the gap to the west completely, and farther that way, Wallace’s flank was partially protected by McClernand, the man who had given assistance earlier that morning to protect what had once been the left flank of Sherman. Throughout the day, as the disastrous impact of the rebel attack spread throughout most of the Federal forces, no one had been immune. Prentiss’s men had fallen back with the same chaotic scramble that affected Sherman, driven away from their own camps. But Prentiss had been able to rally many of his regiments from complete collapse, had made good use of the lay of the land to pull many of his units together into what had now become a hard barrier that had finally been effective in holding back the rebel advance. The rallying point for many of Prentiss’s men was a wagon trail, an old roadbed that wound across the edge of Duncan Field, then out in both directions, curving through the woods, past more patches of open ground. The trail was old, worn, and much of the way was lined by dense thickets of overgrown brush that produced perfect cover for the troops. The roadbed extended even into Wallace’s lines, and the men in blue who formed up along the road had responded to their new protection with desperately needed confidence.
Once Prentiss understood the sheer mass of the rebel assault, and once the rebel advance had eliminated any communications he had with Sherman, Prentiss began to understand that his division was virtually severed from the rest of the army, that retreat was the only viable option. The first indication he had that the rebels were coming in force had been sent to him much earlier that morning from Colonel Peabody, the brigade commander seeing firsthand the sheer bulk of the rebel advance. But, like Sherman, Prentiss had doubted the reports he had received from the picket outposts, had engaged in a heated discussion with Peabody, who Prentiss believed had exaggerated just what was happening to the west. He knew that Peabody had taken serious offense at the challenge to his skills at observation, and Prentiss would hear none of that. But soon after the magnitude of the rebel attack became clear, Peabody had of course been vindicated. Prentiss had seen for himself that most of his entire division was engulfed by a far stronger assault than anything Prentiss expected. But there would be no opportunity for Prentiss to offer his apologies to the outraged Peabody. By mid-morning, Peabody was dead.
As Prentiss struggled to re-form his division along the old wagon trail, he had expected the rebel assault to continue with the same energy he had seen earlier that morning, the kind of energy that even a good defensive line might only contain for a short while. But that kind of full-out assault never came. Instead the roughly four thousand men he managed to put into line were attacked by lines of rebels who were fewer in number than he was. Instead of one massive envelopment of his lines, which Prentiss and his officers had feared, the rebels had come at them with a series of attacks, each one nearly the same as the one before, usually brigade strength, perhaps more, marching in slow, neat lines across Duncan Field, or farther to the right, in the woods that kept the rebel lines from keeping any kind of order. The results had been the same in nearly every attack the rebels sent forward. The thick cover along the wagon trail had proved to be a significant disadvantage for the rebels, the Federal troops disciplined enough to wait in their blind cover for the rebels to approach within point-blank range. For the Federal troops, it was the first real advantage they enjoyed all day. The results were devastating for nearly every rebel unit who made the quarter-mile march across Duncan Field, as it was for the others who had stumbled blindly through the woods. Even worse for the rebels, Prentiss had been able to shift artillery batteries from Wallace’s positions on the right, many of those guns anchored into deep woods, their sights now perfectly ranging the Confederate flanks. The artillery had added their devastating canister to the sheets of flaming musket fire that came from Prentiss’s infantry.
Prentiss wasn’t sure just how many assaults the rebels had made, perhaps a dozen, perhaps less, but in every case the combined fire of the Federal troops had been shattering. Every attack concluded the same way, the rebels pushing directly into a mass of Federal firepower, then pulling back yet again, leaving many more of their troops in the field. Across Duncan Field, where Prentiss could see the far woods clearly, the entire stretch of open ground had become a carpet of dead and dying men, almost all of them rebels. With each new assault, Prentiss had wondered if his men would finally be overpowered, driven away by the same kind of overwhelming panic that had spread through his division that morning. But so far his lines were holding firm, and Prentiss began to receive reports that the worst problem affecting his men was a shortage of ammunition.
Despite the amazing willingness of the rebels to attack Prentiss’s position with what seemed to be piecemeal efforts, the sheer volume of fire on both sides was taking its toll. Rebel artillery was doing their work as well, and all across his position, rebel shells poured down with relentless efficiency. Unlike the foot soldiers, the artillerymen didn’t have to see their targets to be effective. After several of their failed attacks, rebel artillery commanders knew with perfect precision where to direct their fire. As the day wore on, a new tragedy erupted, mostly for the wounded on both sides. The brutal storm of shell fire had ignited several patches of thick brush in front of the Federal position, fires carried on the breeze that spread quickly through the woods and across the grassy fields, engulfing anyone unable to move out of the way. The screams of burned men only added to the horror that every man in the field was experiencing, Prentiss among them.
Benjamin Prentiss was not a West Pointer, had instead gained experience during the Mormon conflicts in Illinois, and later in the Mexican War. Originally a Virginian, he spent most of the 1850s practicing law in his adopted home of Quincy, Illinois, but the eruption of the war brought Prentiss back to the army. Though he had remained active in his local militia, serving as colonel of his local regiment, it was Ulysses Grant who had some familiarity with Prentiss’s good experience under Zachary Taylor, more experience than many of the professional soldiers who had staked their claim to command. Throughout 1861, Prentiss did nothing to discourage Grant’s well-placed confidence, and served efficiently in Cairo, Illinois, guarding the crucial junction of the Ohio and the Mississippi rivers, and later, protecting the rail lines in war-torn Missouri. When Grant’s army was mobilized for the drive toward Corinth, Grant had no hesitation in suggesting Prentiss, now a brigadier general, for division command. Like Sherman, Prentiss had been assigned to lead a division of raw recruits who had never seen combat. In the weeks following their encampment west of Pittsburg Landing, Prentiss had tackled the same tasks as Sherman and the other division commanders: drill and train men who had most likely never seen a rebel soldier. Now, by the chance positioning of his Sixth Division more southwesterly from Pittsburg Landing, Prentiss had become the center of the entire Federal position, the first to receive the rebel assaults. As much of a chore as it had been to train so many green soldiers, Prentiss had every reason to feel a distinct pride that his men had rallied just enough to keep the rebels from driving straight through the Federal army, to Grant’s base at the river.
Though William Wallace’s Second Division had rushed forward to protect Prentiss’s right, there was very little order to the placement of troops, no time for any neatly drawn out battlefield planning. The jumble of commands was as confused now as it had been since early that morning, and as his position solidified along the wagon trail, Prentiss found himself commanding regiments from Wallace’s Division, as well as his own. Some of Prentiss’s units had disappeared altogether; some were mere fragments of their former strength. But thus far, after so many Confederate assaults
, and a withering storm of fire from rebel artillery batteries, those lines had held. Wallace knew as well as Prentiss that it made little difference which officer stood to your backside while the guns of the enemy were tearing into your ranks. Not only was Prentiss grateful for Wallace’s unquestioning assistance, but he actually liked Wallace. He couldn’t say the same for some of the others in the Federal command, had no great affection for either Sherman or John McClernand. But right now, personal opinions had nothing at all to do with what was happening around him. And down to his left, in the vicinity of a peach orchard, the tide of the battle was not nearly so static, the defenses not quite as complete.
There the morning had begun with a yawning gap a half mile wide, which separated Prentiss’s Division from the single brigade of Colonel David Stuart. Stuart’s men, who were actually a part of Sherman’s Fifth Division, had been sent far out beyond Prentiss’s left flank almost as an afterthought, someone’s revelation that the dense woods and gullies closer to the river should at least have some token force there, more as observation than defense. Prentiss could not worry about Stuart, had no idea if those troops were even in the fight at all, not while waves of rebels were striking Prentiss from the southwest. Stuart’s meager presence notwithstanding, Prentiss had to believe he was now the left flank of the entire Federal position.
As the morning passed into afternoon, Prentiss could see that the rebels had discovered that gap and were shifting their troops eastward, bringing up fresh regiments to exploit the opening that might turn Prentiss’s left and cut off Stuart altogether. With the rebel assaults threatening to envelop his flank, Prentiss had made a desperate plea for the closest Federal forces to do anything they could to fill that gap. That call had been answered with admirable speed by Stephen Hurlbut’s Fourth Division. As had happened on his right, Hurlbut’s rapid and disorderly advance had resulted in a jumbled mess of overlapping and confused commands, entire regiments stumbling through woods and thickets, some marching directly across the firing line of other Federal units or wandering blindly into pockets of advancing rebels. Many were now fighting under officers they had never seen before, soldiers moving into line beside men from other states. As the day wore on, and the attacks shifted eastward, it had become evident to Prentiss that his division, and those who had rallied to his aid, were confronted by an enemy who was nearly as jumbled up as the Federals.