A Blaze of Glory Page 4

  “Both were great generals, Sidney, but they both caught the disease. They failed to heed your philosophy, and so, when power called to them, they succumbed to it. Zachary Taylor won his election. Scott was more fortunate. He failed, and so his reputation as a soldier is secure.”

  Johnston was tiring of the conversation, had too many details gathered on his desk, too many disasters flowing through his army. He shook his head.

  “Men of high influence want to influence everything around them. No way to run an army. I won’t have it here. Men like Forrest … they earn their rank. This army is only beginning to discover how valuable that is.”

  Harris kept his smile.

  “I am quite certain President Davis is discovering that even now. Or perhaps he is not.”

  “I appreciate your joviality, and I assume you are attempting to ease the strain I am under. But my capacity for humor is limited, Governor. We are in a crisis, and I’m not certain what we can do to erase that.”

  Harris stroked the mustache again, the smile gone.

  “I fear for you, Sidney. Permit me to embarrass you, but you’re the best we have, and this army’s shortcomings might force Davis to make you the scapegoat. I am concerned. Too much stupidity out there, too little understanding of what you must deal with. If I were you, I wouldn’t read a single word from these confounded newspapers. None of them. An empty drum makes the most noise, and there are a lot of drumbeats out there.”

  Johnston knew too well what Harris was referring to. It was too late to avoid the outbursts that were flowing all through the countryside, through the army as well.

  “I don’t care about newspapers. I have learned to ignore most of the caterwauling from civilians, all those officials who believe wisdom comes from any job that allows them to hold a pen. This army’s problems go far beyond what some bugle-mouthed newspaperman complains about. We are suffering for reasons that go beyond anything I can control. We have made urgent requests for everything from men to arms to blankets to wagons to … well, everything else. And we are mostly ignored.” He was growing angry, the feeling too familiar, too many frustrations. He reached for a pitcher of water on one corner of his desk, poured a glass half full, the water slightly cloudy. He drank, a bitter splash across his tongue. “Bah. Even the water is bad in this place.” He looked at Harris again, felt grateful for the man’s friendship, knew he could offer his feelings, no matter how indiscreet. He pointed to a letter on his desk, one of a thick pile. “Look at this one. Came in this morning. ‘I fear your suggestion to send away our defense forces would place us in grave danger. The plague of a Yankee invasion force could manifest on our very streets.’ This comes from a mayor in southern Mississippi who is probably four hundred miles from the nearest Yankee. How is it that men who have never seen a Federal soldier, who have felt no threat from a gunboat or seen even a glimpse of cavalry, how is it that they insist with such passion that it is their town that is so important, that their farms and their courthouse must surely be the center of all we are fighting for? Ignorant souls stand guard in the square of their little village, believing that they are the most threatened, their town is the key to our very survival? I beg them to send us their militia, their men who have already volunteered to serve our cause. And this is the response. Without their own private army to stay close to home, they would be helpless in the face of certain destruction. Isham, it would require five million Federal troops and a thousand gunboats to conquer what the imaginations of a handful of our good mayors have already surrendered.” He paused, studied Harris’s unsmiling response. “With all due respect, Governor, Nashville may have been the most obnoxious place I have yet confronted. Just ask Colonel Gilmer. The man has a genius for engineering, for laying out the groundwork for a defensive position that would prove quite costly to the enemy. He begged, scolded, threatened, and shouted from the rooftops for anyone to offer this army the labor to complete the fortifications at Fort Henry. And no one came. He did the same for Donelson. And no one came. And then, in Nashville, they laughed at him. The blind arrogance of those people, insisting that no war would dare soil their fine city. Gilmer said it, and I did as well: If you believe this war is so far removed from your perfect tranquility, why not send some of your laborers, your materials where your army requires it, so that we may keep this ugly war away? The response? Oh my no, we cannot spare such things. So now Nashville is occupied by Federal troops. And the newspapers and everyone else cry out that they are such helpless victims, that the army has failed the innocent. When soldiers die … no one is innocent.”

  Harris was looking down, and Johnston knew the man understood as well as he did.

  “Sorry, Isham. It is not appropriate for me to belittle those people we could not protect. They expected more from us, and we could not give it to them. If there is blame to be cast, it should be cast into this office. I am far more concerned with the morale of this army. The troops are also talking of our failures … of my failures. It is not from reading newspapers, it is from suffering a defeat when there should have been victory. At Donelson, good men were ordered to retreat from a position they knew was strong. These men came to this army with a willingness to fight. And they were ordered instead to retreat. I cannot walk among these men with great piles of paperwork … look here! Here is the problem! Just have patience! Maybe we will receive the muskets promised us, maybe Richmond will make good their shipments of artillery. Maybe ten more divisions will arrive next week from training facilities that do not exist!” He stopped, felt his hands shaking, looked self-consciously at Harris. “I apologize. It is unseemly for a man in my position to lose his deportment.”

  “Perhaps, Sidney, if you lost it with a bit more frequency …”

  “No. You cannot command with bluster, with complaints. You cannot cast blame about like a handful of seed corn. I have communicated to Richmond my reports. Shouting out those reports to the countryside will do nothing to change what has happened.” He paused. “Defeat can be a plague, and I know very well it has damaged us severely. We are fortunate to hold the men that remain in Murfreesboro. Today, we might have fifteen thousand men fit for duty, when north of us, the enemy has forty thousand. I know of the sick calls, I know we are losing men to desertion. We must find a way to restore their spirit.” He paused again. “I’m not sure I am the man for that job.”

  “Oh, fine, General, so now you agree with those empty drums who write newspapers? Sidney, I have built my career by paying special attention to those newspapers, by using those men with the pens in their hands to reach the ignorant or the uncertain. I’ve been pretty good at it, too. But that isn’t your job. Was there ever any expectation that you could attack the Federal cities north of Kentucky?”

  Johnston shook his head, said, “No. We never had the strength to carry out an effective offensive campaign.”

  “And, what would have happened had you not withdrawn from Bowling Green? What would have happened had you chosen to make a fight for Nashville?”

  “You know what would have happened. We would have been destroyed. The enemy was too strong, too numerous, and they control the rivers. I knew they were coming, and all I could do was anticipate where they might strike first. The rivers made perfect strategic sense. And we could not stop them.”

  “So, that sounds to me as though you made the right decision, the only decision. Yes, yes, my constituency does not agree with that. They think ten Confederates can whip a thousand Yankees, I’ve heard all that. Well, now their myth has been shattered. That’s not a pleasant thing, you know. So they’re screaming out their wrath toward this headquarters.”

  “That wrath goes far beyond Tennessee and Kentucky. There are some in Richmond who are already calling for my head.”

  “What of Davis?”

  Johnston shrugged.

  “So far, he continues to support my position. He is no doubt suffering for that.”

  “He suffers every day of his life. It comes with the job. It comes with yours,
too.” Harris paused, seemed to ponder his words. “Sidney … I have to admit … I had my own myth, cherished it, did not understand for many months how wrong I was. I truly believed that all the outrage against Lincoln could be contained, that this could be done peacefully. I thought that Tennessee could choose to secede from the Union, and join the other states in a demonstration … a symbol that would have a real impact on Washington, on Lincoln himself. It was a magnificent protest, a refusal to go along with policies that would ruin us, destroy everything that has allowed this nation to prosper. I knew that those fire-eaters in South Carolina were going too far, and that sure enough, they would pay the price, would bring down the wrath of the Federal army. I thought it was pure stupidity to shell a government installation, but shell it they did. Fine, what’s done is done. But even then … I held out hope that perhaps … perhaps those cannons in Charleston would drive home our point, and that Lincoln would back down. I was utterly convinced that none of us would ever be called upon to put an army into the field, to fight a war. I did not expect the fire-eaters to prevail, and by God, they have prevailed everywhere. Where is the sanity? The Congress of the United States had every opportunity to stand up and take the hammer out of Lincoln’s hands, and instead … they chose up sides, like boys in a school yard brawl. Well, now we have our brawl. And it’s a bloody one. Now, there have to be men like you to make sure we spill more of their blood than they spill of ours. There can be no good from this, Sidney. No good at all.” Harris looked down, shook his head. “I’m just a politician. I put great faith in talk. And so … I have become obsolete.” He looked up at Johnston now, and Johnston saw red eyes. “This is your world now, General. God help you.”

  Though Johnston had military authority over a vast territory, and a vast number of soldiers, he was experiencing the dismay he had once felt in Texas and Mexico and California. Wars were started by politicians, and were fought by young men, and in between stood the generals. No matter the fire that had driven the Southern states to make their angry stand, the men put into positions of high authority by Jefferson Davis were often chosen for their political influence: governors, state legislators, local officials, who had at best done an effective job of assembling troops for this new army. The problem was not confined to the South, of course, and Johnston knew well what was going on in Washington. The cruelty of old age had sent Winfield Scott into retirement, the finest commander in either army now replaced by the ambitious George McClellan. The shelling of Fort Sumter had been nearly a year ago, and to the surprise of many, particularly in the North, the greater strength of the Union army had not squashed the Southern rebellion. If anyone on either side needed convincing that the fledgling Confederacy would fight and die to make their point, the battle at Manassas Junction had stood out like a beacon. There two clumsy armies had collided in a mishmash of disorganization, decided as much by confusion, panic, and dumb luck as by the wizardry of Confederate general Joe Johnston or this new light rising in the Southern command, the man the Virginians were calling “Stonewall.” Since Manassas, the two armies had focused most of their efforts on maneuver and organization, building the lifelines for supplies and equipment, and searching for the men who might actually be able to lead. Already, the geography of the war had exceeded what anyone in Washington or Richmond had ever expected. It was not to be decided by some noisy clash of arms within earshot of either capital. The maps were expanding, potential battlegrounds opening up even beyond the Mississippi River, troops marching into far-flung towns and villages, while farmers and shopkeepers waved their flags with the manic joy of the ignorant.

  With Johnston’s forces in an untenable position in Tennessee, he knew that the protests coming to him from Nashville or Bowling Green were utterly irrelevant. There was no purpose to hand-wringing about what had gone wrong. He already knew. The army was too small, too ill-equipped and in several of the sharper fights, it had been badly led. The anxiety coming toward him out of Richmond was entirely expected, but Johnston’s authority was still protected by Jefferson Davis, and as long as Davis believed in him, Johnston would focus on the most urgent priority in front of him. Tennessee had become an albatross, most of that state wide open to invasion by the Federal gunboats and the overwhelming strength of the Federal commands. Richmond had heard that message as well, and thankfully, had responded at least in part. Though many of the new generals were yet unproven on the battlefield, there were men in the Confederate command who brought genuine experience to the position, some who had cut their teeth in the Mexican War. One of those was Pierre Beauregard.

  If Johnston had any reason to believe that his failure to hold the Kentucky–Tennessee line would cost him his job, those fears were sharpened by Beauregard’s sudden arrival. But Beauregard paid his respects at Murfreesboro, did not carry any orders that put him above Johnston at all. Beauregard’s professed point of view was that he had simply been sent to assist where the need was greatest. For now, that was all Johnston needed to hear.

  To the civilian population impatient for heroes, Beauregard was already beloved by the Southern newspapers, and so by the people who read of his exploits. To Jefferson Davis, Beauregard’s mantle of heroism was displayed with a little too much swagger. In Richmond, there was considerable grumbling that the hero had simply been in the right place at the right time. In April 1861, that place happened to be Charleston, South Carolina. With great fanfare, Beauregard had ordered the shelling of Fort Sumter, and so had commanded the firing of the first shots of the war. Beauregard had also been one of the key players at Manassas, which of course fueled what seemed to be a lofty regard for his own abilities. But Jefferson Davis despised the man, a hostility that grew deeper when Beauregard attempted to insert himself directly into the operations of the entire army, operations that Davis held tightly in his own grasp. By rank, and presumably by ability, the senior commander in Virginia was Joseph Johnston, who could also claim major credit for the victory at Manassas. Joe Johnston had no need of a partner like Beauregard, and Davis knew he had to put distance between the two generals, whose personalities were already in conflict.

  When Beauregard began to submit elaborate plans for strategy that stepped squarely on the toes of Davis himself, grand plans that Beauregard insisted were the only way the war could be won, Davis’s patience ran out. Beauregard was ordered to the West, assigned to some vague position in a theater of operations that had already been assigned to others, Albert Sidney Johnston in particular. Johnston didn’t have any particular hostility toward Beauregard, assumed that since the man was from Louisiana, he might assist in drawing troops out of those areas that had been reluctant to send their men off to fight in Tennessee. With the defeats at Henry and Donelson, and now, with the strategic need to pull the Confederate troops southward from Kentucky and central Tennessee, Beauregard’s talent for organization seemed, to Johnston at least, to be an asset. If Beauregard was given any reason to believe he had been sent westward to replace Albert Sidney Johnston, Johnston had heard nothing of the sort. Johnston couldn’t help wondering if the fiery and outspoken Creole was truly willing to accept a subordinate position in anyone else’s command.

  Beauregard quickly established his headquarters at Corinth, Mississippi, and for good reason. With most of Tennessee completely vulnerable to the far more numerous Federal forces, Corinth, situated just south of the Tennessee border, anchored the next most essential defensive line. The town had been created by the junction of two major rail lines, the north-south Mobile & Ohio line, and the east-west Memphis & Charleston line. The east-west line in particular was crucial for the South to maintain a supply and communication link from the Mississippi River all the way to the Atlantic coast, and no one in the army, nor in the Confederate capital, faulted the strategy that called for a stout defense of the railroad. Corinth was even more valuable to the Federals, since the railroad could carry their own troops and supplies southward, from the Ohio Valley to the Gulf Coast.

  JOHNSTON ABANDONS KEN
TUCKY;

  THE CONFEDERATE ARMY WITHDRAWS SOUTHWARD TO CORINTH

  Beauregard’s arrival at Corinth had initiated even more calls for troops, urgent orders for any forces along the Gulf Coast not presently threatened to move rapidly to the rail center. Other troops were summoned from the west, troops who had been fortifying outposts closer to the Federal positions in Louisiana and Arkansas, that might be in danger of being cut off altogether. More troops were pulled in from the east, from various outposts in Alabama. While no one knew exactly what the Federal commanders were planning, it was certain that the coming of spring would mean movement, and Beauregard and Johnston agreed completely that the most likely targets would be Corinth or possibly Chattanooga. To throw misdirection at the Federal spies and cavalry patrols who might be observing Johnston’s troop movements, General John Floyd had been given twenty-five hundred troops and ordered to march noisily from Murfreesboro to Chattanooga. In addition, Johnston himself had made indiscreet mention around his headquarters that his own movements, and the movement of his remaining troops at Murfreesboro, would be toward the south and east. The goal of the deceit was twofold. If the Federal command intended to target his army first, Johnston hoped to convince the Federals to charge off in the wrong direction, a lengthy jaunt toward Chattanooga. The delays that could cause in the Federal advance would allow Johnston time to improve the fortifications around Corinth. But, more likely, if Halleck intended to seize the rail center after all, it could be enormously helpful if the Federal generals were convinced that most of Johnston’s troop strength had marched off elsewhere.

  On February 28, Johnston’s columns began their march southward, evacuating Murfreesboro, filling the roadways that led first toward Shelbyville and Fayetteville, Tennessee, and down across the Alabama border toward Huntsville. Though the invectives still poured his way, harsh condemnation from civilian leaders in Tennessee and throughout the Confederacy, Johnston focused more on what it would take to assemble an army with sufficient size and strength to push back at the Federal troops that were already slicing Tennessee in two. No matter the validity of the criticism, or how vicious the wrath of the newspapers and politicians in Richmond, Johnston knew that ultimately, those words did not matter. There was one way to renew the spirit of the people, of the army, and of his own command: assemble an army strong enough to confront the enemy, and then destroy him.