A Blaze of Glory by Jeff Shaara

Author:Jeff Shaara
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780345527370
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2012-05-28T21:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY

SHERMAN

NEAR SHILOH CHURCH APRIL 6, 1862, 9:30 A.M.

He understood now just what was happening. The high-pitched scream of the rebel troops was everywhere, rising up from every low place, spreading through the fields and thickets of trees across his entire division. Almost immediately, Appler’s 53rd Ohio had broken, streaming past him in a panic that brought more of the terrible memories of Bull Run. Their eyes told the story, madness infecting every man as though each one felt his own devil in close pursuit. As the rebel attack pressed closer, Sherman sent his couriers all along the lines, trying to keep some sort of communications with his brigade commanders, but very quickly the front line was no line at all. For an hour or more, the roar of the firing seemed to surge in and out like the twisting body of some great bloody snake. He had heard nothing at all from Hildebrand, but the chaotic scamper of men from that part of the field was a message all its own. He had always known that Hildebrand was no leader, a gasping frustration that Sherman knew he could have changed, that there had been time and enough doubts for him to replace a man who had no business on the line. From all that Sherman could gather, Appler’s regiment had fled the field completely, led by Appler himself, a gaping hole in Hildebrand’s line that was spreading panic through that entire brigade, a brigade that was supposed to hold the center of Sherman’s position.

He kept three staff officers close to him, rode quickly through the trees, emerging into another of the smoky fields, stopped, stared, nothing to see but masses of troops, sheets of flame from a thousand muskets, his ears ringing from the hard thunder of his own batteries. He saw one of them now, a cluster of six cannon spread out among a stand of tall trees, shouted back to his staff, “That way! We need every battery up here! Anchor them in line with those men! Move!”

The courier moved away, orders Sherman could only trust, had no idea himself where more of the batteries would be. But someone would know, someone farther down, someone who had not yet tasted the panic of the forward lines. They rode toward the trees through smoke that made him cough, the steady clip and zing of the musket balls in the air, like so many deadly bees. Out of the smoke came a horse, riderless, as panicked as the men who followed it, scampering back through the battery Sherman was trying to reach. The horse nearly collided with his own, seemed to be blind, bloody eyes, sickening, his own horse rising up, as though sharing the beast’s agony. Sherman pulled hard on the reins, slapped the horse’s neck, forced a low voice, “Easy. We’re good here. I need you to do the job.”

The horse seemed to calm, responding to his control, the one hand holding tight to the reins, his wounded hand wrapped in a bloody white handkerchief.

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