fence posts. The rebels had left one horse behind, a sickly sack of bones with an injured leg. Sherman had avoided studying the horse’s misery and ordered it destroyed, a single bullet to the head, the only humane thing to do. To Sherman, the animals deserved more consideration than the rebels who rode them.
And yet the brief uneventful encounter had punished Sherman, the burst of fear he could not avoid. When the skirmishers reported the cavalry’s hasty exit, Sherman had felt the familiar relief, that there had been no fight after all. But still the fear nagged at him, and he ordered the skirmishers to keep a sharp eye, that there might still be a mass of support waiting in ambush, the cavalry just a ruse. But they had seen no one else, and it infuriated him, drove him into a dark and brooding silence, a struggle against what felt like a quivering knife blade inside of him. In every ride into any place the enemy could be, the knife seemed to rise up and whirl through his brain, his own private torture. The cigars usually came then, giving him something to do with his hands, but out here, that wasn’t even a possibility, the rain too engulfing. He gripped the reins hard with one hand, felt his fingernails digging into his palm, the other hand inside his raincoat, his fingers nervously twirling the brass buttons on his coat. The cigars were there, a bulge in his pocket, and he was tempted to try, but the rain was blowing straight into his face now, and he gave up the idea, took several deep breaths, saw the sergeant of the skirmish line again, another report, nothing out there, just mud and trees and the occasional farmhouse. And still, Sherman’s fingers pulled at the buttons, couldn’t avoid the hard relentless pounding in his chest.
“Sergeant!”
The man jumped toward Sherman’s words, another quick salute.
“Sir!”
“Keep the men no more than a hundred yards to the front. You aren’t doing us any good if you wander off. I want to know your men are doing their job, and that’s your responsibility. Now move it! Keep them sharp. This is enemy country, and we know damn well we’re being watched! I want no surprises!”
It was not the first angry burst the sergeant had heard, and Sherman regretted it, knew the man was a veteran, knew how to do his job. He wanted to apologize, held it in, not appropriate. The sergeant seemed reassuring, as though reading Sherman’s odd fear.
“We’re close up front, sir! They’re good men! We’ll be watching! With your permission …”
“Go on! Move!”
The sergeant scampered forward, his boots kicking up showers of mud. Close behind him, Sherman’s staff officers said nothing. Like the sergeant, they had heard this before.
T o the men who marched behind him, this mission was nothing more than an exercise in misery, ordered by some other general back there , whose boots were no doubt warmed by a delicious fire, a man whose primary duty was putting pen to paper, sending men out into some godforsaken place to make a glorious thrust into the enemy’s land as though nothing bad might happen. But to Sherman, it was all bad. He followed the orders, of course, respected the man who issued them. General Charles Ferguson Smith now commanded this army, had been assigned to take over during the absurd melodrama that swirled around General Halleck’s headquarters in St. Louis. After Grant’s victory at Fort Donelson, what should have been a celebration had turned ugly. Instead of gratitude from his grateful commander, Grant had been relieved. Sherman only knew what floated through the army’s headquarters, that Grant had been guilty of some indiscretion that possibly had its roots only in Halleck’s mind, some fungus-like eruption of outrage that Halleck tossed toward his commanders for no reason anyone could explain. Sherman knew Halleck well, had known him since they were both green lieutenants fresh out of West Point. But that was too many years ago, even before the
And yet the brief uneventful encounter had punished Sherman, the burst of fear he could not avoid. When the skirmishers reported the cavalry’s hasty exit, Sherman had felt the familiar relief, that there had been no fight after all. But still the fear nagged at him, and he ordered the skirmishers to keep a sharp eye, that there might still be a mass of support waiting in ambush, the cavalry just a ruse. But they had seen no one else, and it infuriated him, drove him into a dark and brooding silence, a struggle against what felt like a quivering knife blade inside of him. In every ride into any place the enemy could be, the knife seemed to rise up and whirl through his brain, his own private torture. The cigars usually came then, giving him something to do with his hands, but out here, that wasn’t even a possibility, the rain too engulfing. He gripped the reins hard with one hand, felt his fingernails digging into his palm, the other hand inside his raincoat, his fingers nervously twirling the brass buttons on his coat. The cigars were there, a bulge in his pocket, and he was tempted to try, but the rain was blowing straight into his face now, and he gave up the idea, took several deep breaths, saw the sergeant of the skirmish line again, another report, nothing out there, just mud and trees and the occasional farmhouse. And still, Sherman’s fingers pulled at the buttons, couldn’t avoid the hard relentless pounding in his chest.
“Sergeant!”
The man jumped toward Sherman’s words, another quick salute.
“Sir!”
“Keep the men no more than a hundred yards to the front. You aren’t doing us any good if you wander off. I want to know your men are doing their job, and that’s your responsibility. Now move it! Keep them sharp. This is enemy country, and we know damn well we’re being watched! I want no surprises!”
It was not the first angry burst the sergeant had heard, and Sherman regretted it, knew the man was a veteran, knew how to do his job. He wanted to apologize, held it in, not appropriate. The sergeant seemed reassuring, as though reading Sherman’s odd fear.
“We’re close up front, sir! They’re good men! We’ll be watching! With your permission …”
“Go on! Move!”
The sergeant scampered forward, his boots kicking up showers of mud. Close behind him, Sherman’s staff officers said nothing. Like the sergeant, they had heard this before.
T o the men who marched behind him, this mission was nothing more than an exercise in misery, ordered by some other general back there , whose boots were no doubt warmed by a delicious fire, a man whose primary duty was putting pen to paper, sending men out into some godforsaken place to make a glorious thrust into the enemy’s land as though nothing bad might happen. But to Sherman, it was all bad. He followed the orders, of course, respected the man who issued them. General Charles Ferguson Smith now commanded this army, had been assigned to take over during the absurd melodrama that swirled around General Halleck’s headquarters in St. Louis. After Grant’s victory at Fort Donelson, what should have been a celebration had turned ugly. Instead of gratitude from his grateful commander, Grant had been relieved. Sherman only knew what floated through the army’s headquarters, that Grant had been guilty of some indiscretion that possibly had its roots only in Halleck’s mind, some fungus-like eruption of outrage that Halleck tossed toward his commanders for no reason anyone could explain. Sherman knew Halleck well, had known him since they were both green lieutenants fresh out of West Point. But that was too many years ago, even before the
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