religion, history, and, in some cases, family as those in blue, waited for the events of tomorrow.
Abner thought about what General Johnston had said with regard to the great bloodletting that was about to take place, then he thought about James Cason, Bob Ferguson, and Billy Swan, back home in Texas. They refused to come to war because they didn’t want to kill their own kin, or be killed by their own.
Abner had a first cousin who lived in Illinois. Cephus Murback was the son of Abner’s father’s brother. Cephus and Abner were within a few weeks of being the same age; they were of the same name and same blood. Was Cephus on the other side of the line tonight? Could it be possible that, tomorrow, he would kill one of his own kin? Or be killed by one of his own kin?
“God,” Abner prayed under his breath. “How have we let it all come to this?”
The next morning, on Sunday, April 6, 1862, on the Mississippi-Tennessee border, near a small church meeting house called Shiloh, General Johnston commenced the battle that would, ever after, bear the name of the little meeting house.
The attack met with immediate, initial success as the Union lines sagged and crumpled and Union troops fled to safety under the bluff along the river. A few brave Union soldiers held on at a place called the “Hornet’s Nest,” though at a terrible cost in terms of lives lost.
The Shiloh campground had been General Sherman’s place of bivouac during the night before, but now General Beauregard made the little log church his personal headquarters. From it, he issued orders and dispatched reinforcements where they were needed, thus affording General Johnston the freedom to move up and down the line of battle, giving encouragement to the men.
Abner was with Johnston, who was at that moment on the extreme right end of the battle line. To those who needed a calming influence, Johnston spoke quietly. “Easy, men, make every shot count. Keep calm, don’t let the Yankees get you riled.”
To those he felt needed more spirit, he injected a note of ferocity to his words: “Men of Arkansas, you are skilled with the Arkansas toothpick, let us use that skill with a nobler weapon, the bayonet. Use it for your country! Use it for your state! Use it for your fellow soldiers! Use it well!”
General Johnston was well mounted on a large, beautiful horse, and his presence among the men, whether he was speaking or not, was all the inspiration they needed. His progress along the line could be followed easily through the rippling effect of hurrahs shouted by the soldiers.
“Hey! Lookie here!” a soldier shouted as they came across what had been a Yankee camp. “These damn Yankees left their food still a-cookin’!”
“Yahoo!” another shouted, and to Abner’s surprise and frustration, nearly half the army broke off its pursuit of the fleeing Union soldiers to sit down and eat the breakfast the Yankees had so recently abandoned.
“You men!” Abner shouted. “Leave that be! We’ve got the Yankees on the run! Let’s finish the job, then you can come back to it!”
“Are you kiddin’? There won’t be nothin’ left,” a corporal said, grabbing a couple of biscuits and a hunk of salt pork.
“Lieutenant, let the stragglers be,” General Johnston shouted to Abner. “We have more important things to do! We’re losing cohesion here!”
Abner could see what Johnston was talking about. The underbrush, gullies, twisting roads, and pockets of stiff Union resistance had disrupted the orderly progress of the attack. The three lines of battle, so carefully sketched out on the battle map, had become terribly disjointed. Divisions, brigades, and regiments became so intermingled that men found themselves fighting side-by-side with strangers and listening to commands given by officers they didn’t even know. Over it all was the cacophonous roar of battle: thundering cannon, booming muskets, shrieking shells, screams of rage, curses of defiance, fear, and pain, the whole enshrouded in a thick, opaque cloud of noxious gun smoke.
“Lieutenant Murback, get back to Beauregard as quickly as you can. Tell him I wish to reorganize into four sections, Hardee and Polk on the left, Bragg and Breckinridge on the right!”
“Yes, sir,” Abner replied. “Where will you be, General?”
“I? I will be here, right in front of this . . . this hornet’s nest,” Johnston said, referring to the ferocious fighting that was going on in front of them.
Abner galloped back to Shiloh Church. Some of the wounded had straggled back as far as the church and many were sitting or lying around on the ground, attended to by doctors and their orderlies. Beauregard was in conversation with two colonels when Abner reported to him.
“General Johnston’s compliments, sir,” Abner said, saluting.
“Yes, yes, what is it, Lieutenant?” Beauregard asked, obviously displeased at being interrupted during this critical time.
“The general wishes you to reorganize into four sections, Hardee and Polk on the left, Bragg and Breckinridge on the right.”
“Reorganize in the midst of battle?” Beauregard replied. “And how am I supposed to do that, did the general say?”
Abner shook his head. “I’m sorry, General, he didn’t say. He just said to reorganize into four—”
“—Sections, Hardee and Polk and the left, Bragg and Breckinridge on the right—yes, yes, I heard that,” Beauregard said. Sighing, he stroked his Vandyke beard, then looked at the two colonels. “Colonel Livingston, you get through to Polk and Hardee, Colonel Virden, you see Bragg and Breckinridge. Tell them to reestablish the integrity of their divisions, then continue in a coordinated attack.”
“Very good sir,” both colonels replied, saluting.
Beauregard turned to Abner. “Very well, Lieutenant, you may tell General Johnston that I am complying with his order.”
“Yes, sir,” Abner said saluting, then remounting for the ride back.
When Abner returned from his mission, he saw General Johnston heading toward a peach orchard that was occupied by several pieces of Confederate artillery. The trees were in full bloom, and each time one of the guns would fire, the concussion would cause the flower petals to come fluttering down in a bright pink blizzard.
Across the way from the peach orchard a little band of Yankees stubbornly held onto a piece of elevated ground. Twice they had repelled the charges made by the Bexar Fusiliers. On the second charge, Colonel Culpepper and two of his officers were killed, and now the Texans were milling around, as if wondering what to do next.
“Come on, boys!” Johnston shouted to the Texans. “We must dislodge them from that position! Do it for your fallen commander! I will lead you!”
Holding a tin coffee cup he had just liberated as if it were a saber, Johnston rode at a gallop toward the Yankee defenders. With a Rebel yell, the men in gray surged after him. This time the Yankees gave way, and the small hill was captured. Johnston came riding back, smiling broadly, his uniform torn and one boot-sole shot away.
“They didn’t trip us up that time,” he said. “We carried the day, boys. We carried the day. Tonight, we will water our horses in the Tennessee river.”
Suddenly Johnston began reeling in his saddle.
“General, are you hurt?” Abner asked.
“Yes, and I fear seriously,” Johnston replied quietly. He put his hand to his forehead.
Abner jumped down from his horse and moved quickly to help the general out of his saddle. Johnston, who had now grown very weak and pale, lay down under a tree. Isham Harris, the governor of Tennessee, saw Johnston down and he came over quickly to see what was wrong.
“Where are you hurt, General?” Harris asked.
“I . . . I truly don’t know,” Johnston answered. “But I have suddenly become very . . . dizzy.”
Harris started unbuttoning Johnston’s clothes, looking for the wound. Then he found it, a small, clean hole just above the hollow of the knee. From that neat bullet hole, Johnston was pumping blood profusely, the result of a cut artery. Harris put his hand over the wound, trying to stop the flow, but he was unable to do so.
“General, you seem to be bleeding very badly, and I don’t know how to stop it. Tell me what I should do.”
Johnston’s eyelids fluttered, and he tried to talk, but he no longer had the strength to speak.
“Maybe some brandy,” Harris suggested. From his hip pocket he took a flask, then he tried to pour some
