Free A Blaze of Glory by Jeff Shaara Page B

supplies gathered at Nashville, plus the urgent need to monitor any pursuit by the enemy, particularly the Federal cavalry. With Beauregard establishing his headquarters at Jackson, Mississippi, Johnston had allowed the Creole the authority to do whatever maneuvering was necessary to assemble as much strength as possible in Mississippi. On March 23, when Johnston arrived at Corinth, he could not avoid feeling seriously impressed by the success of Beauregard’s efforts. Around Corinth, and throughout northern Mississippi, the Confederate forces numbered close to fifty thousand. Whether Beauregard expected to actually lead those troops in the field was an issue that Johnston knew he would have to confront.
    Beauregard was a small, wiry man, handsome in the extreme, a trait that had made easy work for the newspapers in proclaiming him to be the South’s most gallant hero, his French background offering easy grist for the public mill quick to proclaim him their own Napoleon. Johnston carried the annoying memory inside him still of a quote from a Richmond paper that declared with great emotion that the South’s survival depended exclusively on God and General Beauregard . Johnston had wondered often, and he wondered now, if Beauregard believed that as well.
    At the moment, in Johnston’s new headquarters, he was more concerned with the man’s appearance. Beauregard had been extremely ill for some weeks now, and it showed. The illness, something in the man’s lungs, was draining his strength so severely he could barely stand. Beauregard’s condition had not been helped at all by the journey from Jackson, where he was still quartered. But summoned by Johnston, he had gamely made the journey, and both men knew that very soon, Beauregard would make the move to Corinth.
    Their meeting had been brief, but already his voice was giving out, Beauregard lying back on a couch in the living room of the private home that now served as Johnston’s office.
    “I am concerned for you, General. You did not have to make the journey here in such circumstances. This meeting could have waited. I apologize.”
    “For what? My duty requires me to be where you require me to be. I am pleased to report that your army continues to be assembled as we speak. I congratulate you on the swiftness with which your orders were carried out. No retreat is a joyous affair.”
    There was a hint of sarcasm in Beauregard’s praise, and Johnston tried not to notice. After a silent moment, he said, “I have believed for a very long time … that hope is God’s gift to the young. This army still believes in our cause, and I am certain that the men who made the march from Murfreesboro still have the spirit for the fight. It is not so easy to share their spirit when one views this war through tired eyes …” He stopped, suddenly realized Beauregard was appraising him, measuring every word, a test perhaps, maybe even something ordered by President Davis. Johnston cleared his throat, chose his words with more care.
    “Despite the condemnation of this army’s performance by those who … well, those who were not there … no matter our past difficulties, we must do what the country requires of us.”
    Beauregard coughed, harsh and liquid, a handkerchief to his mouth.
    “I am not here to replace you. Surely you are confident of that.”
    “I am not confident of very much these days. There have been mistakes made, errors by some that were out of my control. In my position, losing control is an error itself. There is much yet to be learned by the men in this command who are not accustomed to the stench of war. If God has given me any of that hope , it lies in believing that failures will be corrected.” He paused. “Pierre … if I may address you that way …”
    “Address me any way you please, sir. I am in your service.”
    The arrogance was unmistakable, but Johnston took him at his word.
    “Thank you. However, your service is something we should discuss. I