As Johnston’s army maneuvered into position early the next morning, an abrupt April thun derstorm broke over the winding columns. The rain filled hat brims, flowed down the soldiers’ backs, and drummed into puddles on the dirt trails. Wagon and artillery wheels cut through rain-soaked roads, turning them into muddy quagmires that caked up on the wheels and gathered in great mud balls on the shoes of the marching soldiers, making every inch of progress most difficult. The army moved, when it moved at all, in jerky, halting operations. Periodically they would stop for long periods of time while the men stood, made miserable by the falling rain. Then the army would lurch into movement that would inevitably cause the trailing columns to have to break into a difficult and exhausting trot just to keep up.
Scattered on both sides of the road during all this were the discarded items of soldiers on the march: overcoats, shovels, rain-soaked playing cards, letters, newspapers, and even Bibles.
Finally the army was called to a halt so that General Johnston’s orders, which by now had been transcribed into a score or more copies, could be read to the various regiments. Abner had delivered a copy to Colonel Culpepper and he stood in the rain with the others listening, as Culpepper read them aloud, shielding the orders from the rain by holding his hat over the piece of paper on which they were written.
“Soldiers of the Army of the Mississippi,” the colonel read. Then clearing his voice, he moved into the body of the orders:
“I have put into motion to offer battle to the invaders of your country. With the resolution and disciplined valor becoming men fighting, as you are, for all worth living and dying for, you can but march to a decisive victory over the agrarian mercenaries sent to subjugate and despoil you of your liberties, property, and honor. Remember the precious stake involved; remember the dependence of your mothers, your wives, your sisters, and your children on the result; remember the fair, broad, abounding land, the happy homes, and the ties that would be desolated by your defeat.
“The eyes and hopes of eight millions of people rest upon you. You are expected to show yourselves worthy of your race and lineage, worthy of the women of the South, whose noble devotion in the war has never been exceeded in any time. With such incentives to brave deeds, and with the trust that God is with us, your generals will lead you confidently to the combat, assured of success.”
After finishing reading, the colonel looked up. “And it is signed by A.S. Johnston, General.”
“Hip, hip!” someone shouted.
“Hoorah!” his call was answered.
Having delivered the orders to the commanding officer of his old regiment, Abner exchanged a few pleasantries with his friends and returned to General Johnston’s headquarters.
Although it had been General Johnston’s intention to have the men in position by seven and begin the attack by eight, eight o’clock came and passed with the Southern columns still bogged down in the stop-and-go marching that had thus far marked their progress on the muddy arteries that were the roads.
General Bragg, a West Point graduate and hero of the Mexican War, was beside himself with consternation. One of his divisions was lost somewhere in the rain on the jammed, muddy roads, and the lateness of his corps was causing the entire operation to dissolve.
Beauregard was riding him mercilessly, and though Bragg had done everything within his power to keep to the schedule, he made no excuses to General Beauregard because he knew that the ultimate responsibility lay with the commander. And as Bragg must suffer the tirade from Beauregard, so too would Beauregard hear from Johnston, who, in turn, was ultimately responsible to the governors of Tennessee, Mississippi, and Alabama, as well as to Jefferson Davis and the Confederate Congress.
As the men began reaching their positions, the sun finally came out. By the time it made its first appearance, however, it was already high in the sky, for the eight o’clock deadline had long since passed. The men, fearful that the rain may have dampened the powder in their rifles, began testing the powder by snapping the triggers. As a result, all up and down the line their muskets popped and banged, well within earshot of the Union outposts.
In addition, the untrained and untested men who made up the Confederated army had their spirits so invigorated by the warming sun that, excited at the prospect of the battle and glory that lay before them, they began giving a series of Rebel yells. Some started shooting rabbits and doves to cook for their lunch, justifiable in their minds because most had eaten their three days’ of rations in the first day.
For two more dragging hours, Generals Johnston and Beauregard stood by as Bragg continued to bring up his corps. By now the sun was straight overhead, but the rear division was still nowhere to be seen.
“General Bragg,” General Johnston said, “we are waiting.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
“Where is your division?”
“I’m not certain, General,” Bragg said. He pointed south. “It’s back there, somewhere. The mud, the crowded roads . . .” He stopped in midsentence. Since the others had had to put up with the same conditions, the excuse sounded feeble, even to his own ears.
General Johnston took out his watch and looked at it.
“It is twelve-thirty,” he said. He snapped the watch shut and put it back in his pocket. “This is perfectly puerile! This is not war!”
It took two more hours for Bragg’s lost division to come up front, and two more hours beyond that for it to be put into position. By that time it was four-thirty in the afternoon and the shadows were growing longer.
Suddenly there was the unmistakeable sound of a drummer giving the long roll. General Beauregard put his hand to his head in consternation. “Is there to be no respite from the bungling?”
Looking around, he saw Abner.
“Lieutenant Murback, would you please find the idiot who is beating that drum and silence him?” he commanded.
“Yes, sir,” Abner replied.
Once mounted, Abner rode down the line toward the sound of the beating drum. When he reached a point quite near it, he stopped and summoned a sergeant.
“Sergeant, I want you to find whoever is banging on that drum and have it stopped at once,” he ordered.
To his surprise, the sergeant, and several of the men around him laughed.
“What is so funny?” Abner asked, irritated at the unexpected response.
“Don’t rightly know how I’m goin’ to get that drum stopped, Lieutenant,” the sergeant replied. “Seein’ as it’s over to the Yankee camp.”
“The Yankee camp?”
“Yes, sir. I can walk over there’n tell the little feller to stop, but like as not he won’t pay no attention to me,” the sergeant joked, and again the men laughed.
“Never mind, Sergeant,” Abner said, laughing with him. He looked across the woods toward the sound of the drum. “I doubt he would even pay attention to General Beauregard. Very well, men, carry on as you were.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, still smiling at the joke.
Abner returned to General Beauregard to give him the news that they were listening to a Yankee drum.
“Well, that does it, then,” Beauregard said. “If we can hear them, there’s no doubt they have heard us.”
General Johnston was speaking with General Polk. Polk had been Johnston’s roommate at West Point. More recently he had been ordained an Episcopal bishop; as a result, he was referred to as “the Bishop” fully as often as he was called General.
“There is no longer any chance of surprise. By now the Yankees will be entrenched up to their ears,” Beauregard said.
“So, what are you telling me, Gus?” Johnston asked.
“I’m suggesting that you might want to reconsider the attack order, General. Perhaps we would be better served by withdrawing to Corinth to strengthen our own defenses and let the Yankees bring the fight to us.”