Sears’s gunners grew impatient. Grumbled a sergeant, “By God, I guess we’re going to let them gobble the whole damned shooting match before we strike a lick, if we don’t mind and quickly too.”
“I guess we are obeying orders,” answered a corporal.
“Damn the orders!" snarled the sergeant. “To wait for orders in a time like this!”
Sears heard the rumble of discontent. “This dialogue struck a responsive chord in my mind, and was, perhaps, the last straw that moved me to take a chance and shoulder the responsibility.” Sears yelled, “With canister, load, aim low, and give them hell as fast as you can!” so loudly it was heard in the first rank of the Third Texas Dismounted Cavalry, before the crash of cannon shattered the air.18
Texans fell by the dozen. Colonel Mabry of the Third Texas Dismounted Cavalry had his ankle fractured but kept on his horse. At 100 yards' range Sears ordered the cannon double-shotted with canister, and the enemy vanished in smoke. Lieutenants Sears and Neil felt certain they could hold the foe to their front; both agreed, however, that the retreat of the Forty-eighth Indiana from their left and the Twenty-sixth Missouri and Fifth Iowa from their right condemned the cannon to capture.
First came enfilading volleys from Whitfield’s First Texas Legion and the right companies of the Third Texas Dismounted Cavalry. “The guns were being worked with greater speed and smaller crews,” said Neil. “Cannoneers were falling. Other cannoneers coolly took their places and performed double duty. Drivers left their dead horses and took the places of dead or wounded comrades, only to be struck down in turn.”
As the cannonade slackened, the Third Texas Dismounted Cavalry sprang forward for a third and final lunge up the ridge. Whitfield’s men charged on their right, overwhelming the gunners of Sears’s left section at their pieces.
Going into Battery: The Eleventh Ohio Battery at Iuka by Keith Rocco
Several stood by the cannon to the last, exhibiting a brand of courage that Lieutenant Sears conceded to be foolhardy. David Montgomery, an ammunition carrier who found himself the only man unhurt at his cannon, yanked the lanyard in time to discharge a double load of canister into the bodies of a squad of Rebels who were just an arm’s length from the gun tube. The instant Montgomery pulled the lanyard, a tall Texan raised his rifle to brain him. Montgomery darted aside as the Texan brought down his weapon. Grabbing a round of canister, Montgomery smashed in the Texan’s skull, then dodged under a limber and into the brush, where he hid safely.
Driver John Dean was less prudent than Montgomery. As Montgomery dove for cover and every other cannoneer still on his feet ran for the rear, Dean stood holding the two horses of his limber team precisely where they had stopped when his piece was taken into battery. Three of the limber’s six horses were dead, and the Rebels were a stone’s throw away. A battery mate screamed at Dean to save himself. Dean refused. “My sergeant ordered me to hold this team right here, and by God, I’m going to do it or die, till I get proper orders to do something else.” The next morning Dean was found holding his team with a death grip on the bridles. His body lay beside his dead horses.19
The tenacity of the Ohioans' defense stunned the soldiers of the Third Texas Dismounted Cavalry. “I shall never forget what happened,” said W. P. Helm of the moment when his regiment crested the ridge. “Sword and bayonet were crossed. Muskets, revolvers, knives, ramrods, gun swabs — all mingled in the death-dealing fray.” Sam Barron confirmed the doggedness of the Federal cannoneers: “The horses hitched to the [limber] tried to run off, but we shot them down and took it, the brave defenders standing nobly to their posts until they were nearly all shot down around their guns — one poor fellow being found lying near his gun, with his ramrod grasped in both hands, as if he were in the act of ramming down a cartridge when he was killed.”20
A similar scene was played out when the Third Louisiana converged on Lieutenant Neil’s own section. By 6:30 P.M., twenty minutes after sunset, the fight for the cannon was over. The battery had gone into action 97 strong; 18 lay dead and 39 were wounded. Of the 54 cannoneers, 46 were hit. Forty-two dead limber horses were heaped near the guns; almost as many caisson horses were shot coming forward to replace them. Only 3 of the battery’s 80 horses left the ridge unhurt. A few of the Ohioans were taken prisoner while swinging their sponges. In an act of remarkable restraint, the Confederates not only spared their lives but also let them go. Explained a Rebel eyewitness, “Those battery boys had so much spunk that we took pity on the few who were left.”21
9. Night Quickly Set In
Sanborn’s line was shattered. Four of his five regiments had been routed and his battery captured. Only the Fourth Minnesota on the extreme left remained intact. After seventy-five minutes of close combat the ridge belonged to the Rebels. Then was the moment for Confederate reserves to pass to the front, sweep over the ridge, swallow up Sullivan’s dispersed Federal brigade, and complete the victory, or for Martin’s brigade to take the remaining Yankees in the flank. Instead a lull fell over the field. No fresh Confederate regiments appeared, and those congregated around the Federal cannon went no farther.
What accounted for the sudden stop to the Southern attack? Darkness played a part. In the smoky grayness of approaching night, images were blurred beyond a few feet, so the Confederates could not know how many Federals lay beyond the ridge. Heavy losses also contributed to the halt. Three regiments had borne the brunt of the battle—the Third Louisiana, the Third Texas Dismounted Cavalry, and the First Texas Legion — and they suffered commensurately. Colonel Mabry’s bleeding ankle finally compelled him to leave his regiment. Colonel Whitfield was shot in the shoulder during the final charge of the First Texas Legion, and Lt. Col. Jerome Gilmore of the Third Louisiana had taken five flesh wounds. Each regiment had lost about 100 men. More important than the loss of regimental commanders or men was the absence of a guiding hand. Among the dead was General Little.1
* * *
Sterling Price reached the front a few minutes after Hébert began his attack, and he at once sought out General Little. Price found him 100 yards south of the Jacinto road, behind the Third Texas Dismounted Cavalry. Little had just ordered the Thirty-seventh and Thirty-eighth Mississippi regiments of Martin’s brigade to reinforce Hébert. Sitting on horseback a few feet from each other, Price and Little briefly reviewed the situation. It was about 5:45 P.M. The bitterness of the battle astounded Price: “The fight began, and was waged with a severity I have never seen surpassed.” Guessing that Rosecrans had at least 8,000 men on hand, Price concluded that Hébert needed reinforcements merely to hold his own. Turning from the fight to face Little, arms akimbo, he implored the Marylander to bring up the rest of his division. At that instant a bullet passed under Price’s arm and struck Little above the left eye. It dug through his brain and stopped just under the skin on the back of his head.
Little threw his arms in the air, dropped the reins, and slumped forward onto the neck of his horse. Sgt. T.J. Cellum of the Third Texas Dismounted Cavalry caught the general and eased him to the ground. Price dismounted and knelt beside Litde. His friend had died instantly. Price wept “as he would for a son” until an ambulance came to claim the body. Mounting his horse, Price repeated to Capt. John Kelly of Litde’s staff his order that the remaining two brigades of the division be brought up, then sent word to Hébert that the division was now the Creole’s. At the insistence of his staff Price rode to a less exposed position.
Galloping down the Jacinto road to join Litde, unaware of his death, was the general’s “guardian angel,” Father John Bannon, chaplain of the First Missouri Brigade. He and Little were close friends, eating, traveling, and tenting together from Elkhorn Tavern to Iuka. Solicitous of Litde’s precarious health, Bannon was bringing him a canteen of water when he met Captain Kelly on the road. Bannon searched out the ambulance bearing Little’s body and escorted it to the general’s headquarters in Iuka.2
* * *
“If Litde’s death had not produced a
pause in the Confederate assault, Hamilton’s entire division might have been routed,” historian Albert Cas- tel has asserted. His claim has merit. Litde fell just as the Thirty-seventh and Thirty-eighth Mississippi regiments were about to make their presence felt against the Federal left flank. Separated from their brigade commander, whom Litde had sent to the left to direct the movements of the Thirty-sixth Mississippi and the Thirty-seventh Alabama, the two Mississippi colonels looked to Little for instructions. When he died, they were forgotten. Hébert was too busy with his own brigade to shoulder the responsibilities of division command, and Price neither gave the Mississippians orders nor reminded Hébert of his larger duties.3
Had he been a man of initiative, Col. Fleming W. Adams of the Thirty-eighth Mississippi might have contributed something to the Confederate attack. In keeping with his last orders from Little, Adams had his command advancing with its left flank touching the Jacinto road to reinforce the stalled assault on the Eleventh Ohio Battery. Just as the regiment ascended a low rise in the woods to the right and rear of Colonel Whitfield’s First Texas Legion, someone commanded the Thirty-eighth to fall back. Colonel Adams was perplexed: “I asked who the command came from, but was unable to ascertain.” Unfortunately he chose to obey the anonymous order. He withdrew his Mississippians sixty yards at precisely the moment when their continued presence might have hastened the capture of the Eleventh Ohio Battery and provided the crucial reserves needed to carry the assault over the ridge and into Sullivan’s dispersed brigade. As it was, the Thirty-eighth Mississippi took no further part in the battle.4
Adams would have found little in his way, had he pressed on. The only Federal regiment near enough to have interrupted his advance, the Fourth Minnesota, was in no condition to challenge anyone. Unlike Adams, Captain Le Gro was a man of action; unfortunately the actions he took were generally wrong. When the Forty-eighth Indiana gave way early in the fight, Le Gro removed his right wing companies to a less exposed position in deep timber sixty yards to the rear.
Le Gro’s order was “a terrible blunder,” said the regimental historian. “A right oblique fire from us along the front of the battery and into the woods in front of it would have prevented any force [such as the Thirty- eighth Mississippi] from going through the gap, and also aided those who were engaged in a desperate struggle against far superior numbers on the right . . . . The movement made by Le Gro’s order virtually drew the regiment out of the battle.”5
Col. Robert McLain of the Thirty-seventh Mississippi found himself in a predicament far graver than the “very embarrassing situation” Colonel Adams of the Thirty-eighth later tried to explain away in his report. General Little had ordered him “to move forward on the extreme right, with instructions not to fire, as there was a brigade of our own troops between us and the enemy.”
That was true when Little gave the order, but the situation had changed markedly. The First Texas Legion, which had stood directly in front of the Thirty-seventh Mississippi, had inclined toward the Eleventh Ohio Battery as it advanced, unmasking McLain’s left companies. Nonetheless, McLain moved in accordance with Little’s order. He followed the initial path of the First Texas Legion, evident by trampled brush and broken branches.
For 250 yards McLain’s Mississippians tripped through what one veteran called “the thickest place I ever saw of vines, bushes, and briars” before striking the southeast corner of the Yow field. A high wooden fence bordered the field. McLain ordered his men over it. While they were climbing, the Mississippians were stunned by a heavy and unexpected fire delivered into their right flank from the far side of the field, some 400 yards away. At that range few were hit, and Colonel McLain fell back to re-form the regiment and await instructions from Little. None came; not a single courier appeared to inform McLain of Little’s fate or to offer guidance. Unlike Colonel Adams, McLain took matters upon himself. After restoring order he elected to challenge the Federals, who were arrayed on a ridge along the field’s western fringe. The Mississippian conducted a half wheel to the right and marched his regiment due west into the open, away from the rest of the division and the fight for the Eleventh Ohio Battery. McLain’s decision cost him dearly. A sharp frontal volley of musketry and crushing salvo of canister met his men midway across the field. Then an irregular but well-aimed fire erupted from the forest 200 yards to their left. The accuracy and increasing volume of the Yankee volleys convinced the Mississippians that they confronted a whole brigade — Capt. Absalom Dantzler guessed they faced four times their number— and the men fell to the ground to return the fire as best they could.6
In the thickening twilight it was easy to exaggerate the strength of an enemy only dimly seen, even at close range. In reality McLain confronted only Col. Nicholas Perczel’s Tenth Iowa, the two-gun section of Immell’s Twelfth Wisconsin Battery that had accompanied the Tenth on its reconnaissance up the settlement road, and the left companies of the disorganized Fourth Minnesota.
Colonel Perczel had ample warning of the Rebel approach. The three companies he had sent into the timber south of the Yow house to find the flank of the Fourth Minnesota returned to warn him that two enemy regiments — the Thirty-eighth and Thirty-seventh Mississippi—were coming. Perczel realigned his regiment along a ridge paralleling the settlement road north of the Yow house, which gave his men an unobstructed view of the field. ImmelPs cannon went into battery on his right. Perczel felt ready, until Lieutenant Immell limbered his guns. Perczel drew his saber and blocked Immell’s path. “You are not going to retreat, are you?” bellowed the silver-haired Hungarian. “Wait a moment and see,” Immell snapped back. He recalled with satisfaction what followed: “Immediately south of the cabins was a depression just back of the crest of the ridge of open ground, a fine position for the guns: the recoil placing them below the crest to load, and then ’by hand to the front.' On understanding the situation the Colonel rode up to me, and under a severe fire from the enemy apologized.”
The Rebel fire was less effective than Immell portrayed it. Lying down and firing uphill, burying their heads to dodge the canister that raked their line, the Mississippians aimed badly and hit litde. And they were angry. The Thirty-eighth Mississippi had disappeared from their left at the same time McLain’s men took their first volley from that direction, leading them to conclude that their fellow Mississippians had run. Fighting alone and taking fire from two directions, McLain conceded the contest as dusk setded over the field. The Thirty-seventh re-formed in the timber and delivered a few more volleys, until darkness ended the pointless exchange. McLain’s futile sally into the Yow field had cost him seventy- eight men.7
While McLain and Perczel fought their private duel near the Yow house, the action raged with unremitting fury around the Eleventh Ohio Battery. The cannon became a vortex into which opposing lines were drawn; attack followed counterattack in the smoky darkness.
For perhaps the only time during his army service, “Fighting Jerry” Sullivan proved worthy of his sobriquet. Sitting with his staff in the swale behind the ridge when Sanborn’s brigade broke, Sullivan rode back to the meetinghouse to bring up his two reserve regiments, the Eightieth Ohio and the Seventeenth Iowa. The Eightieth Ohio was drawn up on a ridge parallel to and 250 yards in behind the one on which Sanborn was fighting, the regiment’s left seventy-five yards north of the old meetinghouse and its right touching the Jacinto road. The Seventeenth Iowa was in route column on the road. Sullivan yelled at its commander, Col. John Rankin, to get his men into line, while the Eightieth Ohio marched off the slope and into the wooded ravine between the two ridges.
Sullivan expected little of Rankin, so he probably was not surprised to find his regiment unprepared for battle. No one really had much confidence in Rankin’s ability, not even Rankin himself. A descendant of the Scottish poet Robert Burns, Rankin was a small, quick-minded man who studied Latin and law at Washington College before coming west to practice in Keokuk, Iowa, in 1848. Despite his general popularity and sharp legal mind, Rankin w
as singularly unfit for military command. He never grasped the basics of the military art and in the field was constantly sick. Rankin recognized his shortcomings, which he tried to remedy by resigning two weeks before Iuka on the pretense of having pressing business back home. Rosecrans immediately accepted his resignation. Unfortunately for all concerned, the lieutenant colonel was absent, the major was under arrest, and the new colonel of the Seventeenth had not arrived, so Rankin had to stay on.
The Seventeenth Iowa was a new regiment, but the men were good. Their mustering officer and surgeon were unusually conscientious, so that “no man was passed if he had the slightest physical blemish, and no man mustered unless, in size, he more than filled the letter of the regulations.” But good men can do little without experience or a good leader, and the Seventeenth had neither.
Rankin deployed the regiment in a manner that thoroughly bewildered Capt. John Young: “We were filed off to the right by Colonel Rankin, until a little more than the right wing had filed to the right, when the regiment was halted and brought to a front and the remainder of the left wing formed on the left of the road.” When Sullivan upbraided him, Rankin tried to redeem himself with brave words. Riding to the front of the regiment, he shouted, “Now, if there is a coward in the ranks of the Seventeenth Iowa, I want him to step out.” No one moved. One man muttered, “You old fool.” Deeply impressed with himself, Rankin ordered the regiment forward at the double-quick.
Into the ravine marched the Iowans. Bullets peppered the underbrush. Through the dusky timber came the “infernal, blood-curdling, ear- splitting, hair-raising rebel yell,” recalled Pvt. Daniel Spencer of Company C. “To say that I was scared is putting it mildly. That first rebel charging yell rings in my ears yet. It brought my heart into my mouth, and I thought at the time that I had swallowed it back down on the wrong side.” A glance toward his colonel did little to reassure him; “Rankin was too much rattled to give a command.”
The Darkest Days of the War- the Battles of Iuka and Corinth Page 13