Sumter to Shiloh

by Bob Mayer

  Grant patted Sherman on the shoulder. “Go back to your command, Cump. I’ll decide by midnight.”

  Grant walked toward his staff. “I want the Lexington and Tyler to commence a bombardment of the enemy lines,” he ordered. “We might as well give our Southern brethren an uncomfortable night.”

  Hogs were feeding on the dead. Wounded men were crying out for their mothers, for mercy, for help, for death to take them. Along the edge of Bloody Pond, it no longer mattered if one were Yankee or Rebel as men died bundled close to whatever human comfort they could get in their last moments. The still surface of the water shimmered the reflected starlight in red.

  Neither North nor South had been prepared for such a day. Nor could they have been, as there were more dead and wounded on this one day around Shiloh than had been killed in all the combined wars the United States had ever fought.

  Because of this, there was no system of evacuation for wounded. Across the battlefield hundreds of men who might have survived, died. Those who had not been killed had an idea they had been part of something epic, something unseen on the North American continent, but no one knew yet the magnitude of the scale. Northerners who’d survived were grateful for life and expected to be heading back over the Tennessee River soon, skedaddling back north, maybe to Nashville, maybe further to Bowling Green. Southerners were exhausted, having formed for the attack over eighteen hours ago in the pre-dawn darkness, and fighting all day. They’d pushed the Yankees from the field and could finish the job tomorrow. Tonight, most collapsed in the deep sleep of utter exhaustion wherever they were.

  Wounded and dying men cried out for water and it seemed as if God heard them as storm clouds came in, blanketing the stars. A light patter at first, then a steady drizzle with the promise of a full-blown storm as the wind began to pick up.

  The sound of scattered firing increased, as the three got further north. Cord suddenly halted, Rumble and Ben coming up to his side. They were near the edge of a patch of woods. There was a field ahead, but in the rain and, it was hard to tell if the ghostly figures carrying torches were wearing blue or gray.

  “Rebel skirmishers ahead,” Cord said. “Feeling out the line, checking the bodies.”

  “Might be our boys,” Rumble said.

  “They’re not ours,” Cord said with certainty.

  Ben shivered and went to his knees. Cord grabbed him before he collapsed completely. “He’s sick!”

  “He said he had a touch of something,” Rumble said. “I can carry him.”

  Rumble wrapped his arm around Ben, lifting him up. Cord picked up the Henry and slung it over his shoulder, keeping the Lancaster in his hands. There was a deep roar, followed by three more in rapid succession. Sounding like a train chugging by, a heavy shell from a gunboat flew overhead, the sputtering fuse marking its path. It landed a quarter mile behind them with a loud explosion. Three more shells, widely dispersed, roared by and exploded.

  “Gunboats,” Rumble said. “Sam’s keeping the secessionists on their toes.”

  Cord pointed with the Lancaster. “We slide right. Toward the river. Wasn’t much fighting over there, near as I can tell. We should be able to cross the lines along the river, and if need be, cross the river. There’s a creekbed we can follow, keep us low and in the brush.”

  Thirty feet away, out of sight, St. George held the LeMat in a sweat and rain soaked hand. He wanted to wade forward and finish all three, but the odds weren’t good and he didn’t trust Gabriel to have his back. In fact, he more than half-suspected she might shoot him in the back.

  The shells arcing overhead made him skittish. The concept that one could land on him out of the sky and kill him unsettled him something fierce. Totally impersonal.

  Gabriel pointed. The trio were moving to the east and north, the elder Rumble carrying the boy. The other, the mountain man, he was different, even in the dark, St. George could see that. He would not be easy to kill face up.

  St. George didn’t plan on killing him face to face.

  Sally Skull held her hands, palms up, out into the rain. She was seated on a log, not far from a campfire at the headquarters of the Confederate army. She watched General Jonhston’s blood get washed away from her skin, drop by drop. There was a commotion to her right and she wearily turned her head to see what was happening.

  There was no mistaking Nathan Bedford Forrest, nor the anger in his voice. He towered over an officer wearing a bathrobe and slippers, quite obviously done for the day. Forrest’s hat dripped water and his uniform was splattered with mud. He was gesturing with one hand, his other hand on the hilt of his cavalry saber. With a sigh, Skull got up and walked over to see what the hullabaloo was about.

  “We hit ‘em now,” Forrest was saying, “we can smash them into the river. Half of ‘em will drown like rats.”

  The staff officer didn’t even bother to stifle his yawn. “Yes, yes, Colonel. I’m sure General Beauregard is quite aware of the strategic situation. Orders have already been issued for an attack at dawn and I’m quite sure that will suffice. I suggest you go back to your picket line, sir, and keep a vigilant watch.” The officer waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the front and walked into the tent from which he’d been summoned.

  Forrest literally growled and had his saber half-drawn when Skull lightly touched his arm. “He’s a fool and got no power. Beauregard’s done for the day.”

  The wind was picking up and howling among the trees, sending drops almost vertical. Trees were bending and swaying.

  Forrest spit, letting the saber drop back down into the scabbard. “Damn idiots couldn’t find their way in the dark and storm anyways. Let’s hope it’s keeping Buell stopped wherever he’s at.”

  Skull wondered if St. George had accomplished his task. She doubted it since Gabriel hadn’t returned. The girl could find her way back to Skull like a hunting dog left off the leash. Dark or rain wouldn’t bother her; in fact, she liked being in darkness.

  “We’ll know everything tomorrow,” Skull said.

  “Need help?” Cord asked as they pressed forward through the undergrowth, pushing their way forward toward the creek.

  “I can carry him,” Rumble said, breathing hard.

  “Need help?” Cord repeated.

  With a grunt, Rumble lowered Ben to the ground. The boy moaned and his eyes flickered but couldn’t focus through his fever.

  Cord handed Rumble the Henry.

  “Thanks for doing that,” Rumble said.

  “Stealing your rifle?” Cord asked as he hefted Ben over his shoulder.

  “It’s something a smart father would do,” Rumble said, turning away to move forward in the dark.

  St. George tripped over a root and tumbled to his knees with a splatter of curses. The storm covered the sound and Gabriel waited, sphinx-like, for him to get back to his feet. St. George had no idea where the two Rumble’s and Cord were ahead, but Gabriel moved as if she had a rope tied to one of them.

  Soon they were sliding down into the steep gulley containing Dill Branch. Water poured along the bottom, toward the Tennessee River and St. George realized the Yankees were being smart. Letting the stream chart their course to the big river, then turn left and head for the Union lines. Except they weren’t as smart as they thought, St. George reasoned, as the rain picked up intensity.

  The water pouring through the gulley was gaining volume, climbing to Rumble’s waist. He heard a cry and spun about. Cord had slipped and before Ben could be submerged, Rumble caught him. As they were getting closer to the Tennessee, Dill Branch was getting deeper and steeper and the rain was causing the water level to rise precipitously.

  “We’ve got to climb out of this,” Rumble said, as he hefted Ben over his shoulder.

  Cord could only nod in agreement as he took the Henry rifle from Rumble, slinging his Lancaster this time. Rumble had his shotgun looped over his back. Carefully, they began to edge up the steep side of the gulley.

  “Hear that?” Rumble asked.

/>   Cord halted, going to his knees and gently letting Ben to the ground. “What?”

  “Music.” Rumble pointed, up and to the left. “That way. Toward Pittsburgh Landing. We must be close.”

  “Let me help,” Cord said. Together, the two linked hands, nestling Ben between them, and continued climbing out of the gulley.

  “Now!” Gabriel hissed.

  With one hand braced against a tree, St. George lifted the LeMat with the other. He shook his head, trying to get the rain out of his eyes. Then he began firing. The first bullet creased Rumble’s right side, a red-hot knife of pain, then the lead ball struck a rib, splintering it and exiting. Rumble gasped in agony, letting go of Ben, and tumbling down the steep slope, trying to grab hold of anything to arrest his fall.

  Cord staggered under Ben’s weight. The second bullet buzzed by his head, so close it singed hair. The third bullet struck Ben in his right leg, the ball hitting bone and shattering it. Cord could feel the strike, the bullet tugging the boy.

  Cord dropped to his knees, holding on to Ben with one hand, while he grasped for the Henry rifle. The fourth bullet hit his waist, richocheting off the Bowie knife. Ben dangling from one hand on the muddy slope, Cord awkwardly fired the Henry with the other, aiming at the muzzle flash.

  Rumble hit the creek with a splash. He tried to scramble to his feet, but the torrent of water tumbled him downstream toward the Tennessee. He fought his panic, focusing on one objective: getting back and saving Ben. His arms flailed as he tried to reach the bank.

  Cord jammed the Henry down between his legs, using his free hand to lever in a new round, but then Ben slid and Cord dropped the gun, grabbing onto a sapling to anchor himself. The Henry tumbled into the ravine and disappeared into the stream as Cord desperately held on to his son.

  St. George was just about to fire again, when he realized the situation.

  The first of the gunboat mortars fired, followed in volley by three more explosions.

  Cord could feel his muscles vibrating from the strain of holding Ben and the tree. He waited for a bullet to come out of the dark and end this.

  St. George carefully scampered down through the undergrowth until he was opposite Cord and Ben, the surging creek between them. “Hey boy!” he yelled.

  Cord recognized the voice and solid dark form on the other side of the creek.

  “I gonna kill your boy, then I gonna kill you,” St. George shouted as he thumbed back the hammer on the Le Mat.

  Cord looked down at Ben. The boy’s eyelids were flickering. “Your dad will get you,” he said.

  Then he let go of Ben. As the boy slid into the creek, St. George’s gun swung down to track him. Fast as a rattler striking, Cord whipped the Bowie out of its sheath and threw it, the blade striking a split second before St. George could fire.

  Stunned, St. George dropped the pistol and stared at the handle of the knife stuck his chest.

  Ben disappeared into the water and Cord let go of the sapling, diving after him.

  Thirty meters downstream, Rumble had managed to halt his descent by hooking an arm around a low hanging branch. He barely felt the pain in his side as he looked upstream when lightning lit up the area momentarily. He saw Ben tumbling in the water, arms weakly fighting the water. Without hesitation, Rumble let go of the branch and dove in.

  Gabriel knelt next to St. George. The Bowie had struck on his right side, the heavy blade smashing through a rib, into his lung.

  “You hurt bad,” Gabriel said.

  St. George was jammed against the tree he’d been using for support. “Help me,” he gasped.

  “I’m a nigra,” Gabriel said. “How could I help a white man?”

  She stood up and climbed out of the ravine, ignoring St. George’s curses.

  Behind her, St. George wrapped both hands around the handle of the Bowie. He pulled.

  His scream split the night like thunder.

  Cord caught up to Rumble and Ben. He linked arms with both.

  “Easy now,” Cord said to both. “Let the water take us.”

  The trio floated out of the creek into the calmer Tennessee River. The water carried them north, while Cord and Rumble kicked to stay close to the west bank. They cleared a slight turn in the river and there was Pittsburgh Landing.

  A long line of steamers crowded the river, coming in from the north. As each docked, columns of men clad in blue carrying torches were pouring out of the bellies of the ships and heading up the road to the heights. Cord recognized the tune a Yankee band was playing—Dixie-- as he pulled Rumble and Ben toward the landing.

  Buell’s army was arriving.

  6 April 1862

  President Jefferson Davis,

  Thanks be to the Almighty. We gained a complete victory. Driving the Enemy from his position.

  General Pierre Beauregard

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ulysses S. Grant finally had a true idea of what had happened during the day as more reports filtered in. The losses were beyond conception. As the rain continued to fall, his generals and colonels came to him, asking about retreat. About having been defeated. Grant had been resolute, brushing aside such talk. But deep inside, he knew they were advocating the correct course of action. Even with Buell finally showing up, the casualties were staggering. The army couldn’t take another day like today and hope to stay intact, and if it broke, the Union was defeated in the west.

  As the storm broke, Grant sought refuge from the rain in a dimly lit cabin that was doubling as a surgery. The smell hit him like a hammer as he walked in, penetrating his resolve and flashing him back to his childhood and the odor of his father’s tannery. Viscera, blood, severed limbs. An assembly line of men were being hustled in to the waiting surgeons who didn’t have the time to wipe their saws clean from the previous casualty.

  There were screams, begging, men cursing at the doctors, at the generals, at fate. Grant barely heard any of it. The smell staggered him back into the rain. He knew what he had to do now. He had to save the army, even if it meant retreat and defeat.

  Grant reached into his pocket for Cord’s flask. He unscrewed the top and was lifting it to his lips when Cord and Rumble appeared out the dark rain, carrying Ben between them. They brushed past Grant.

  Grant slid the flask, untapped, back into his pocket. “How is he?”

  “Leg,” Rumble said as they entered the cabin. “Pretty bad.”

  A spot on one of the bloody tables opened up. The surgeon gestured to them and they slid Ben onto the wood. The boy was muttering, crying out in his delirium, his fever and the shock from the bullet doubling up on him.

  The surgeon ripped apart the trousers, exposing the wound. Ben’s right leg was badly smashed below the knee, white bone poking out of the skin. “Bad,” the doctor muttered. “Hit the bone. His leg is done.”

  Grant pulled the flask out. “Give him this.”

  Cord took the flask, unscrewed the top and held it to Ben’s lips. He dribbled the alcohol in, a little bit at a time, as the surgeon dipped his saw into a bucket full of blood-soaked water. Rumble was on the other side, his hand on Ben’s shoulder.

  “Don’t you have any opium?” Grant asked the doctor.

  The surgeon looked at him like he was crazy. “Used up whatever I had before noon, general. We been at this nonstop. I’ll be quick.”

  Grant grimaced and turned for the door as the surgeon brought the saw to bear above Ben’s leg. Cord reached out and grabbed his old friend. “You stay, Sam. He’s your God-son.”

  Rumble nodded, his eyes on his son. “This is the cost of the war, Sam. You got to stay. You got to make this worth something.” Blood dripped from the wound on Rumble’s said, and a medic quickly wrapped a dirty bandage around it as the surgeon prepared.

  Grant swallowed hard and took his place shoulder to shoulder with Cord, while the surgeon was next to Rumble. The three men held Ben down as the saw made its first cut.

  That ripped Ben out of his delirium and he screamed.
r />   Twenty minutes later, outside of the cabin, Rumble held a canvas tarp over Ben with the arm on his good side, keeping him as dry as possible. Cord was using twine to tie off the tarp to a branch. Ben’s right leg was gone below the knee, a stained bandage covering the stump. Cord cinched down the last cord and they had some semblance of shelter. The storm was letting up a bit, the wind less fierce. Cord and Rumble sat down, on opposite sides of Ben.

  “Bad day,” Cord said.

  “Bad day,” Rumble agreed. “But he’s alive.”

  “And we need to make sure he stays alive,” Cord said.

  Rumble nodded. “I’ve got to get him to Palatine. They dealt with Seneca’s wound. My mother and sister-in-law will take care of him.” He looked at Cord. “If that’s all right with you, Elijah?”

  Cord sighed. “Palatine’s in pretty bad shape, but you’re right. Your mother will take good care of him. We’ll deal with that in the morning.” He put a hand on Ben’s chest, feeling the rise and fall. The hand was shaking and suddenly tears flowed down Cord’s cheeks. “Damn it, that was close! I don’t know what I’d do if—”

  Rumble put his hand on top of Cord’s. “He’s alive, Elijah. He’s alive.”

  General William Tecumseh Sherman stared warily at the glowing end of the cigar Sam Grant was puffing on. A flickering lantern highlighted the deep shadows on his old friend’s face. After consulting with the other division commanders and coming to a unanimous conclusion, Sherman was going to tell Grant it was best to immediately put the river between their army and the rebels, but something on Grant’s face stopped the words. Sherman stood still for a moment, rain dripping down on his hat.

  “Well, Grant, we’ve had the devil’s own day, haven’t we?”