by John Holt
“Jacob,” the voice called again. “Jacob, do you hear me?” There was another tap on the door.
“Hurry up Jacob,” another voice called out. It was his mother this time. “Your father is ready and waiting for you.”
“Come along Jacob,” his father called once again, becoming slightly impatient. He didn’t like to be kept waiting. “You must wake up. We have to go.” There was a long pause. Then there was another tap on the door. “We have to go, now,” a voice boomed.
In the background he could hear his mother gently calling. “Please Jacob, get up,” she cried. “Miles has just arrived and he is waiting for you downstairs.”
Jacob could suddenly hear the rain begin to fall. Gradually it became louder and louder. It sounded quite heavy. They were going to get soaked, he thought, no doubt about that. Soaked to the skin, but it did not matter. Nothing mattered. He was going out, going fishing, with his father and his best friend. Let it rain. Let it thunder and lightning. Who cares? Jacob certainly didn’t care. A little drop of rain was not going to spoil today. Nothing was going to spoil today.
“Jacob, get up, this minute.”
Thackery tried to call out, but there was no sound from his lips. He tried to open his eyes but they remained firmly shut. He tried to rise but he could not move. He struggled hard, but it was useless. He could not budge. He strained and strained. There was no movement.
The voices continued to call out to him, gradually becoming louder and louder. “Jacob, Jacob, come on. You must get up now.”
He felt somebody tugging hard on his arm. “It’s time to go,” a voice was saying.
* * *
Chapter Twelve
Shiloh
“Captain, Captain,” a voice called out. “It’s time to go, sir. It’s five o’clock.”
Thackery felt himself being shaken, and shaken hard. He could hear a voice close by. “Sir, sir,” the voice shouted. “It’s time to go.”
Time to go? “Go where?”
Thackery sat up and rubbed his eyes. Where were they, he wondered? He looked around desperately but there was no sign of them. They must be here. I heard them, and Miles. They were to go fishing together, Jacob, his father and Miles.
But his parents were not there, neither was Miles. Standing in front of him wasn’t his father, or his mother. It was the Sergeant. It had been nothing more than a dream. But it had seemed so real. The images had been so vivid.
“Sir, it’s time,” the Sergeant repeated. “The troop has been ordered to make ready.”
“Right you are Sergeant,” Thackery replied. “Go and rouse the men. I’ll be right with you. Give me a minute or two.”
The Sergeant saluted and moved away. Thackery stood up, and stepped out of the tent. It looked like it would be a fine day. The rain had stopped at last and there was a slight red glow to the east. A good day to go fishing, he murmured wistfully. He strapped on his holster. He then checked his revolver, and placed into the holster and secured the flap. As he did so he could hear the distinctive English voice as the Sergeant woke the men.
“Come on me lads,” he said in a hushed voice. “Rise and shine. It is a beautiful morning gentlemen, can’t waste it sleeping.”
“What’s for breakfast, Sarge?” one of the men asked jokingly.
“Ham and eggs, and lashings of toast,” one of the others responded.
“And blueberry muffins and hot butter,” added another voice.
“And gallons of hot coffee,” offered yet another.
“Pancakes and maple syrup,” suggested another.
“More like the back of me boot if you don’t get up by the time I count to three,” came the reply from the Sergeant. The other men smiled.
“One, two, three,” one of the men called out. The others laughed loudly.
Thackery smiled. “Muffins, hot coffee, ham, eggs,” he murmured. It had been a long time since they had ham, and eggs. It would probably be a long time before they had them again.
He looked across at the Sergeant. He relied heavily on him. Sergeant Rob Trelor, a career soldier from England. He was 48 years old, and had arrived in America when he was just five years old. The son of a military family, he had been a soldier since he was seventeen. He had seen service in the conflict between the United States and Mexico from 1846 to 1848 following the annexation of Texas the year previous. His father had been killed in action against Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo.
He was a heavy set man, physically strong, but as gentle as a kitten. From a military point of view, he had seen it all before, and had done it all before. He knew all of the military ways, all of the angles. You wanted something done, he would do it; you wanted something got, he would get it. He was steady, trustworthy, and dependable. Thackery was virtually lost without his guidance and help.
Thackery looked to his left. There was Corporal Jethro Bennett, twenty-six years old, from his own home town. He was totally reliable, and always there when he was needed. In civilian life he had worked in the Land Office, preparing deeds. Next to him was Corporal Tom Davis, twenty-five years old, also from Thackery’s own town. He had worked as a clerk in the town bank.
Apart from two young boys the men were all in their late teens or early twenties, and from all walks of life. The foolhardy Private George Scott, aged twenty-four, he was from Harrisburg. The son of a blacksmith, he had taken on the business when he just eighteen years old, after his father had died suddenly. He was undoubtedly brave, but he was also reckless. He never considered the risks, and would always act first, and ask questions later. He had been in many a difficult situation, usually due to his own fault, but somehow he had always managed to turn the thing around, and survive.
Private Terry Roberts, just twenty years old, a farm boy from Tennessee. He kept himself to himself, a shy, quiet man. Although they were total opposites Scott and Roberts were great friends. Scott looked out for Roberts like an older brother. Then there was Private Frank Marsh. Aged twenty-two, Marsh was born and raised in Virginia. He was a loveable rogue, but with no hint of malice. He wouldn’t harm anything or anyone – except if you crossed him, then woe betide you.
“The men are ready, sir,” said the Sergeant, saluting.
Thackery returned the salute. He picked up his saddle bag that was lying on the ground, and moved towards his horse. As he did so he saw young Dan Taylor fidgeting nervously.
“Daniel, are you alright?” Thackery said as he approached the boy.
The boy looked up. “Oh it’s you Mr. Thackery.”
“It’s Captain Thackery, to you lad,” the Sergeant quickly corrected.
“That’s alright Sergeant,” said Thackery. “Daniel and I are old friends, aren’t we Daniel?”
Daniel smiled and nodded his head.
“Now Daniel we are going into battle today,” Thackery continued. “How do you feel about that?”
Daniel thought for a few moments, shuffling his feet. He looked up at Thackery. “I’m afeared,” he replied nervously.
“We are all afeared Daniel, including myself,” Thackery replied gently. “But it’s a just cause, and right is on our side.” He paused for a moment. “I know that you will do your duty.”
“Don’t you worry about him, sir,” said Marsh, stepping forward. “I’ll look after him.”
Thackery smiled once again, saluted, and turned away.
* * *
The Battle Of Shiloh
To his front Thackery could see the General, and the Orderly sergeant close by. Behind him there was a young trooper proudly holding the company-banner of silk. Thackery watched as the troopers loaded their muskets, and arranged their cartridge pouches ready for use. Most of the troopers were badly equipped, and their weapons were usually the obsolete flintlocks and the ammunition was rolled in cartridge-paper, which contained powder, a round ball, and three pieces of buckshot. Thackery, and some of the higher ranking officers, had been provided with a muzzle loaded musket, a Springfield.
All aro
und him men and horses were waiting for the order to advance. Across the open field beyond the woods the Union cannons could be seen waiting near the peach orchard.
Then, at last, the order was given, and the troops moved slowly forward, with shouldered arms. As they tramped solemnly and silently through the thin forest, and over its grass, still in its withered and wintry hue, the early morning mist began to clear. The peace and stillness of the woods seemed so unreal, and in stark contrast to what was to come.
Before the group had gone five hundred paces, the serenity was disturbed by sporadic firing in front. It was then a quarter-past five.
“They are at it already,” said Dan Taylor nervously.
“Seems so,” replied Frank Marsh, taking his rifle from his shoulder. “Probably couldn’t sleep worrying about us. Who can blame ‘em?”
“Stand by, gentlemen,” said the Sergeant. “Snipers that’s what they are and they are just waiting to get a clear shot at you.”
At that clear warning the marching became brisker, and alertness was more noticeable in everybody. The firing continued at intervals, and seemed deliberate and scattered, as though at target practice. However as the group drew nearer to the firing, a sharper rattling of musketry could be heard, as the shooters found their range.
“That’ll be the enemy waking up,” said the Sergeant. “I expect they’ll be taking their morning exercise quite soon now. Early morning stroll.”
Within a few minutes, there was another explosive burst of musketry, and the air was pierced by missiles, which hummed and pinged sharply through the tree-tops, bringing twigs and leaves raining down.
“Those are bullets,” Dan Taylor whispered with awe.
“My, my, bullets are they,” said Marsh sarcastically. “And there’s me thinking they’re nothing but little drops of rain.”
“All right me lad,” said the Sergeant, coming up to Marsh. “Just you keep alert, you hear me.”
Ten minutes later the small band of men was at the ridge. As Thackery slowly made his way to the top he could see several small groups gathering together. He looked across the valley below. The sun was just beginning to rise and the first shafts of daylight could be seen. He could just see the glow of the camp fires of the Union soldiers. Then he looked up and over to his left to where his forward look outs were located.
He looked away, and turned towards the north. “That’s the direction they will come from,” he murmured. Automatically he reached down to his holster. He then looked behind him. His men were all looking towards him, waiting for the signal that they knew would come. He looked back into the valley. He wondered what thoughts were going through the minds of the men that he knew were hidden amongst the trees. “Probably the same as mine,” he muttered. “Exactly the same.”
Then without any warning the Union soldiers could be seen advancing in formation heading his way. Thackery’s men threw themselves behind some trees, fired, loaded, and darted forward to another shelter. Then they repeated the whole process once again.
Thackery found himself in an open, grassy space, with no convenient tree or stump nearby. Then he saw a shallow hollow some twenty paces ahead. He made a dash for it, followed by a dozen or more of his men. There was a hail of bullets from the Union soldiers, and then the artillery fire commenced. The cannon bellowed, and the shells screeched as they flew over, exploding as they hit the ground hurtling fragments in all directions. Birds flew out from the trees, startled by the noise.
Thackery could hear the unceasing patter, snip, thud, and hum of the bullets as they hit the tree log, pinging loudly as they flew off at a tangent from it, and thudding into something or other, at the rate of a hundred a second. One, here and there, found its way under the log, and buried itself in one of Thackery’s men.
“It is getting too warm, boys!” cried Private Roberts. He lifted his head a little too high, and a bullet skimmed over the top of the log and hit him fairly in the centre of his forehead, and he slumped to the ground.
Then there came the order to charge with cries of “Forward! On the double!”
Although apprehensive of what was to come, most of the men were glad of the action once more, and moved forward with a spring to their step. Anything was better than remaining where they were stretched out on the ground.
Almost immediately there was a steady exchange of musketry, which lasted some while, then came the order to fix bayonets. Their weapons readied, the troop started forward. The Union soldiers did not move, and just waited. Suddenly there was a loud yell from one or two of the men. This was followed by the wildest yelling imaginable, serving the double purpose of relieving pent-up feelings, and transmitting encouragement along the attacking line. Thackery smiled and joined in shouting at the top of his voice.
Progress was not as rapid as Thackery would have liked. The Union soldiers were stubborn and held their ground, not giving an inch, returning fire shot for shot. Then a Confederate battery appeared over to Thackery’s left flank, and opened up on to the Union lines. After several rounds of shelling the Union forces fell back.
The trooper holding the colors ran forward, until he was some sixty yards ahead of the troop. Finding himself quite alone, he halted and turned. “Why don't you come on, boys?” he said, a broad smile on his face. “You see there is no danger!”
His smile and words acted as though magic. The troopers raised a yell, and sprang lightly and hopefully towards him. “Let's give them hell, boys!” said one. “Plug ‘em plum-centre, every time!”
The shouting got louder and louder, as more and more soldiers joined in. It was all very encouraging, and the yelling and shouting were taken up by the thousands.
“Forward, forward” somebody cried.
“Don't give them breathing time!” cried another.
“Got them running now,” cried a third.
It wasn’t long before the Union camp came into view. The blue-coats appeared to be unconcerned at first, and continued to stand firm. Thackery ordered his men to attack. Fighting was fierce, and losses were heavy on both sides. As Thackery’s attack intensified, the Union troops were gradually pushed back from the high ground they occupied, towards the river. Many of the Union troops fled to the rear on the initial Confederate assault and by late afternoon the South was confident that victory was within its grasp.
That confidence was short lived as the Union soldiers re-grouped and offered strong resistance. Fighting was particularly intense around the white-washed Shiloh Church. Throughout the day, the Confederates continued to hammer the Union’s right, which gave ground but did not break. With the coming of nightfall the fighting subsided. The Union forces were pinned against the Tennessee River but the exhausted Confederates were short of their goal of complete victory.
* * *
“Sir, this dispatch has just arrived.”
Thackery looked up at the voice. It was Sergeant Trelor. “Yes Sergeant, let me see it.”
The Sergeant handed over a small leather pouch. Inside was a single sheet of paper. Thackery took it out and read it slowly. He looked at the Sergeant. “Bad news I’m afraid,” he said quite simply as he handed the document back to the Sergeant. “Union re-inforcements are due very shortly.”
The Sergeant looked at the pouch and started to tap the palm of his hand. He looked up at Thackery.
“It seems that General Buell’s Army of the Ohio is on its way, and should reach Pittsburg Landing within the next few hours,” Thackery explained. “And then General Lewis Wallace will be bringing in a reserve division. I would guess that’s another twenty thousand men at least.”
* * *
At first light a greatly strengthened Union army launched an aggressive counterattack on the Confederate positions. Thackery could see the puffs of smoke from the answering fire of Confederate cannon. That was Robert’s group, he murmured.
Captain Robert Dixon. They had met during that first month at the Garrison. They had both finished training and were waiting for the order to c
ome, to get on with the war. But they waited and waited. It seemed that it was never going to happen. Then in the June they had received their orders. Dixon had been ordered to headquarters. And Thackery had been sent to take up a position in Philippi. Then just a few days ago the two had met up once again.
There was a constant boom as the Union cannons continued shelling unremittingly. Then the whine as the shells flew through the air, finally exploding into a hundred pieces flying in all directions as they hit their targets. Shell after shell came over, just one hundred and fifty yards to Thackery’s left. Then the rifle fire began. Volley after volley whistled through the trees. Thackery could hear the screams as the shots reached their targets. Young Dan Taylor was hit in the chest, as another hail of bullets penetrated the Confederate ranks. He slumped to the ground dying. Frank Marsh ran forward to help and was immediately shot down by a sniper.
Thackery raised his glasses and focused on the area. Return fire was sporadic, gradually becoming less and less, until it stopped completely. He continued to look for a few more moments hoping for the firing to start up once more. It did not. The area had been totally destroyed.
By mid-afternoon, as wave after wave of fresh Federal troops swept forward, pressing the exhausted Confederates back to Shiloh Church, General Beauregard realized the peril facing his army and ordered a retreat. Possession of the grisly battlefield passed to the victorious Federal’s, who were satisfied to simply reclaim Grant’s camps and make an exhausted bivouac among the dead.
This has been a bad day for the South, Thackery murmured. He continued to watch. As he looked around it quickly became clear just how bad it had been. The dead and dying lay everything. The acrid smoke from the cannons drifted over the meadow. The pungent smell of gunpowder filled the air. Jacob closed his eyes and shook his head, as though trying to shake the images out of his mind. There was no sound apart from the muffled cries from the wounded, as they called for help. He covered his ears. He knew that there would be no help forthcoming.