The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3

by Phillip Bryant

  Michael glanced at the stories. “He refused to surrender. Forrest escaped and is heading here,” Michael said as he read.

  “How long has it been since we’ve heard any good news?” Jones asked. “Isn’t there anything good happening for us?”

  “Having Johnston with us is a start,” Michael replied. “He’ll whip Grant when the time is right. These things take time. Just do your job as you’ve been trained, and fight for what you believe, and we’ll prevail.”

  His companions stared openly at him, and he felt his face heat up. He wasn’t accustomed to making inspirational speeches. “Well, anyway, something’s gonna happen in the spring, just you watch.” At that they fell silent, each to his own thoughts.

  Michael watched as Jones busied himself with his bunk and reverently laid out a well-worn book and papers. Michael looked over at Smith quizzically.

  “Vespers,” Smith said.

  “You don’t think I’m going outside in this weather, do you?” Jones said to them.

  Mahoney stood and stepped to the door flap. “Well, I need to see that the fatigue details are going.”

  “You do this every day?” Michael asked Jones.

  “Yes, every day. If I didn’t have my faith, all I would have is this,” he said and motioned to his torso. “This body’s fragile, and in these times ya need something more than yer body to keep ya going. So I pray an’ recite my Scriptures. It reminds me that they’s a God an’ Christ died fer me.”

  “Well, I don’t think much on that.”

  “Maybe ya oughten ta. You’re not going to live forever, Sir,” Jones said.

  “Maybe I will sometime when I feel the need. Put in a good word for me, ok?”

  Michael exited the hut. As the flap swung back behind him, the icy wind lashed at Michael’s face. He curled the collar of his great coat snugly about his neck and headed toward his own hut.

  *****

  The sun warmed Michael as he remembered that cold day in Corinth. Riding next to him was Marshall Polk.

  “This is a welcome change to those freezing days in Corinth, eh, Captain?” Michael asked.

  “Yeah, it is,” Marshall Polk replied.

  Polk hadn’t said a word since revealing his thoughts about the coming battle. Michael had not known what to say to him, or how to react to the sudden and strange familiarity. Michael turned his gaze toward Jones and Smith riding on the caisson in front of them. Smith was now asleep with his head bobbing. Now and again he woke abruptly, only to doze off once more. Jones was dreamily staring off into the distance.

  “Well, Grierson,” Polk said, “I gotta report to General Cheatham. Make sure you see to our dispositions. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Oh, also make sure that each section has ammo before the trains get all jammed in the rear.” Polk spurred his horse, broke out of the column and moved on ahead.

  Michael moved his horse out of the column as well and waited to the side until abreast of Mahoney, who was riding at the rear of the column.

  “First Sergeant, we’re going to stop for the night at Michie’s Crossroads. ‘Old Fart’ wants us to form in columns of sections and be ready to move by 0200. No fires and strict noise discipline enforced. Make sure section leaders inventory their ordinance.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mahoney nodded.

  “I know the boys aren’t going to be happy about no coffee, so if you can find a covered spot, build one fire for coffee and keep it small. If you’re caught, tell them you were acting on my orders,” Michael said.

  “Sure, sir, no problem. I’ll take care of the boys,” Mahoney replied with a slight grin.

  “Good man,” Michael said.

  He gave a tug on the reins and moved out along the column once more. Most of the men were either half-awake or dozing with heads hung low in blissful slumber. The weary march continued as the sun began its arc toward the west and bathed the scenery with rich orange and red hues. The road was drying in places now, making it more bearable by the absence of choking dust.

  It was almost dusk when the column of troops in front of the battery peeled off to the right and left of a fork in the road. Michael thought they must be at Michie’s. He picked up his pace and rode to the front caisson of the battery.

  “I’m going to ride ahead and show you where to move off to,” he told the soldiers on the caisson. Michael nudged his horse and trotted along the outside of the column of infantry. The foot soldiers were becoming more animated now that a stop was in the making. He could hear quiet whispers among the men as he passed by.

  Michael came to the already-choked crossroads and looked on in awe as other units of the corps marched by. He saw Bankhead’s Battery drawing up in the corner of an adjacent field. Next to them was as good as a place as any. It would also give his men a chance to visit with comrades. He waited for the battery to draw up.

  The infantry brigade of B. R. Johnson moved off the road, his men marching mechanically in exhaustion and forming into columns of battalions to lie down on arms. No one was pitching camp. Everyone knew that they were near their enemy.

  “Move off to the left of Bankhead over there,” Michael said and pointed to the lead caisson. By now it was becoming harder to make out individual faces in the dark as caissons and men moved past him. Thousands of figures were milling about the fields on either side. Here and there a fire was flickering despite orders to the contrary.

  It was April 3rd, just a day away from the planned start of the attack.

  With the battery situated and parked, the men began to gather in groups around the guns as only pards can do. They chatted softly as they ate a cold meal from their haversacks. Michael made his way over to a group of officers gathered between the two batteries. On the few occasions he had tried to get chummy with the common soldiers, he had been greeted with wariness and not a little suspicion. Here he was greeted by several familiar faces. A flask quickly made the rounds, and each man took a tug from it as they discussed the coming attack. There was no fear here, only expectation and nervousness.

  Gathered around a lantern, they chowed down on hard tack and bacon supplied by the mess sergeants. The bacon was cold and greasy, but no one cared. The light shining eerily from the ground cast odd shadows upon the dirty faces. Far from the Victorian ideals of genteel officering, the officers made the best of the situation, suffering the same privations as their men.

  “Too much infernal noise. The Yanks will know we are close,” said one.

  “Naw, I’ve heard that not a single vedette or picket has been encountered up front. They don’t know we’re even here,” said another.

  “We are going to be too late, ole Buell will be joined up with Grant by the time we’re ready.”

  “Buell will take a month of Sundays to get to Grant. I heard tell he was still at Bowling Green, Kentucky.”

  “I don’t know. The sooner we get to our attack point the better I’ll feel. I’m tired of thinking I see a Yank behind every tree or bush.”

  The flask passed around one more time, and then one by one the officers left to attend to other responsibilities. Michael made his way back to his own section, finding Jones, Harper, First Sergeant Mahoney, and a few others brewing up coffee for the battery in a big pot. Mahoney scrounged an empty pork barrel to place over the fire to hide the light and had drilled a few holes toward the bottom to allow air in. The pot was suspended above it.

  “We’ll douse it quickly, once the brew is done,” Mahoney said to reassure Michael. Michael nodded his approval. Other groups of men loitered nearby or stood around the contraption to hide any light that might shine through, eagerly waiting with their cups.

  “Don’t mess with a man’s coffee,” Mahoney said to no one in particular.

  “Just make sure I get some, ok?” Michael asked him with a smile.

  “I’ll get your cup and bring you some myself.”

  “Good man,” Michael said and patted Mahoney on the shoulder.

  He made his way over to his horse to retrieve
his haversack. “Hey, boy, how ya’ doin’?” He stroked Charger’s nose and scratched behind the ears of the spotted brown and white sorrel. Charger had been a gift from his father and had made the long trek from Texas with him. Though long in the saddle on this march, Charger didn’t look as worn as Michael felt.

  With a pat on Charger’s neck, Michael told him, “We’ll get ya’ some fodder soon, boy.”

  He pulled his pipe from his haversack and leaned against his saddle while he filled it. Ghostly apparitions of men moved about him. Glancing to his left toward the road, he couldn’t see them, but he could hear the troops and wagons moving down it in a constant stream.

  Michael didn’t know it, but the columns of Braxton Bragg’s Corps had been tramping behind the divisions and brigades of Polk’s Corps. Not until 2 p.m. of April 5th, the planned day of attack, would Bragg’s men pass by and allow Polk to take the road again. Michael also didn’t know that yet another delay would frustrate Johnston’s plans.

  *****

  6th Mississippi line of battle

  Michies Tennessee, April 3, 1862

  Two miles away, Private Stephen Murdock and the 6th Regiment were getting ready for an uncomfortable night. Talk among the men was of the prospect of a battle on the morrow. Forbidden to light a fire, and thus deprived of another hot meal and coffee, most men lay down and drifted off to a fitful sleep. Some whispered among themselves in twos and threes of the prospect of a battle on the morrow.

  The East Mississippi Greys, men who volunteered from Scott County, Mississippi, a year ago, formed Company C of the 6th Regiment, joining companies with such names as “Rankin Rough & Readies,” “Quitman Southrons,” and “The Rockport Steel Blades.” Sporting their brightly colored battle shirts made for them by the womenfolk of Carthage, the East Mississippi Greys marched into Jackson, Mississippi, to be mustered into service. Though they appreciated the gesture of the women, most of the men had begun to look bedraggled after a month of camp life with its fatigue, work and other duties.

  Weary from the day-long exertions, Stephen stretched out on his blanket. His head was propped up on his arm as he talked with one of his Comrades in Battle resting next to him, Private William Hawkins.

  “Remember when we got to Jackson? How eager we were for war? How nice we looked in our red cotton battle shirts and blue trousers?” Stephen asked.

  “Yeah, those were the days. We had food to eat, and the womenfolk couldn’t do enough for us.” William rubbed his eyes and glanced around at the rest of the company. “Now we’re all that’s left; the 40 of us.”

  “We don’t look too ‘grey’ now, do we?” Stephen returned, examining his dirty wool shell jacket and brown trousers.

  “Unh, no, we don’t,” William said and grinned.

  Stephen sighed and shifted. After another few moments of silence, he closed his eyes. “Remember that nonsense speech Governor Pettus gave as we stood around the capital building in the freezing cold? It seemed inspiring at the time, but now it just rings hollow.”

  “Yep, that do seem like a lifetime ago, don’t it? We sure do look smaller than we did that day in Jackson.” William frowned and shook his head. “And we were afraid the war was gonna pass us by, and like a bunch of fools we wanted to get into the thick of it. To see the elephant, not show the white feather, and bring honor to the ‘Great State of Mississippi.’ Well, we are in the thick of it now.”

  “We’ve waited, marched, drilled, gone hungry, and been cold and wet, and we are on the edge of battle now,” Stephen said. “But now that the moment is here, I don’t feel like I thought I would.” He rolled over on to his back, stretching. “A fight is a-comin’ in the morning, but I don’t feel all that great about it. I don’t know. It’s like waiting for something to arrive or a day to come, but once it comes, it’s a letdown. The waiting seems to be more exciting than the event.”

  William lay back and crossed his arms behind him. “A fight is comin’, fer sure. The army don’t gather like this unless we’re a-aimin’ to hit the Yanks.” William stared off into the waning light toward the line of march. “You think they know that we’re here? Been weird, no sign of pickets, no firin’ like usual when we’re this close.”

  “Don’t know, but it is curious that we hain’t seen any Yanks or at least cavalry if we’re this close. Maybe ole Johnston has pulled it off. Maybe we’ll drive the Yanks into the river and reclaim Tennessee,” Stephen replied.

  “Mayhaps,” William agreed. “Or they’ll be waitin’ fer us as we come through them trees,” William retorted and exhaled slowly.

  They were quiet for a moment until William continued, “Either way, bullets is gonna be flyin’ thick, and we’re gonna be a might smaller once it’s over.”

  Stephen thought a moment. “Who’s gonna get shot tomorrow? Who’s gonna die? Who’s gonna lose a limb? “Gets me to wonderin’ about stuff I’d rather not wonder about, you know? I don’t want to be wonderin’ about it when the stuff starts to fly.”

  “Gotta think about it sometime,” William said. “We’re not long for this life. Birth and death are set fer all of us. What we do in the middle is up to us, but we can’t add or subtract from that last date.”

  Stephen turned and faced William. “You believe in fate? Like bein’ able to change that date based on what you do? Seems hard to believe that you can’t change that last date. It doesn’t seem fair or somethin’.”

  “Naw, I don’t believe in fate.” William explained. “Good Book says ‘It is appointed for a man to die once, then face the judgment.’ We choose what we do in this life. Then we’re judged on that after our life.”

  Stephen closed his eyes and lay in silence. He thought of his youth and of church services with his family on Sunday mornings and remembered how his only thoughts were of playing with his pals after the service instead of the message emanating from the pulpit. His earliest memories of church were of chaffing in the nice clothes he had to wear each Sunday and trying to sit still in the pew, and the stern looks of his mother if he should forget the taboo of not swinging his feet back and forth. When he was older, his motivation for attending was to meet girls from the surrounding families or to demonstrate his prowess in the games he and the other boys would play after service.

  The churches in Carthage were the social centers for their parishioners. The Presbyterian Church in Carthage was the scene of weddings, funerals, meals, and games in Stephen’s memory, but rarely was it a place of spiritual enlightenment. Having grown up in a family who prayed before every meal and punished for the blasphemy of taking the Lord’s name in vain, religion was something to be lived around and accepted as part of life instead of practiced with any deliberation. Good people went to Heaven, bad people went to Hell, and the parishioners of the Presbyterian church of Carthage were good people.

  Thoughts of Heaven and Hell weren’t foreign to Stephen. Before the East Mississippi Greys left for Jackson in January, they were treated to fantastic feasts at each church and inspired by each minister to achieve feats of heavenly glory. Imbued with the knowledge of the righteousness of their cause and indignation at the federal government, the young and old men of Carthage marched out of the city toward adventure. The adventure was soon upon them, as the rigors of military life dulled their enthusiasm. Inadequate clothing, food, and armament plagued the 6th Mississippi as officers and men struggled to learn soldiering together. Most officers elected at the company level were hardly more suited to being officers than their men were to being soldiers.

  Fitted out with 1,002 officers and men when the regiment was christened the 6th Regiment of Mississippi Volunteer Infantry, the attrition from sickness, accident, and officer resignation commenced rapidly. Stephen thought back to that day in Jackson, picturing the regiment standing resplendent in its new uniforms before the governor’s review stand. How smart and large the regiment looked then.

  Stephen sat up and dropped his arms into his lap. In the near darkness, he surveyed the camp to his right and left.
He compared what he saw before him with what he saw in his mind’s eye of that day. It looked as if someone had taken a cleaver and cut the regiment in half. Cleburne’s brigade was stretched out alongside the 6th. The 23rd Tennessee made up the right flank of the brigade, with the 6th next in line, followed by the 5th Tennessee. Just as men within a company become accustomed to the touch of elbows from comrades, just so with the placement of regiments within a brigade line of battle.

  Regiments take on the character of their members and, at times, that can become an odd assortment of superstition and behavior. Knowing that other regiments that have stood the tests of combat were on either side of one’s own builds a sense of security. Looking at the sad remnants of the 23rd and 5th Tennessee, Stephen thought back to the experiences from the brigades’ Kentucky sojourn several months ago. There they had first tasted combat with minié balls whizzing overhead, the exhilaration and rush, and the deadly roulette of opposing lines of infantry pouring lead into each other.

  By all counts, the brigade had seen its baptism of fire in Kentucky as it occasionally brushed with Federal cavalry and infantry in Johnston’s retreat from Bowling Green, Kentucky. The whittling away of manpower continued as each meeting brought its wounds and death and as comrades vanished. This was the first time Cleburne’s brigade had been on the cusp of such a momentous gathering of force occasioned by this march.

  Stephen turned to William. “Ya’ know, I just was thinkin’ that what we saw in Kentucky ain’t gonna hold nuthin’ on what’s gonna happen tomorrow. We didn’t have a fraction of the army there that we have here now.”

  “Yeah, best not to think on it too much,” William replied. “Thinking on it only makes ya’ worry too much about it. It’s like them fellers what say they git premonitions of their own death and sure enough get killed. Maybe if you don’t think about it, you won’t get the premonition, and then maybe you won’t fulfill it.”