The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3

by Phillip Bryant

  “I don’t know,” Mahoney said. “Don’t think side has anythin’ to do with it. Was always told it was the soul that mattered.”

  “Surely God must answer someone’s prayers? We both can’t pray for victory and both be answered on equal terms. How can a supposed righteous man in the blue uniform be as right in his cause as a southern patriot in seeking freedom from his oppressor?” Michael asked.

  “I don’t suppose them sees it the same way. Take these Tennessee boys we’s with under Polk there,” Mahoney said and motioned with a nod of his head in Captain Polk’s direction. “I heard tell from a few of them that the Yankees have raised several infantry regiments and three batteries of artillery from Tennessee on this very field. Now, these fellers is fightin’ fer some reason. Our boys is fightin’ these invaders, but them other boys is bein’ moved by some other hand. Maybe they pray to the same God as we do, but what other righteous cause can a feller have than the defense of his own home?”

  “It would be grand to see this contest of arms be the divine appointment of victory and eventual peace, a peace that leaves us be as we see fit,” Michael said. “But I don’t think God takes any mind to this contest in the least. Otherwise, He would be torn between both sides as righteous men, or men who perceive their own righteousness, call upon His divine intervention for their own victory.” Michael sighed deeply. “No, I suspect He has washed His hands of this matter altogether.”

  “I sincerely hope not, sir. For what else would sustain us? Just look at the number of this enemy host that has set upon a sister state in our beloved country. They’s like them great locusts that we see in Texas in the summertime, almost as uncountable. I hope you are wrong, Captain. We need something else besides audacity and this splendid attack to force the government of these Black Republicans to leave us be.”

  Michael nodded at the truth of that comment. Mahoney continued, “Perhaps it is men more believing than I who will bring about this divine intervention you speak of, Captain. I suspect that if it were left to my prayers, we would be in a world of difficulties now. Maybe it will be these very prayers that will bring about the intervention of the Almighty from His perch up there.”

  Michael looked into the cloudless, blue sky. “Who knows? Perhaps it was these prayers that have brought Him down here today to poke about our affairs and allow us to rout the enemy upon this field. Maybe it is no mere coincidence that this place be called Shiloh and that it be a Sunday. Maybe this will be the place of our eventual peace. That is what Shiloh means, isn’t it, that road down yonder?”

  “I reckon it does. Don’t seem like a place of peace today. I’ve heard tell that Stonewall Jackson prefers to do battle on the Lord’s day. Maybe it weren’t by mere weather that we was delayed in attacking until today. Ain’t no more righteous man in our whole cause as Jackson. Maybe Gen’l Johnston took a page from his book.”

  Michael chuckled. Who did know about these things? “Lord’s Day or no, ain’t one day that is any more special than the next. If God really does smile upon our cause and give us the providential victory, it’s because He chose to and not because Gen’l Jackson happens to be on our side or not. He could just as soon decide that the Yankees should win this battle or this whole war, despite all that we do,” Michael said sternly.

  “Well, Captain, they ain’t winnin’ it now, and barring some miracle of the good Lord’s hand, they won’t be a winnin’ it later neither.”

  “Better watch what you say there, Sergeant.” Michael looked hard at Mahoney, as if he had cursed them both. “We don’t want a bad omen now that we are on God’s good side.”

  “Captain, fer a man who don’t side by no principle of religion or faith, you sure are quick to knock on wood,” Mahoney exclaimed with a glint of surprise in his eyes.

  “Why tempt whatever force is out there that can control the fortunes of this day?”

  “You surprise me, Captain,” Mahoney said. “That’s all I mean.”

  “What might surprise you more is that I don’t even believe that, or at least make myself believe in much of anything but what I can see and understand with minimal attention. I imagine my mother shrinking back in horror to hear me talk so.” Michael smiled at the thought and imagined the scolding.

  “Mother would have knocked me into the nether world for so much as uttering His Name in vain, in pain or not!” Mahoney chortled. “You, sir, would not have lived to see the next day, declaring what you have just done.”

  “I jest mostly, Sergeant. I reckon most of us have to possess some measure of faith to be here on this field at all, a faith beyond what we can understand, for we’ve seen what a lack of faith will do to a man once fear and terror has seized his limbs. I reckon I’m not the heathen I pretend to be,” Michael admitted.

  “Don’t take me for the righteous man you are makin’ me out to be.”

  “Oh, I’d as soon listen to some Shaker tell me about the stillness of the Holy Spirit than believe you was a saint,” Michael said with a grin.

  The sound of heavy hoof-falls quieted their conversation. They turned and watched a courier pound up the hill and dismount in front of Captain Polk.

  “Looks like our respite just ended,” Mahoney said gravely.

  “I’d better head over there and get our instructions.” Michael stood, brushed the seat of his trousers and straightened his tunic before heading over to meet with Polk.

  “Grierson,” Polk said when he arrived, “Cheatham’s movin’ forward down the Hamburg-Purdy Road and then off down this cart trail here. You’ll support his 2nd Brigade once again, and I’ll take the other section in support of Stephen’s brigade. If these maps are accurate, we’re going to be losing the high ground as we move forward, so be ready to unlimber on the fly. I suspect you’ll have to get in close to provide any support.”

  “Sir,” Michael said curtly and saluted.

  Making his way back to Mahoney, he passed on the order to get the men ready to move. With luck, Michael mused, they wouldn’t have to get in tight with the infantry too often. Braving random case shot was one thing, but braving infantry fire was another.

  “Sir, section ready to move!” called Mahoney.

  “Section, by column right, forward march!”

  The three-gun carriages and caissons peeled off one by one and entered the road at an even trot. Creaks and groans from the riggings and wheels sounded loudly amid the clopping of the teams. The drivers sat atop the right-most horses of each carriage, with the remaining crewman atop the rear caisson seats. The officers and gun chiefs rode their own steeds. Together, they formed a long column that stretched back to the hill they had just vacated. In the distance, sounds of fighting rumbled persistently.

  The short journey over the Purdy Road into the small valley was speckled with discarded Federal equipment and the corpses of both sides. The captured Federal cannon had been removed, although their last position was still marked by broken gun carriages and the scars left by the ferocity of the fighting. Lonely and rifled bodies sprawled about the slopes of the opposite hills near the road. Michael thought of the few he had left behind earlier that morning, now left to bleed and die alone in the trodden grass. The same was true, he saw, among the enemy. The section passed the grisly remains of the enemy gun crews in silence, each man thinking of his own safety and hope-filled journey home.

  CHAPTER 7

  6th Mississippi Line of Battle

  Camp of 70th Ohio, 8 AM April 6, 1862

  Stephen balanced himself upon his wobbly legs. Bent over and panting heavily, he fought for a full intake of air. Stern calls from company officers and groans of the wounded filled the swampy lowland they sheltered under.

  The hoarse voice of Colonel Thornton called out again and again to the men of the 6th Mississippi to “rally on the colors, rally on the colors, boys, rally!”

  Twice they formed and moved up the hill at the enemy line, and twice they were forced to retreat to the shelter of the trees. The way leading up to the crest
of the hill was covered with dead and wounded, and little time was given to aid their suffering. A constant artillery fire swept the length of the hill from an unseen enemy battery, and the enemy at the top showed no sign of defeat. Little semblance of company command remained; each man fell in as he found a space and a familiar face to stand with. Stephen lost sight of Willie Hawkins.

  Colonel Thornton appeared in front of their thinned ranks. His left arm hung limply and dripped blood down his trouser leg. A bandage rested cockeyed upon his crown; a splotch of red marked where the minié ball had relieved him of his hat and part of his scalp.

  “Mississippians!” Thornton shouted. “This hill will be taken!” Ragged and hoarse shouts of agreement sprang from the parched throats of those still able to stand. “Men of the 6th, you are alone, and the enemy is above you. Show these Tennesseans of the 23rd Regiment what mettle Mississippi is made of!”

  The effort of exhorting the men was too much for him. Thornton doubled over and wobbled painfully to the ground. The survivors of the 6th Mississippi would go it alone. The 23rd Tennessee was still trying to sort themselves out after suffering numerous casualties, and they showed little sign of rallying.

  With that, Captain Harper of Stephen’s company sprang forward with drawn sword. “Battalion, forward march!”

  Back through the trees and into the sunlight Stephen marched. They stepped over the fallen as if they were mere rocks in the way. His heart leapt once they emerged from the trees. The crest looked devoid of the enemy. Keeping a steady pace, they strained once more up the steep slope. At every step, they encountered a body. Staring eyes looked up into the blue sky of morning. Others grasped at invisible objects in front of them with a frozen attitude of desperation, and still others quivered uncontrollably, clutching at gushing wounds that colored the once-green hill with a reddish hue.

  Up and up they marched with only the distant sounds of battle and their own foot falls to greet their ears. The artillery that had swept that slope was also silent. Stephen hoped the enemy had retired and that it would soon be done.

  Encouraged by the silence and seeing their objective so near to being taken, the men of the regiment gave a prolonged yell. Movement above the crest caught Stephen’s attention first, and then, suddenly, the enemy ranks sprang up from the ground as solid as before. For what appeared to be a slow movement of time, the combatants eyed one another in surprise.

  “Halt!” shouted Captain Harper. “Ready! Aim! Fire!”

  Stephen pulled the trigger, and the weapon leapt from his shoulder, the smoke of the discharge clouding everything. He could hear the calls of the enemy officers and the shrieks of their wounded. Another sudden concussion rang in his ears when the enemy poured a volley into the 6th.

  “Load and come to the ready! Load and come to the ready!” The commands from both sides were audible to all as both regiments hurried to load and be ready. A distant yelling behind Stephen told him the Tennesseans behind the tree line were rallying and ascending the hill.

  “Fire!” rang the command, and another burst of thunder issued from their weapons, followed by another reply from the enemy. In that moment, the ground around him was littered with wounded.

  “Load and fire at will! Load and fire at will!” rang the call.

  Stephen dropped his musket and hurriedly fumbled for a cartridge. Both lines came to life with the popping of musketry in an ever-increasing crescendo. Another thunderous volley added to the staccato. The Tennesseans halted next to the remnants of the 6th. They readied their weapons and poured fire into the enemy. The assault visibly staggering them, another chorus of the shrill yipping and yelling from the Rebel line added to the tumult.

  “Load and come to the ready! Load and come to the ready!” the command was given again and passed down the line. “Forward march! Forward march!”

  Lurching forward, the two regiments stepped off while the enemy hurried to load and fire as fast as they could. Every foot fall brought another body tumbling to the earth.

  Men to either side of Stephen went down. He felt exposed and alone before others covered down to close the holes in the line. The space separating the foes seemed to be an interminable distance that would never be closed. Stephen kept his pace and watched the enemy fill the space separating them with lead.

  “At the double quick, march!” Their cries and yells increased, and the regiments broke into a trot. Stephen joined the yelling and forgot for the moment that life and death were determined by the random shot of a musket; he was caught up in the thrill of shared heroism and devotion.

  “The bayonet, give them the bayonet, the bayonet, boys, the bayonet!” Captain Harper’s exhortation rang over the tumult, and the 6th Mississippi lurched up to the crest of the hill and sprang upon the waiting enemy. The clash of opposing sides produced the ring of metal upon metal and the thud of wood meeting flesh. Hurrahs, yells, screams, and curses sprang from hundreds of throats. Stephen only saw the flash of colors around him. Friend and foe intermixed and fought with their hands. Thrust met parry, club met block, steel met soft, yielding flesh, and fist met face. Each man fought whoever was within arm’s reach and with whatever he had at his disposal.

  At Stephen’s feet lay the broken and stumbling of both sides. The urge to run overtook him. He shoved a man in blue aside with his rifle and made his way through the melee to the edge of the hill. As if by queer instinct, the remnants of both the 6th Mississippi and the 23rd Tennessee were making their way back down the hill. Stephen broke free of the throng and raced down the hill, leaping over the prostrate, not stopping until he was safely within the shade of the trees. He found a dry spot by a thin tree and sat wearily. Familiar faces were missing, the faces that told him he was in the company of friends and comrades. The faces he did see were scarred by fatigue and horror.

  The long hillside before him was covered with so many bodies that little of the grass was visible. Breathing heavily, he rested his head upon the smooth bark of the tree and closed his eyes. Images of the charge and fighting were etched upon his vision. Exhausted, Stephen wept.

  *****

  25th Missouri Line of Battle

  Camp of 25th Missouri, 8: 30 AM April 6, 1862

  “Run! Run for it! Save yourselves! Run for God’s sake, run!”

  Through the camp, Robert dragged Huebner along with him. Everywhere men in blue could be seen running wildly to the rear through the camp and beyond it. Robert didn’t know where he was heading. He only knew that the enemy was already breaking through. Regiment upon regiment broke and ran. Bursting out of their own camp, he saw thousands of men in blue running. The men of his own regiment streamed past him. Huebner was standing stock still in the tide of men.

  “Run, Hube! C’mon,” he shouted into Huebner’s frightened face.

  “I tired, Robert!” Huebner complained.

  “C’mon, Hube, you want to get captured?” Robert yelled. He grabbed Huebner’s arm and started to run once again. He was astounded at the number of men he could see running for the rear. “We’re whipped, Hube. God, we’re whipped!” Huebner tripped, but Robert pulled him up without slowing.

  “Where we goin’?” Huebner asked.

  “Anywhere but here!” Robert snapped and kept hold of Huebner’s coat sleeve.

  Since the fight earlier in the morning and the retreat through the trees, his company had been either in motion or fighting continuously for the last five hours. By the time they arrived back at their camp on the hill, the company was exhausted and begrimed with powder. Only a short respite was enjoyed before they were formed upon the crest of the hill to face the oncoming enemy once more. Shock of the sudden reversal after what felt like a successful stand was only now becoming clear to him.

  Word spread quickly through the ranks that the enemy had broken through the other regiments of Peabody’s brigade. Those camps were a mere tens of yards to the right of the 25th Missouri’s. The thought of being caught in a vise and captured was more compelling than all of the off
icers’ threats, insults, and cajoling. The regiment dissolved into a fleeing mass. Indeed, as Robert and Huebner made their way through the trees and beyond, Robert turned and saw the irregular colors of the enemy making their way through the camps of the 21st Missouri and the 16th Wisconsin. Those two regiments were running ahead of him. Their colors stopped for moments at a time as an officer rallied the fugitives surging past, attempting to make a stand, only to have the panicked men peel off moments later.

  “Where we goin’?” Huebner whined.

  “Just run!” Sternness and aggravation tinged Robert’s voice, but Huebner began to run again.

  The woods soon gave way. Fugitives ahead of them made their way in the open in small groups or singly.

  “I need stop, Robert,” Huebner pleaded and slowed down his pace.

  “Hube, c’mon. If we walk, we’ll get caught,” Robert reasoned in return.

  “Ich bin fertig ausgeführt. I finished running,” Huebner snapped. Pulling his arm from Robert’s grasp, he collapsed upon the ground, heaving.

  “Nein, Komm schön, Hube. Komm schön! I don’t care if you’re finished running!” Robert stopped, grabbed Huebner’s collar, and heaved. Huebner didn’t budge. He sat breathing heavily and refused to be hoisted. “Aw, c’mon, Hube! We can’t stay here. We’ll walk for a while, all right? C’mon, Hube.” Robert tried to coax him into forward movement.

  “Kein Betrieb,” Huebner said, panting defiantly, but he slowly stood.

  “No running, Hube, not for a while. But we gotta walk.” Robert took a tentative step forward and looked back at Huebner to see if he was going to comply.

  Red-faced, Huebner started forward. Both men walked in silence toward the road that bisected the open space and led toward Pittsburg Landing. They had marched down that road after disembarking from the steamers that carried the brigade. The throngs of men in blue were making for the same road, as if drawn by the force of gravity. Robert set a brisk pace. He kept a vigilant eye behind them lest a line of butternut burst into view. Huebner matched his pace in silence.