The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3

by Phillip Bryant

  “Father, it was they who called up volunteers firstly to respond to the firing on Ft. Sumter. Why, even Virginia is talking secession now. The Old Dominion, Pa, that birthplace of our founding fathers, is going to sever itself from this Union. What other proof is there that this is naught but the will of God for our states?” Stephen felt the flush of unaccustomed victory washing over him. His father was not fighting very hard, but he didn’t care; he was of age, and his opinion mattered for something now.

  Stephen’s father thought a moment before replying. “It matters little what the Old Dominion does or does not do. It matters what Mississippi will do. The firebrands in the capital have inflamed many a clear head toward this detestable goal. It can only lead to war, a war I fear that will not be just or needed.”

  “But, Pa, if the federal government chooses to oppose the right to sever the Union, then it will lead to conflict. But will it not be a just conflict? Did not God command the Israelites to conquer Canaan? Did they not defend their lands from the Philistine? If we secede, then we will have to defend ourselves.”

  “Yes, we will defend ourselves, and a war will erupt. The hot heads in South Carolina who not only seceded but also fired upon Ft. Sumter have doomed us to this state of affairs. South Carolina should be left to fend for itself now that it has its independence. We should not follow suit because our passions are inflamed,” his father replied.

  Elizabeth Murdoch touched John’s hand gently, interrupting him. “Dear? It is time for the dessert, and the little ones are getting restless.”

  “Yes, indeed it is,” John replied. Esther, Sarah, and Paul perked up in anticipation of the object of their long-suffering. John portioned out pie slices, which were never large enough to satisfy the smaller children. The discipline of today, he often lectured his children, would produce men and women of tomorrow, and they would know their places in society.

  The children served, Stephen took up the discussion again. “The militia is forming in anticipation of a positive vote of secession. They are calling all men up.”

  “And it will be your duty to respond,” John replied, “and mine as well.”

  “You?” Stephen asked, then regretted.

  “I am of serving age in the militia. If it is called out, I will go.” John replied. He took a bite of pie.

  “Why call out the militia?” Elizabeth exclaimed. “From where would there be any danger?”

  “To be prepared for war, Mother.” Stephen explained.

  “To give the hot heads something to do,” John added. “Perhaps if they cool down in the cold and damp, their passions will be dimmed enough for cooler heads to prevail.”

  Stephen looked his father full in the face. “What if it does come to war? Better to be prepared for it than not.”

  “And if it does come to war, it will be in opposition to the authority installed by God over this land. We will be in opposition to God’s will for us, and I fear that it will cost us dearly.”

  “But what if that authority is no longer legitimate? Would we not be better to move from it and not suffer the fate of Israel to the Assyrians? Judah was split from Israel because of a pretender to the throne. What if we are Judah and the holders of the proper anointing of God?”

  “But we are under a new covenant, Son. Jesus opposed the Sadducees and Pharisees because they knew the law but did not know Him. All authority is given by God and Christ. Steal a loaf of bread and you have broken not only the commandment but also the parish law. Why?” Steven had heard this refrain before, but he waited for his father to explain how it applied now.

  “Because authority has been established,” his father continued, “to define what is lawful and what is not. That authority deserves our respect if for no other reason than it is established by God. The federal government in Washington is that authority established and supported by God. It will be wrong to oppose it by force of arms and wrong to secede from it just because someone does not like a policy.”

  Stephen leaned in, sure that for once he would make a case to correct his father’s confident explanation. “But are we not also under the authority of the governor and our representatives whom we send to the capitol?”

  “Yes, and by that we will abide, by what our representatives vote on. It will not make it any more right if they choose to secede for all of the reasons stated. We will abide by our representation, but I will lament the decision should it go that way.”

  John’s voice dropped on the last word, and Stephen knew this discussion was over. Stephen didn’t know if he had won or lost, as his father had played both sides before growing weary of the discussion.

  Last year, Stephen would not have been able to describe any feeling of ill will toward a far-off government. The election did not concern him because he neither owned property nor was of age to vote. He was not affected by the issues now under discussion. But then Lincoln was elected with support from northern free state votes with few southern votes. Suddenly, it was as if the country had experienced something of a renewal. Those who rarely discussed politics were caught up in the intrigue. Most of the folks Stephen knew were disgusted that the federal government might end slavery, something that it had not yet promised or threatened to do.

  For Stephen, those were days of discovering his patriotism, mirrored by that of his fellow Mississippians, and finding something new: secession. He was caught up in it, despite his father’s obvious disdain for the clamoring for separation. All the youth were mobilized by the thought of a separate entity where protections guaranteed by the constitution were paramount and the control of the federal government was curtailed or non-existent. He suddenly became an expert on constitutional law, as was anyone willing to listen at the post office or the church steps. Most agreed that the only answer was to secede to protect the right of the states to determine their own course. The Black Republicans, a derisive term given to the wing of the fledgling Republican Party, whose sole purpose was to emancipate every slave in the South, were in power for one purpose only, and they were put in power without a single Southern vote. Their goal was to rip away a century of culture and economics, even society itself, for the base purpose of satisfying their own decadent and misguided morality.

  There he was, a year or so later, standing in the middle of a camp whose remaining tenants were either dead or nearly so, and all for the pursuit of the freedom to choose whether or not to own slaves. It was this freedom that drove him and his fellows into the ranks of an army of Americans who sought to make their own way apart from the constitutional authority of those in Washington, DC. They had their own constitution now, their own president, and their own army.

  And now they were on the verge of their own victory, at least for the western army. While God may have smiled upon the eastern Confederates, God was apparently unaware of their western brethren. Albert S. Johnston was sent west to bring order and victory to Confederate arms in Tennessee. Finally, they would throw off the shroud of defeat for good.

  Stephen looked across the tents he needed to scour to find his pard, but the breaking of daylight only meant the quickening of the hostilities. It was time to get moving lest some provost detail should come along and herd him back to his regiment as a skulker.

  *****

  24th Ohio Skirmish Line

  Dill Branch AM April 7, 1862

  Across the damp landscape, the opposing sides were shaking themselves out after a long, rainy night. Skirmishing along the line sputtered out as both sides tired of shooting at shadows. The skirmishers of the 24th Ohio braced themselves to begin the fight anew. Philip shivered as the blue of dawn revealed the surroundings in more detail. The stump that might have been a crouching Rebel skirmisher was now only a stump. He could see it several yards away, cut with holes. Philip shook his head at the many times in the dark he had fired into it, thinking it was a Rebel.

  They had been on the skirmish line now for five hours, and he ached from the time spent lying prone in the damp. He was soaked. Despite the
excitement several hours ago, Philip was groggy and fighting sleep. The enemy had been too close to pull normal picket duty. The skirmish line had been spread out with each man alert for any perceived enemy push. They were the early warning for the regiment and the screen that kept the enemy from finding out too much detail as to what lay behind. It was trying work.

  The morning air was cold, and his breath billowed out in puffs. His blankets and gear lay in the rear with the regiment where he longed to hang his sack coat and trousers to dry while he wrapped himself in his wool blanket. But it was not to be. Not even the regiment had the luxury of drying itself out but was, instead, being roused to make coffee. This had been a singular experience for Philip and the rest of the brigade. Although the fighting and the repairing to encamp had always been near the enemy, never did they do so in such close proximity as during the last night. Picket details kept wary eyes on one another as the armies moved back and forth, dodged and parried one another, and attempted to bring their enemy to battle. Picket lines were often established a mile or two away, and they maintained contact with the main forces. Should the enemy suddenly advance, pickets could alert the army long before the enemy was able to attack. Word had it that Grant’s army placed the picket line too close to the main force and had suffered for that oversight.

  But the skirmishing through the night was something new. Even on picket one could rest as long as someone from the detail was awake. The men on the skirmish line could not rest.

  The enemy’s skirmishers were still invisible. Philip wondered if they had actually been out this close. Fire begets fire, he knew, and nervousness often produces phantom assailants. If the enemy was out there, they would soon start firing again.

  “Now would be a good time to get relief,” Sammy said. “If they don’t do it soon, we won’t be able to move without being fired upon.”

  “Smell that?” Mule asked.

  “Smell what?” Philip replied.

  “Coffee. They makin’ coffee.”

  They smelled the air. It was coffee.

  “They pull us off soon,” Johnny assured him.

  “Not soon enough,” Mule said. “I just want a mug of something warm. I’m chilled to the bone.”

  “If you weren’t almost six foot, Mule, I’d suspect you was a delicate city boy,” Sammy said and laughed.

  Mule shot him a pleading look. “Ain’t nuthin’ wrong with a little comfort!”

  “Why we still here?” Johnny asked. “We shoulda’ been pulled off hours ago! Skirmishin’ is hot work.” They nodded in agreement. “Captain must be all nice and comfy in a tent back there as I ain’t seed him since we were thrown out here.”

  “I saw him go down the line during the firing a couple hours ago,” Philip said and looked over his shoulder. “See, he’s there behind us.”

  Johnny spit on the ground and grimaced. “If they keep tarrying, we’ll be on this line fer sure once full light hits.”

  “I don’t know about you,” Mule said, “but I can’t stop shiverin’, and my teeth is chatterin’ awful.”

  “They’ll fetch us back,” Philip reassured them, though without conviction. He didn’t place much faith in military thoroughness or fairness. There was always a sense that some fatigue detail was too long and that some companies were favored when details and dirty work were assigned. Perhaps someone did forget to call them in, or perhaps the major was punishing their captain for some personal slight. Whatever the reason, they had been on the skirmish line far too long and would be useless in the coming fight if not allowed to rest.

  Before frustration and fatigue could turn to despair, they heard their captain’s call. “Company, prepare to fall in on the regiment!”

  Behind them, another company spread out in skirmish formation and advanced on their position. Philip stood and almost fell over. After lying prone for so many hours, his legs were stiff and weak. He made his way on unsteady legs to where the regiment gathered in formation. It was the relief they had sought, but it looked to be short lived. The other companies had fallen in line and were shaking themselves out in front of the rifle stacks. This could only mean they were preparing to break those stacks and move out.

  Their own company formed up at the end of the regimental line and dressed down. Then, much to Philip’s surprise, their captain gave the order to stack muskets. He heard a collective sigh of relief as the men eagerly created the teepee-like rifle stacks with intertwined bayonets. Everyone knew the next command, an order that no soldier was reluctant to obey.

  “Rest!”

  Fatigued and drenched, the company broke in a collective stagger toward their knapsacks in the rear of the regimental line. Bedrolls were unfurled and dry undershirts unpacked. Someone started a company cook fire, and men were quick to find their tin cups. Mule was beside himself.

  *****

  Polk’s Battery

  Wicker Field position AM April 7, 1862

  Across the dead space separating the foes, a messenger charged up to Captain Michael Grierson with messages concerning the day’s hostilities. Michael suddenly found himself in command of the whole battery. Captain Polk had succumbed to the wound in his leg and relinquished command to Michael. Frustration over being a subordinate evaporated, but the change in position came with responsibility. Michael had to determine where the other sections of guns were located and their deportment. Orders from General Polk and Major Bankhead, Polk’s chief of artillery for the corps, followed in quick succession.

  The enemy was making a fresh start upon their lines and would soon be in front of the battery. Was the infantry still out there? The morning fog from the late evening rain hung thick upon the ground, limiting visibility to a few tens of yards. Should the enemy appear out of the thick, the battery would be in dire straits. Through the fog, Michael heard firing begin to the right and roll in their direction.

  “Lieutenant,” Michael yelled to Lieutenant Young, “take command of the section and prepare the guns for action! Captain Polk has been carried from the field, and I must find his section.”

  “Sir,” the young man replied and hurried off, barking orders as he went.

  Mahoney gave Michael a look of concern and a quick tip of his hat in recognition of the gravity of Michael’s sudden elevation in command. It was one thing to handle a section well in battle, but another to command the whole battery and have the eyes of the generals upon you. Captain Polk’s orders were to bring the battery into action on the front of Cheatham’s division, somewhere off to the right of where the other section stood in battery. Sounds of battle rumbled in that direction. Michael noted the brigades of marching men shaking themselves out in battle lines and the bustle of couriers ferrying orders to and fro from the headquarters. The men still had a tired look to them, but they moved with purpose. The rumble off to the left only added animation to their movements.

  Yards away and separated by a wood, the lines were engaged in hot fighting. Scattered wounded and dead lay where they fell. Michael wished he could re-unite the battery, but by the sounds of it, they were committed where they stood. The familiar flags of the 2nd Divisional HQ of Polk’s Corps fluttered into sight, and officers and cavalry clustered nearby. Passing the gaggle of braided sleeves and star-studded collars, Michael rode cautiously through the wood toward the booming of cannon. He nearly lost his hat to low-hanging branches and soon reached the cacophony of shouts and whizzing lead.

  Two batteries were playing upon the advancing lines of blue but were being pounded in return by enemy guns unlimbered defiantly ahead of their own infantry. Enemy gunners worked their pieces like men possessed. Report after report shook the ground in succession of delivery and receipt. The enemy’s columns filled the open space, and his skirmishers pushed forward. It didn’t take Michael long to see that this side of the line needed help.

  Heedless of the lead hissing by his ear, Michael spurred toward the other section of Polk’s battery where men worked their guns with equal fury. Michael spied Lieutenant Parker,
hatless, sporting a gash along his scalp and a trickle of blood running down his cheek.

  “Parker!” Michael shouted as he ran up to his subordinate, “We’re about to be taken enfilade. The enemy’s brought up another battery on the left to that rise over there!”

  “Sir, we’re playing with all we have. We won’t be able to hold for long,” shouted Parker.

  “Detail the leftmost piece to respond to that battery as soon as it unlimbers! Reinforcements are coming, but you’re right, we’re about to be overrun. How are your limbers? We’re far away from our supplies.”

  “Limbers are full, but if the enemy pushes us, we’ll have to leave some. We’ve lost ten horses in the last minutes, and I won’t have much to retrieve the battery with if we have to leave quickly.”

  The fire of the enemy batteries concentrated on them. Bankhead’s battery opened from a position one hundred yards to their right. Solid shot bounded through the caissons and took off the tops of nearby trees.

  Over the noise, Parker shouted, “How is the other section?”

  “In good spirits and unengaged when I left them, but the fight is moving their way. They are posted near that church.”

  Parker shouted to a harried-looking non-commissioned officer working the number one piece. “Sergeant Smith! Turn Number Three toward that enemy battery on the left and open on them with solid shot,” Turning back to Michael, he asked, “How is Captain Polk?”

  “I don’t know. I saw him last night after dark. He was getting around and refusing to go to the aid station.”

  A cheer heralded the arrival of another brigade, and the infantry moved forward to meet those of the enemy, who had come even with his batteries and had begun to advance past them.

  Michael pointed at the battery in the center of the enemy forces. “Now’s the time to hit that battery there with explosive while they can’t fire over their own lines.”

  The Union regiments, marching in front of his own batteries, masked their fire, giving Michael’s section some breathing room.