The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3

by Phillip Bryant

  “Battery!” Parker shouted as he ran from gun to gun. “Three-second fuses, counter-battery fire, fire for effect at the center battery!”

  Loaders hustled forward with cone-shaped charges. Gun commanders measured and cut the fuses. The guns were loaded and fired as if nothing had interrupted their work. Puffs of smoke burst above the enemy guns. Everything below the explosions was showered with shrapnel.

  “Adjust your elevation, Number Two!” Parker shouted.

  Just as quickly, rounds began to crash around them from the enemy battery on the right. The number three gun responded in kind, but it was to be an unequal contest. The enemy’s center battery was helpless to respond, with the Federal infantry blundering too close to their line of fire. It was their turn to suffer fire they could not return. Muskets from opposing lines of infantry cut loose upon one another. The situation looked as if it might turn to the better. Bankhead’s battery was free to play upon the rightmost enemy battery, relieved of the pressure from the meddlesome center battery, which was now diving for cover.

  Wounded and otherwise healthy-looking men filed by the battery in ones and twos from the infantry line fifty yards ahead. Without warning, a flood of panic-stricken men ran past the battery’s left, followed by their colors and several screaming officers. Whether by hint of disaster or premonition of defeat, the regiments next in line also began to disintegrate. A roaring cheer echoed from the enemy lines, and a general advance began.

  “Load canister! Load for canister!” Parker shouted.

  Now it was their turn to sit helpless while their front was masked by their own fleeing infantry. Staff officers darted among the fugitives and saber whipped several groups to form a line. Those out of reach turned tail and continued the retreat. On the right, the lines were still exchanging fire. As each successive regiment had its left uncovered and open to the oblique fire of the enemy, the Confederate line dissolved.

  “We need to slow them down!” Michael shouted to Parker, “but get the caissons ready to move!”

  The enemy infantry marched triumphantly forward, freed to have a go at Michael’s unprotected section of guns. The last of the retreating regiments cleared their front, and the guns began firing toward the approaching lines of the enemy. They were still out of musket range, but only barely. A volley of canister thrown into the enemy slowed their advance but did little more. The Confederate regiments to the right had begun to pull back slowly, fighting as they moved.

  “We need to hold them a little longer, Lieutenant!” Michael shouted. “When they get into range, charge with double canister and let them have it!”

  At best, canister range was slightly greater than musket range; double charge shortened that distance. The enemy would need to be close for full effect.

  Cheering, the enemy regiments pushed forward and entered that arc of deadly space where foes meet one another on equal footing. It would be five hundred muskets against double canister-loaded cannon, an equality that would last only for a single volley. Michael had to make it count if the guns were to be saved.

  CHAPTER 15

  36th Indiana Line of Battle

  Purdy Road AM April 7, 1862

  The church steeple Robert could see through the mist reminded him that this place was once peaceful farm land.

  “Guide is left. Left!” shouted the captain as the 36th Indiana’s line undulated in a serpentine manner.

  Robert was already sweating. Steam rose off the shoulders of the man next to him, moisture from his damp wool sack coat evaporating in the morning sunlight. Fog was lifting along the trees and dissipating in the light. Booming cannon and musket fire thundered ahead. The men were excited but anxious. These Indianans were still green, despite having caught some small glimpse of the elephant the evening before. The hungry maw of the beast was ahead. Robert marched again into the face of battle but without his comrades at his side. Huebner was several paces away, as were the other men of his beloved 25th Missouri. That was home. They were family. The Indiana men around him exuded a naïve desire to pitch into the battle. They had something to prove, mainly that they were soldiers worthy of their calling.

  Deafening musketry volleys and singing lead informed them of the struggle beyond the pall of smoke. He heard a Rebel yell over the cannon fire, sounding more like the shrill yipping of crazed animals than the voices of men. The yell reminded him that the enemy was in earnest and in good spirits. The sound turned his blood cold. The enemy was winning on this field.

  The regiment broke through the curtain of smoke to face a field full of butternut and gray. Ahead of them, a brigade was advancing into the storm. Rebel batteries fired into the masses of blue-coated soldiers. When one brigade was unable to stand the tempest’s pounding, another brigade took its pace. Flags fluttered in the centers of the regiments. The number of standards suggested to Robert the number of brigades and divisions arrayed against one another.

  The regiment marked time nervously. Their glee at seeing battle once more melted in the face of horrible combat. The brigade in their front advanced steadily and bled a string of casualties. Men writhed or were stilled as they fell. Robert knew they would either charge and break the enemy or halt and be broken. Shots of grape and canister tore gaps in the double line formations, laying dozens low. Bravely, the men would cover down until the gap closed. Piles formed of broken bodies that were once healthy and stalwart humanity. If this brigade succeeded, they would be spared the chore of advancing into that cauldron.

  The brigade advancing on its right halted and delivered a volley. The colors rose and fell to rise and fall again. The best men in the regiments, whose honor it was to carry the colors, stood to their duty, knowing full well they were the target of hundreds of muskets. Each fall meant that a brave man died, and each rise meant another brave man took his place. The brigade in front kept up their advance alone. Each step carried those regiments closer to delivering a volley into the ranks of the enemy.

  The men in the Indiana ranks cheered from relief and from admiration for the men facing the sheets of flame and lead. The brigade covering its flank turned and marched back from where it came, leaving the other brigade of some hundreds of Union men alone to the work. Naked and drawing flank fire from the left, the lone brigade, too, stopped and delivered a volley, hoping to accomplish something, anything, for the price it paid in blood to get there. The hurrahs ceased. The unequal contest could have but one result.

  The man next to Robert shouted “Look!” and pointed left.

  Prodded by its officers, the brigade had regrouped. It marched forward once again to aid its sister brigade alone on the field.

  Tired and gravelly throats shouted encouragement, and many uttered prayers. The regiments advanced as if into a strong wind. The men leaned toward their enemy. It was too late. The brigade disintegrated into a mob of fleeing blue. They had had enough. The second brigade halted but a few moments before slowly back-pedaling to cover the retreat. Exhausted and demoralized men galloped back toward and through the Indianans. The war was just ahead, and it was their turn to fight.

  Robert had done this before. One stood in formation with every muscle tingling and the stomach in knots. When they received the order to advance, every man had to decide to go forward despite the danger. One did it because the fellow next to him did it, and so on down the line. These green Indiana men had an even greater reason. Not a man among them wanted to show the white feather of cowardice. They would march to the gates of Hades without the prodding of file closers. But even they, in their eagerness to prove themselves, had to take a moment to view the scene and wonder whether valor required a foolhardy charge into destruction.

  Robert searched the faces of his pards to know their state of mind. Hildebrande and Gustavson were gone, the two old fighters and soldiers whom everyone in the company looked to in times of fear. They were the real veterans. They always stood to their posts in a way that caused Robert to admire their stalwart and stern countenance. He and the others from
the 25th Missouri were townsmen and patriotic to the core, but they were not professional soldiers. Piper looked worried, and Huebner looked scared and mouthed words that Robert did not follow. The other men were downcast. They knew that nothing would prevent their own march into the fire. How many would fall? How many would make it to the enemy’s line? How many would never leave this field again?

  They were a strong brigade, both in numbers and attitude. They would prove themselves or die trying. The big bugs, those with the shoulder straps who rode the horses in the rear of any line, would have their own superiors watching from glasses even farther to the rear. On it would go, down to the privates praying for deliverance from the pain of a minié ball wound.

  Battle meant death, and death meant a departure from the pain of an earthly existence. Had each man made his peace with his maker? Would the cannon fire rend flesh from bone, or would a bullet crush the bone of an arm or leg, rendering it useless? Robert preferred to not think at all. Hildebrande always told them to follow orders and do what needed to be done. He realized that his small band of survivors might be broken up even smaller after this attack played out. Who would survive to collect his pards for final burial? Was he ready for the final reward?

  The field quieted, save for the playing of the batteries on both sides. The space between the foes was torn and bleeding. Reinforcements were sorted out, and the regiments of the brigade shifted to form one long line of blue. The enemy stood to their weapons a hundred yards away. Another brigade emerged from the woods behind Robert and formed front—the next wave should this effort fail. The advance had to be made and the enemy well met.

  War was fought in no other way but to close with the enemy and try his mettle. It mattered little that each man was a part of some other family in cities and communities all across the North and West. It mattered nothing that each man felt within his heart trepidation at taking that first step forward. They were no longer just men. They were soldiers, volunteers to a cause to reunite a sundered country. They were now 36th Indiana or 25th Missouri or some other designation. They would march and deliver their fire, standing the test until ordered to fall back or to charge forward.

  Robert drew a deep breath, and the silence became oppressive. The church steeple, a simple cross that had survived the first day of conflict, now showed clearly above the tree tops. Ahead, the enemy looked at him and silently watched and waited. No one jeered; no one taunted or sullied the test of courage wrought upon this field. They would each to his own soon yell, shout, curse, and fire or swing the butt of a rifle in anger and desperation. For the moment, though, they gave each other a grudging respect.

  The brigade color guard trooped forward twenty paces and halted. The moments ticked by. With the colors in front and in the most immediate harm, what man of them would deign to hang back now? The 36th Indiana’s own color guard was trooped forward, and all was ready for the general advance in grand style. Robert’s stomach tightened. There could be only one command remaining. Then they would tread this field of valor.

  *****

  Polk’s Battery

  Wicker Field AM April 7, 1862

  “Drag it away! We’ve not enough mounts!” Lieutenant Parker shouted as the caissons were limbered up to the remaining horses in the battery. The enemy regiments were advancing cautiously, checked by the fire of canister into their ranks. But the guns were lost if a moment longer elapsed in the work of firing them. With trained precision, the battery moved from action stations to limbering for a hurried movement to the rear. The horses were brought from the picket line. With the injuries sustained along the picket line, four horses, rather than the typical six, were hooked to each cannon. None were available to pull the final cannon.

  “We can’t save it, and we’ve got no infantry left to help haul it off,” Michael shouted in reply. “Spike it!”

  As the last gun they could save was discharged and the caisson rolled up to retrieve it, Lieutenant Parker shouted, “They’re going to make a go for us!” They fired the gun they could not save, and the enemy line surged forward with a shout.

  Sergeant Hughes, the gun commander, grabbed the iron spike and jammed it into the touch hole. Sergeant Phipps prepared to hammer it down. The rest of the gun crew ran for the rear, leaving Parker, Michael, and Hughes looking aghast as Sergeant Phipps suddenly tumbled to the ground.

  To leave a gun on the field was like leaving one’s colors in the hands of the enemy. Although cannon sometimes had to be left behind when the fighting was hard and horses were not available, leaving a gun whole and un-spiked was something that could not happen. The enemy ran to capture the gun that seemed in easy reach. Sergeant Hughes hopped over the gun tail and retrieved the sledge hammer. Lieutenant Parker ran forward with revolver and sword drawn. The race was on. Michael wanted to tell them to hurry, to forget about the gun and save themselves, but knew he would be doing the same thing. The gun could still be successfully spiked if Sergeant Hughes could just have a few more seconds to wield the hammer.

  A Federal captain raced ahead of his men and demanded that Lieutenant Parker surrender his sword. To shoot the captain would buy some time but would be tantamount to murder when surrender was offered. Michael was helpless to reach the gun in time to prevent or alter the outcome. He knew that Parker was a chivalrous officer who would do what was right. As Hughes swung the hammer to let it fall upon the spike, Parker dropped his revolver and handed his sword to the captain, raising his hands in ascension to the demand. The Union men, distracted by their new prisoner, gave Hughes time to drive the spike into the touch hole.

  Michael knew there was nothing more he could do. He raced to his mount several yards beyond the lost gun and swung into the saddle. With a last look behind him, he saw the enemy swarming the gun and capturing Sergeant Hughes. But they had spiked it, making it useless to the enemy, and that was enough to salvage the battery’s honor.

  Michael raced Charger through the tree line. His hope to make it back to his old battery evaporated when Lieutenant Parker was captured. The field where Michael had encountered Cheatham’s divisional HQ was now bustling with regiments. Screaming officers tried to rally their charges into another defensive line. The battery was shaking itself loose between two brigades of infantry, and Michael cleared the trees, hurrying to take station.

  A new defensive line was forming three hundred yards past the trees atop a slope. Michael reined up behind the new gun line and leapt off Charger. His race across the field was the only reconnaissance they would get. The ground undulated like a series of frozen waves. The ground was not ideal; the undulations would provide cover for the enemy’s approach and offer only quick glimpses of him as he crested each small hill. The guns would need short fuses to explode above the approaching lines.

  “Lieutenant Gibbs,” Michael shouted to the second lieutenant overseeing the placement of the caissons, “you are in command. Parker has been captured.”

  The nervous lieutenant swallowed. “Sir?”

  Each officer and non-com knew he might be faced with the sudden ascension to command, but attrition among the officers had not treated this section well.

  The men moved listlessly, as if mired in mud. They were exhausted and looked as if they had been on the receiving end of hours of pounding by enemy guns. They were fit only for the rear, but Bankhead’s battery on their left did not appear to be in any better shape.

  “That ground is going to give us trouble. Use explosive with short fuses. Try four-second fuses as they are forming, thirty degree elevation, and start from there!”

  His orders completed, Michael remounted. He wanted to find General Cheatham and another battery to either relieve or augment what they had. Cheatham was not hard to find. Riders coming and going belied the location of the new divisional HQ. To Michael’s surprise, Major Bankhead was also there.

  “Grierson, how is Polk’s battery faring?” Bankhead asked.

  Michael offered a tentative salute. “Sir, Section One here needs relief
and now. They are moving like they’re knee deep in water. We lost one gun to the enemy and two men. The gun was successfully spiked. Sir, I respectfully request permission to pull them from the line.”

  “Denied, Captain. No fresh batteries anywhere on this end of the field. They will have to make do.”

  “Sir, this is horrible ground. The guns won’t be able to play upon the enemy due to all that low ground. They will be upon us before we can respond effectively and that only if the men are alert.”

  “I understand your protest, Captain,” Bankhead said levelly, “but there isn’t anything to replace them with. They are holding on the right of our line by the church. We have to hold here, or the whole field will be lost.”

  “Sir,” Michael said with another salute. He remounted Charger and wheeled about.

  Just when he made it back to the section, the enemy emerged from the trees and formed up across their front. An unending line of blue started forward in line of battle. Michael saw a second line of Union blue emerge from the trees and knew that this was going to be a temporary holding place before they would be forced to retreat once more. Though the gun crews stood to their pieces, they did so as if asleep on their feet. The fighting died down off to their right where Bankhead stated the line was holding firm.

  A quiet descended upon this place of conflict and death, but it brought no comfort. Birds began to sing again, perhaps convinced that the fuss below them was over. Except for the enemy line’s approach, Michael could nearly convince himself it truly was a peaceful Monday morning.

  The flags dotting the dark blue told of the enemy’s numbers. Michael counted ten stands of colors, and that was just the first line. The enemy’s colors were separated by a frightful distance, the intervening space, Michael knew, filled with enemy and fresh regiments to oppose the fatigued and whittled-down regiments of Cheatham’s command.

  The ground had been won the day before when the enemy had retired from it. To be forced to vacate it now when victory was in grasp was more than any man would concede easily, even one haggard by lack of sleep and constant marching into danger. To Michael’s thinking, though, they had little to gain from pretending they might be able to hold the enemy at bay this time.