The company column wound its way through the wood line and halted at the edge of a field in time to watch their brigade advance in line of battle. Another brigade, the first in their division, stood fifty paces away, waiting its turn to move forward. Their regiment was already trudging up the height toward the enemy. The whole of the division was present, and its banners fluttered listlessly in the paltry breeze. The guns spoke with concussive force.
The enemy’s infantry stood still, waiting for the moment to loose its anger upon the impetuous blue line of battle slowly making its way up to them. Their own banners stood limp on the staves. Their colors were numerous but protected by too few weapons between them.
They had been witness to this several times in battle, the audience to other formations confronting the enemy. The firing line was up close, disturbing in its lack of control. Only the opposing muskets of the enemy and the puffs of gun powder could be seen. Philip knew what they were thinking. Load and fire, load and fire, and wait for the order to advance. Their hearts would be pounding with fear, each man anticipating the next whizzing sound to be followed by the pain of being shot. To a man, they hoped that those ahead would succeed in breaking the enemy’s will before they heard the call to move forward. The moment was full of pageantry and anguish.
Captain Bacon gave the command to right face, and the company changed formation from column to line of two ranks. The bark of volleys rang out as the enemy’s line opened fire by regiment. Battles were gauged by which side could drive the other from the field. In that grand strategy of forcing the enemy out of one position to another, regiments and brigades played out the drama. The stage was one ridgeline to the next, one defensive position to the next, over and over.
*****
Philip watched the brigades square off and advance into the muzzles of the enemy. Soon, in twos and threes, men trickled back from the firing line carrying wounded. The dead were left in place.
“I hate standin’ here and watchin’,” Johnny murmured from behind Philip, his place in formation when company front was ordered. His musket would fire over Philip’s right shoulder.
“You’d rather we was up there?” Mule asked.
“I’d rather not have to watch but jus’ be up there and done with it.”
“Or not up there or here at all,” Sammy said from a few positions to Philip’s right.
“We’ll be up there soon with our pards,” Johnny said. “That enemy line don’t look like it’s gonna break.”
“Someone’ll break soon,” said a voice farther down the company line.
Their own artillery was busy on a small rise of ground. It was a dangerous position to be in with solid shot and shrapnel flying about. The crews kept up a hurried rhythm of crash, fire, and concussion.
“They’ve had enough,” Johnny said.
“They look like they’s . . . “ Mule started. What had been a solid and steady blue battle line unraveled as the left-most regiment began to fall back by company.
“Curse that 6th Ohio,” Johnny said and spat.
“Ain’t that the 36th Indiana?” Sammy asked.
“It’s the 6th,” Johnny said. “They always on the left flank and always findin’ some reason to save they hides. Them city boys from Cincinnati ain’t cut from the same cloth as us farming boys.”
Philip shouted over the din. “Ammen’s got the 36th Indiana in the center. Jus’ look at them full companies.” They stared at the men to their front. “It ain’t the 6th or our 24th fer sure.” Philip stated.
Sammy shouted back. “I suppose we’ll be rejoining them right quick.”
*****
36th Indiana line of battle
Hamburg - Purdy road line April 7, 1862
Across the field and over the Federal batteries, the 36th Indiana men were receiving their baptism of fire in earnest. The twilight fight the night before and skirmishing in the rain were nothing compared to the briskness of the fire pouring into the Indiana and Missouri men. Their wild-eyed excitement was soon replaced with terror. This time, the enemy held a strong position and wasn’t attacking. Men fell to the ground or out of formation in every company. The greenhorns fumbled their cartridges with unsteady fingers.
Robert saw many of the men around him on the verge of breaking for the rear. The sound of minié balls flying past their ears and the sight of fallen comrades was too much for some. But they stayed their ground as if nailed there; only their eyes belied the fear they felt. Between loading and firing, he kept a watchful eye on his own comrades. So far, everyone was still on his feet. He wondered if they would have stayed had he not been there.
“Steady,” Robert shouted for no reason other than to allay his own fears. “You men stay steady!”
A lieutenant shouted, “To the rear, march! To the rear, march!”
The regimental line reversed face and marched away from the enemy. Robert quickly discovered why. The men of the 6th Ohio were scampering back down the slope in disarray, their backs to the enemy.
“Halt! About face! About face!” The order was parroted from company officer to company officer down the line, followed by the order to load. They delivered one more volley, and Robert found himself marching once again with his back to the enemy. Despite the obvious failure to break the enemy, men sighed with relief. Robert took a quick count of the men around him. Everyone was still with him.
A sudden blur caught his attention, something that crashed obliquely into the Indiana line, tearing into several men. Blood and brains scattered over anyone unlucky enough to be nearby. Robert winced as spatter flew into his face, coating his clothes. He’d seen this happen before but never this close. Those not rent in two lay writhing on the ground, clutching at stumps of missing appendages. In his horror and shock, he didn’t hear the enemy cheering or cannon belching fire. The faces of the Indiana men, familiar from their brief time together, were now memories to be forever etched in his mind.
Each step drew him farther from the scene. The attack, as it ended, brought the regiments out and away from the destructive proximity of their enemy. New faces took the places of those left behind on the field. Robert shook himself free from the nightmarish images.
He looked around to count noses once again. Piper was missing, as was Georg Primble, the most unassuming and un-German of the noisy and bombastic former 13th Missouri ranks. Huebner was alive, but Adolf Goerdeler was not where he was supposed to be. Huebner caught his gaze and shrugged as if understanding the question Robert’s glance asked. Robert knew where Piper was, now part of that tangle of blood and entrails left by that solid shot tearing through yielding flesh and bone.
The Indiana men were rattled and panting. Only a few forms lay still upon the slopes of the hill. There was hope yet that Georg and Adolf were still alive with the wounded. They retreated in good order. Robert knew what this meant—a slight respite before they would move forward again. The jittery greenhorns jabbered about their first real test of courage and eagerly stepped forward when the time came. Robert and his pards stepped off with less enthusiasm.
Another battery of artillery drove obliquely across their front, quickly unlimbering. The gunners were just out of reach of the enemy muskets but not from his artillery. The advancing infantry gave the gunners a cheer as they leapt from their caissons and quickly loosed several rounds upon the enemy infantry. The gunners themselves became the target of each enemy battery, and the ground around them was soon torn from solid shot and explosive discharges. Despite the punishment, the crews serviced each cannon with precision until the Indiana line came abreast the guns, and they finally fell silent. It was their turn to cheer on the advancing infantry brigades then limber up and escape further harm. Their dead and maimed had to be left behind. The enemy zeroed in on the spot vacated by the guns, punishing helpless infantry in their place. High explosive shot rained shrapnel from above, and solid case shot tore gaps in the companies.
Each puff of smoke revealed another enemy gun discharging, and at each puff
, Robert expected to be sent to his Maker. They had only been in that space enough time to make two or three paces, but it was sufficient time for large numbers of men to fall. The whole division advanced to confront the enemy stubbornly holding on to that slope. Another few paces and the enemy riflemen would join in delivering the punishment. The bodies began to pile up. The blue line stepped over them and trudged on.
CHAPTER 17
24th Ohio line of battle
Hamburg – Purdy Road line April 7th, 1862
The firing line was hot, aside from the sweltering heat of noon tide. Rifles bobbed up and down as the process of loading times nine was rehearsed with automatic precision. Up and level, jerk in response, and then back down once again to load. One fired into the mass of enemy forms in the murky distance and repeated the steps until the barrels were too hot to hold or touch. Somewhere among the objects of this wrathful behavior, delivered with neither anger nor malice but out of duty, someone was maimed or killed with each round. Thousands of men in blue pressed the thin but stalwart enemy line, hoping to make some impression upon it.
Philip gritted his teeth and asked God to forgive him at each round he fired. He knew it was war, and war meant death and destruction. Perhaps each round sent down range meant safety for one of his pards. Perhaps each one meant more destruction than he cared to dwell upon. Fire and reload, fire and reload, until he emptied his upper tin in his ammunition box. Twenty rounds sent into the enemy. Rapid and automatic did the firing proceed. He struggled with the paper cartridge packages from the lower compartment of his tins. His grimy fingers dug into the paper packages, fumbling with the cartridges and feeding them into the upper container while keeping his musket steady and holding open the heavy leather flap of his cartridge box.
The brigade advanced, retreated, advanced, and retreated once again. Now they confronted their enemy too closely for either side to suffer for long. Already, many of the company were stumbling back down the gentle slope of the hill to get away from the dangerous ground separating the combatants. Other men suffered from his fire or by slow death, life escaping out of grievous wounds. Fire and reload. His tins full once again, he returned to the duty of any soldier in the line. Whereas he once labored to secure the souls of his flock and instruct them in the ways of righteousness, the job of firing minié balls into the enemy with neither passion nor hate struck him as absurd. But the whizzing by his ears of the enemy fire as it flew too high brought a sense of equilibrium. Kill or be killed. Fire and reload.
Twenty minutes of fighting is an eternity to the rifleman in the line where time is measured by the growing emptiness of one’s cartridge box and the thinning of the line of pards. The enemy fire sailed harmlessly above their heads, given the odd luck of their being on lower ground. Someone would have to give—someone always gave. Roaring sound and the ringing discharges of his own musket engulfed Philip, insulating him from anything else. He saw others around him, but it was just him and his need to load and fire. Standing impervious to the destruction, he ignored it. God protected him. Why else, he reasoned, can I stand here moment after moment and not receive my just due?
The enemy infantry regiment in front of them suddenly vanished from view. Equally unexpected was the surge forward that dragged Philip along, like a strong river current. Hoarse huzzahs growled out of parched throats, and the regiment marched forward in triumph. The charge was short-lived as a line of determined but tired-looking Confederates marched up and delivered a blistering volley into their faces. But the momentum was not to be checked. The Ohioans weathered the blast unfazed. Cries of anguish and surprise mingled with the noise of battle.
They didn’t receive an expected order to halt, and others down the line kept up their pace. Those who had been in Philip’s immediate vicinity were missing, melted away, or swallowed up by the ground. Philip loosed his own yell, and it steadied his nerves. He didn’t think about the battle, or the enemy, or his pards, only his job as a soldier, and as a soldier, he had to fight his enemy regardless of his qualms or past calling.
Others suddenly surrounded him, and he ran with them. The whole regiment was surging forward, chasing the retreating enemy in their front. Cresting the top of the hill, the Ohioans found themselves in command of the enemy’s former line and the enemy in full flight. Soon, the whole position was covered in glorious blue, and the fighting abated into silence once more.
*****
36th Indiana line of battle
Hamburg – Purdy line April 7th, 1862
Farther west from where Philip and the 24th Ohio stood panting, Robert and the Indianans collapsed from the strain of the mornings exertions. Instinctively, his Missourian pards sought each other out. Like their Indiana comrades, their numbers were fewer once again. Quiet conversations replaced the sounds of battle echoing among the hill and grass. The pause was welcome, though cruelly short-lived. War has little regard for flesh and will. Huebner sat slumped over as if weighted down with a heavy load, shoulders drooping and head hanging low.
No one asked where their missing comrades were, for their absence was evidence enough. A profound heaviness hung around the group. Even the greenhorns from Indiana seemed to have aged several years since the prior day. Gone were their cries for action and animated tales of bravery. They had earned their battle flag today. A name would adorn their colors to commemorate their first battle. If the standard for the 25th Missouri was not in the hands of the enemy as a trophy, it, too, might yet sport such a name for this place.
The colors of the 36th Indiana fluttered in a cool breeze. Robert found himself drawn to it as if it were his own. Perhaps it was as much theirs as it was the Indianans.
“We fought fer that standard,” a familiar voice said. Robert didn’t turn to see, for the voice was like that of his own flesh and blood. “Mebbe the 25th’s escaped somehow.”
“Maybe,” Robert sighed and replied. “Might be a long time before we see another one flutter.”
“We can’t be too far from the camp,” a voice piped up.
“Possible, we might be able to retake it before evening if’n the Rebels keep runnin’,” Robert replied.
“You think we be punished for runnin’?” Huebner asked.
“Punish half th’ army then,” someone responded.
“True. Lots ran yesterday morning,” replied another.
The Missouri men lay on the grass, out of sight of the putrefying dead and the wailing wounded. The enormity of what happened across the Tennessee farmland was inescapable. Eventually, they would be called to account for it. They took advantage of the calm to find the peace of a moment’s rest.
*****
Polk’s Battery
Hamburg – Purdy road line April 7th, 1862
Michael reined up next to General Cleburne’s staff and returned the adjutant’s salute. What was left of the battery was drawn up a few yards distant, one gun short.
“Polk’s battery is unlimbered and ready to support the line,” Michael stated. “We need to replenish our caissons. We’re low on grape and canister.”
“Can’t help you, Captain,” the weary man replied. “Division supplies are way back in the rear and moving toward Corinth. You’ll have to forage.”
Michael was surprised. “Back to Corinth?”
“Beauregard’s ordered the army to retreat. We’re going to hold a line till the wounded and prisoners make it along, but don’t expect too much standin’ around.”
“If the other section of Polk’s battery turns up, point them my way. They was by that church this morning,” Michael said and pointed.
The days of marching and fighting produced not a victory but a defeat. Surely the army was made of sterner stuff than this, Michael thought as he slowly made his way back to the new defense line. Enough stragglers to form several regiments had formed near the Corinth Road. The infantry, drawn up and waiting for the enemy to burst upon them, were a pitiful sight. The roads leading south were clogged with wagons, broken men, and thousands of
skulkers seeking safety. From where they formed, Michael did not see the steeple of the church and wondered at the fate of his own Texans. With no caissons about or on the roads, Michael knew there wouldn’t be any scavenging for munitions. The paltry supply he still possessed would have to do.
The men from Polk’s section were strangers, though he knew their faces. He knew little of their personalities and less of their abilities. They were well-drilled. Save for the unfamiliar air about them, they performed no worse than his own Texans did. He still felt like an unwanted step-child in their presence, however. They just were not his own men. The bond of common upbringing and months of togetherness was not erased by the sudden elevation to command and responsibility. He did not know if any of them felt as he did. He only saw them respond to him as a superior officer.
One lieutenant and several sergeants remained to command the two-gun section. The privates did what privates do when left unmolested by their sergeants; they lounged and slept around their pieces. The acting first sergeant, a Sergeant Miller, looked up as he approached and walked over to meet him.
“Sir, we got five case of shot and six canister to our name,” Miller said grimly, a darkness shading his expression.
“We’re retreating, Sergeant, so we won’t be firing that much, anyway,” Michael replied.
“Any news of the other section?”
“None. They may be on their way back to Corinth by now,” Michael said with a sigh as he dismounted. Clutching the reins of the horse, he led it up to the caisson line. Two of the loaders were leaning against the wheels, fast asleep.
“Sir, here’s the roster as it stands right now for this section,” Miller said. He handed Michael a crumpled piece of paper.
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 24