The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3

by Phillip Bryant

  Michael read it quickly and folded it into his pocket. “Thank you, Sergeant. Have the crews stand down.” He looked at the loaders and said, “They need the rest.”

  The sergeant saluted half-heartedly, but Michael ignored the gesture. The man’s eyes said his mind was halfway to his pillow. His own weariness beginning to tell upon his legs, Michael walked his horse over to one of the caissons, tied the reins to a wheel, and settled in next to a snoring private. Little separated officer from enlisted man in this moment, as both were of flesh and bone and in need of quiet. He hoped the enemy would make a show of pursuit so he’d not be rudely awakened mid-stupor.

  He watched the columns of wagon teams and soldiers move by. In the distance, he spied a familiar landmark, the hill they topped yesterday before being drawn away to bombard the sunken road. Many of the dead from the day before rested in shallow graves dotting the field. Only the stripped enemy dead lay where they had fallen. All the signs of victory were to be had yesterday evening. Upon the hill, in silhouette, the dismounted gun carriage still stood.

  There was little to recount of the failure, save for the deplorable cohesion he witnessed last evening in his own army. Was it the rain? Was it the delays leaving Corinth? Was it General Johnston’s death? Was it the arrival of Buell? Something went wrong, and someone was to blame for sacrificing men and material and then leaving the field to the beaten enemy. Someone was responsible. He grew angry thinking about it. His crews, both sections, did their part as well as any man could under fire. They did not run or shirk. What was it that Mahoney said? “God’s will”? Was not God on the side of the rightness of their cause? Who shouldered the blame for such a catastrophe as this? Michael shifted uneasily.

  “Captain?” a voice called through the fog Michael felt behind his eyes.

  “Uh?” Michael looked up into the face of his lone subaltern. The lieutenant’s uniform was open at the collar, and his vest open to the air showed a calico undershirt. His sword, the symbol of command, hung loosely upon the straps and trailed a step behind him. His unshaven and grimy face told Michael this man needed sleep more than he.

  “Sir, there’s movement out in front. Looks like Federal reconnaissance in brigade strength.”

  Without looking away, Michael blew out a long breath. “Rouse the crews,” Michael ordered listlessly, hoisting himself to his feet. The infantry regiments on station around the battery were rousing themselves sluggishly, as well. Behind their thin screen, the retreat moved slowly down the Corinth-Pittsburg Road as if unconcerned with the imminent danger.

  The crews to the two remaining guns stood to station and watched as the Federal brigade advanced with skirmishers out front. Michael hadn’t noticed them before, but their own skirmish line was waiting.

  “Parker,” Michael called, “mind our skirmishers out there.”

  The lieutenant nodded in acknowledgement and motioned to each of his section crews. Soon the pop, pop, pop of skirmish fire filled the air.

  A peppering of fire spoke from the opposing lines, and puffs of smoke appeared from the barely visible skirmishers who went to ground at the first fire. The enemy skirmishers advanced in spurts, firing, then standing to walk forward. Their own skirmishers merely seemed an annoyance to the enemy, who marched forward as if on a parade ground. They needed a miracle to save the ordinance train slowly creaking down the road.

  In an instant, their skirmish line stood upright and bolted for the safety of the firing line. The Federal skirmishers barely trotted along, however, showing an uncharacteristic lack of urgency. A few walked as if on a leisurely stroll. Michael cast a glance behind him and toward the road the enemy was advancing obliquely to cut. The enemy banners fluttered some two hundred yards beyond the road, and, to the right, another defensive position was being prepared behind what looked like an abatis. They could use an abatis right now, as the only thing to prevent the fire storm of lead soon to be flying about was one’s own body. If the fugitive trains did not hurry along, their retreat to the new position would be short. The enemy would gobble up the tired remnants with little effort. The infantry, bearing defeat as well as they could, readied themselves to resume the conflict.

  “Parker, open on them with explosive. Watch your fuses,” Michael ordered. Tired or not, the battery sprang to life. Fire belched forth from one cannon, then the other. Michael knew it was only for show. He hadn’t the wherewithal to keep the enemy at bay or do any real damage. There only was the presence of a line of cannon to strike fear into the enemy’s heart. Bluff was all they had left.

  A few more shots and they would have to beat it to the rear, leaving the infantry to their own devices. All the same, Michael would put on a loud show. Shots flew down range and detonated airborne, though not near enough to the enemy to do anything but make them duck. The firing was sloppy at best and below their normal standards. Michael kept silent, knowing that each man knew this but was doing what he could.

  The sixth shot arched toward the enemy, and Michael shouted to Parker to limber up. That was it; infantryman’s best friend was cutting out. Michael gave a glance at the infantry line. The sudden movement of the guns toward the caissons drew men’s eyes toward the battery with forlorn expressions. It was often the lot of the infantry to fight to defend the guns and retake them when lost. Gunners served a solitary weapon and alone were powerless to do much in a close-quarters duel between massed forces. Each man would fight to resist letting the cannon escape until he no longer had it in him. Should not the lowly infantry expect a little more loyalty in return?

  The drilled precision of limbering up was executed quickly, and the battery was moving as fast as the remaining horses could effect. Michael galloped on ahead to the new line. He discovered a rich defensive position cluttered with felled trees and brush, a position that could not have been constructed any better had the army’s engineers been put to the task. The fallen trees had been arranged hastily into crude breastworks. To his surprise, Michael found a familiar sight reclining on a cannon.

  “Mahoney,” Michael blurted out, oblivious to the military impropriety. Blushing a bit, Michael quickly dismounted and ran over to his old section of Texans looking tired but strangely exuberant.

  “Captain, good ta see you hain’t been captured,” Mahoney replied and nodded in his peculiar frontier disregard for convention or etiquette.

  “Tell me you have munitions,” Michael said breathlessly. The rest of the section rattled across the open field and pulled around the infantry battalions to rest behind their barricade.

  “A full complement, sir,” Mahoney replied smugly.

  “Good, this section is out.” Michael nodded toward the arriving men and ran out to meet them. A spot was already cleared and prepped for the two guns, and they were soon in place next to their comrades. The Tennessee boys acquitted themselves well. But for the unfamiliar faces, Michael could have been with his fellow Texans. A sense of relief overcame him. Had the virtues of manhood not prevented it, he might have given each one there a hearty hug and handshake. He didn’t feel naked now, as if the few piled-up tree logs and scrub brush were of any real military value for protection. Yet he saw the same expression on everyone’s face. They were safe at last.

  In their front, the regiments they had abandoned earlier were marching up to the position, unmolested by a cautiously following enemy. They, too, seemed energized by the position, as if they were marching into an impregnable fortress. A livelier step propelled the regiments forward, and the defensive line now appeared to have real force behind it. Yet the enemy approached with the brazenness of a predator closing on its wounded prey.

  “I think the good captain will find this position a little more to his liking, no?” Mahoney said with a grin.

  Michael grinned back. “Very, First Sergeant, very much to my liking. How did you come to have full caissons?”

  “We had to pull back to replenish after you left. The fight went much better by the church than where you was at, I take it,” Mahon
ey replied.

  “Much better. We lost two guns and some crew. I think the left was under an ill star this day.”

  “They couldn’t budge us. We had to move when the left collapsed.”

  “How are the men?”

  “Tired, but we’re all still here. A few minor scratches, but everyone stayed at his post,” Mahoney answered.

  Michael looked about at faces that told him he was home. Bandages adorned foreheads and arms, but it was good to see so many still on their feet. The pursuing Federals marched forward, undeterred by the strength of the position opposite them. An artillery unit raced across the field ahead of the Federal infantry and went into battery. With precision, the crews manhandled their pieces into position while loaders cradled shot in their arms, ready to be rammed home.

  Michael, along with the rest of the battery, stood by, fascinated by the energy and work of their opposite numbers. Four guns were readied to fire in a matter of minutes, their first rounds crashing into the trees behind the Confederates. Perhaps it was the fatigue or perhaps just the admiration of a maneuver well executed, but the artillerymen watched agape. Four rounds of shot exploded before Michael nodded for Mahoney to prepare their own response. It was a dangerous game, this recognition of an enemy’s prowess, and one measured in moments lost to the pageant. Once set in motion, the battery responded in kind. The air was soon filled with explosive rounds as the range was gained between the batteries and shot and shell began to fall uncomfortably close.

  The approaching infantry pushed forward and passed the Federal battery, whose attentions were drawn to other parts of the Confederate line. Another Federal battery perched itself atop the rise of a hill, just behind the advance of their infantry brigades, and began lobbing solid shot at Michael’s guns. They sat just out of range of Michael’s smooth-bore napoleons, enjoying that rarest of opportunities to inflict damage while remaining untouchable themselves. The rifled guns of that battery gave them an edge.

  “Get ready for grape shot!” Michael yelled. The Federal infantry closed to within musket range, and a peppering of lead flowed to and fro across the open space separating the combatants. Yet, the contest was uneven. The Federal brigades soon backed away to lick their wounds, all but that troublesome battery. It continued to plow the earth with solid shot all around them, seeking to knock out their guns and men with one well-placed shot. The Federal infantry gathered themselves once again to march forward and exchange blows. In moments, more of the field was covered with blue wounded and dead.

  Again and again, the contest was renewed, and the firing was hot. A rousing cheer erupted from somewhere along the line that sounded strange to Michael’s ears. It was from their own infantry, and it was of that kind of yell men give when achieving a victory or being relieved of a burden too heavy to bear. Horseman swept across the field toward the enemy infantry, which fell back after another attempt to break into the hasty redoubt.

  “Cease fire, cease fire!” Michael shouted. He ran up to one of the guns and leaned upon the low breastwork thrown up.

  The men of the battery raised their hats, waved their arms, and cheered as the cavalry cut into the now-fleeing enemy like demons bent upon scooping up the last remnant of the damned for Hades.

  “Good ol’ Forrest! God bless the man,” Mahoney shouted.

  Nathan Bedford Forrest’s cavalry squadrons rode pell-mell into the fleeing enemy, cutting down as many as they could reach before running headlong into a charge of Federal cavalry themselves. The field, once covered with enemy infantry, was now an-every-man-for-himself clash of sabers and pistol shots. Even so, that meddlesome battery, undeterred by the success of Rebel arms and horseflesh, continued to prey upon Michael’s guns.

  “Damn that battery!” Michael cursed as another well-placed shot tore into the earth and shattered the hasty barricade in front of St. Paul. The shot furrowed the ground for a yard before bounding high into the air and over the surprised crews. No one was hurt but for splinters that showered all who were unlucky enough to be standing near the gun.

  The Federal cavalry quickly enveloped Forrest’s troopers, who were unaware of their approach until too late. Beating a hasty retreat back across the field, the horsemen galloped for the safety of the infantry and barricades, followed closely by a jubilant enemy.

  “As soon as they clear, give ‘em a face full of grape!” Michael shouted. The gunners regained their composure and readied their pieces. The Federal cavalry seemed hell-bent to ride over the abatis and engage in their own game of saber slash. As Forrest’s men dashed toward safety, the Federal horseman nipped at their heels. The battery had them in oblique as the retreat took their own cavalry far to the left of the rest of the infantry and Michael’s battery. Suddenly aware of the acute danger they had placed themselves in, the Federals reined to a halt too late.

  The Confederate infantry let loose a volley at the instant Michael’s battery fired by section, and the vainglorious pursuit melted away in a circus of spinning horses and flailing humanity. The dust and smoke settled to reveal a field empty once again but for hapless animals and men cut down from both sides. The Federals retreated to a safe distance to watch and wait. Many a man breathed a sigh of relief as they realized they and their pards were still standing. Still, that battery of Federal guns played upon the line. There was nothing to be done about it. The enemy was building barricades near the rise in front of that battery. Any attempt to silence those guns would lead to another engagement, and neither side really relished another clash. All they could do was wait for darkness to descend.

  “Mahoney, get the sections to the rear for some coffee and rations. Leave a few by the guns for show. The men need to rest,” Michael ordered as he felt his own exhaustion overtake his senses. A hot cup of coffee sounded heavenly. The infantry regiments were also settling down behind their protection and sorting themselves out for a rest. The remaining officers in the battery, all subalterns of lieutenant grade, gathered around a fire to absently poke sticks at the flames while waiting for the coffee to brew. Michael wearily walked up and took a seat upon a stump reserved for him by Mahoney. The Texans had little use for titles or formality, but even the seat of honor, such as it was, was surrendered to Michael in heed of his rank and command. Unable to refuse, Michael took his seat and stared into the dancing flames.

  Though only a first sergeant, Mahoney’s position as head enlisted man and his closeness to Michael granted him his place at the officers’ mess. Officer’s privilege also meant not having to cook for himself. That wasn’t much of a boon today. The only food available was whatever they could find in the passing ration wagons, and that was paltry. A few of the enlisted men scurried around preparing the officers’ mess. Usually, this gave them the chance to eat something other than poorly preserved meat. This evening, though, they would have to be content with the mean fare of boiled salt pork and captured Federal hard tack. Michael ignored the muckets filled with briny water and odd-looking meat and focused, instead, on the sweet aroma of coffee boiling.

  “I’ll bet you hain’t had anythin’ to eat since yesterday, Captain,” Mahoney said. He made himself comfortable on the ground next to Michael and looked up with sallow eyes above sweat-streaked cheeks. His shell jacket was grimy, lying open.

  “It ain’t the food I want, First Sergeant. It’s a good swig of what’s brewin’ on that fire,” Michael said. Those around the fire all nodded in agreement.

  “Don’t worry, sir. Plenty for all,” the enlisted man who was tending the muckets of boiling pork replied as he lifted the lid on the boiler holding the coffee. The water was steamy but not boiling yet.

  “See that they get theirs first,” Michael said and nodded at the other officers around the fire.

  “Yes, sir,” the man said and turned his attention back to slicing the few apples they had found. Another crash near the infantry line reminded them all that they were not on holiday.

  “Bastards hang just out of range and shell us,” one of the lieutenan
ts groused.

  “I believe it is called having the tactical advantage,” another replied.

  “It’s un-gamely, cowardly, even.” He was a stocky young fellow from Tennessee and someone with whom Michael was only barely familiar. His uniform, like everyone’s, was wrinkled and unkempt. His beard and moustache were scraggly and showed lack of attentive grooming. Michael could tell he was fond of looking the part of the dandy in a polished uniform. His collar, still wrapped with a bow tie, was stained and dirty.

  “I’d do it in a heartbeat,” Michael replied. “Stand just out of reach and deliver blows with rifled cannon such that the enemy would think twice before advancing farther.”

  “Still, don’t seem gentlemanly,” grumped the chastened young man.

  “No, it don’t,” Michael replied.

  “Didn’t think we’d be back here this soon,” Mahoney said and suppressed a yawn.

  “No, not back here holding the line.”

  “Any word on Captain Polk?” the young man from Tennessee asked.

  “Nope, he’s prolly back in Corinth by now.”

  “He was hit pretty bad in the leg. Might lose it, from the looks of it,” the young man said. He didn’t look away from the fire, where he pushed some coal pieces with a stick.

  Mahoney made a grunting sound. “Shame. Good man.”

  “Better a leg than a life, eh?” another officer said.

  “Suppose,” Michael replied, the lone dissenter, “though I couldn’t imagine a life with a wooden leg or on crutches.”

  “Better half a man in my estimation than a whole corpse,” Mahoney added. “Not sure family and friends would disagree.”

  “What would a man do? Scuttle about and draw sympathy from every passerby? How would he make his way in life if he couldn’t clear the scrub and brush from the land or make his way to the markets to sell his goods?” Michael asked. “Seems he’d be less of a man without the means to be a man.”

  “I seen men make they way with less,” Mahoney said. “What makes a man isn’t in his body but in his mind and heart.”