Fearing to go faster, the troopers kept a slow trot and took in the geography to either side of the road. A hill on the right would make a good place for a battery; a depression to the left a good place to rally out of fire; a house through the trees a poor spot for engaging the enemy should he suddenly appear.
****
Major Pickerel ruefully watched the brigade performing maneuvers in the drizzle. As brigade officer of the day, he had to do his rounds. Peabody’s brigade was already out on their daily drill, and the men looked miserable. These regiments had never marched in anything but a regiment formation before, and the desires of General Benjamin Prentiss at division headquarters was that the new brigades should be schooled in brigade-sized maneuvers. This was all good and well, but not in the thick of a rainy day. Then there would be the inevitable checking of the picket posts and the harangue of the officer of the guard for dereliction of duty or just for plain stupidity. The soldiers themselves were still learning what it meant to be infantrymen, and the generals, if they were from West Point, were not looking too kindly on the rabble of volunteers—himself included.
The Union camps were well situated and on good ground, well away from boggy areas that tended to be unsanitary after a time of long occupation and careless disposal of waste. The brigade was practicing moving from column of march to column of regiments and then to forming on the brigade color line. There were plenty of slips and slides in the wet grass and the mud that was quickly forming under foot. Major Pickerel stood by the road to watch and had just begun to continue on with his errand when a lieutenant and several privates came marching up the road. The lieutenant was looking harassed and wet, his officer-of-the-guard sash clinging to his body like a wet rag. The privates in tow also seemed a little perturbed at being out.
Major Pickerel nodded as the group passed him, the lieutenant rendering honors with a tip of his sword and a sweep to his right with the blade. The soaked privates kept eyes front, and the group continued down the road. For anyone out on the posts, the last several days had been ones of miserably sitting in the damp and being vigilant, for what? The enemy was far away from the camp. He didn’t quibble with the need to be out here; he was just glad he himself could retreat to the brigade HQ tents and get some coffee soon.
****
Despite the drumming on Will’s hat brim, he could hear the sounds of shouted commands drifting out of the mist. They were definitely near the enemy camps now—too near.
“We ain’t got to the Bark road yet, but we might be too close as it is now,” Peters said as the two officers conferred over the map once more.
“Spread 8 Squadron out in mounted skirmish formation to the right of the road out in that field.” Will motioned with a sweep of his hand to one of his sergeants.
Peters took a step back and pondered the direction Will had indicated. “I think we pull back an’ report that the enemy is beyond the Bark road,” Peters said, frowning.
Will nodded halfheartedly; what he really wanted to do was push on. “I’ll form my squadrons as rear guard, an’ you turn yours around.”
The sounds grew louder. Enemy pickets were nowhere to be seen, but the noise could be a movement of the enemy in force toward Michie’s. Will spread his men out to either side of the road as Peters countermarched his squadrons.
Suddenly, several men in blue came into view, walking leisurely through the fields just beyond where most of the noise was emanating from. Will almost missed them. They had crisscrossed an open space, making for the more even road, and were face-to-face with Peters’s squads before either party realized what was happening. The Federal lieutenant and his men, seven in all, were stunned stupid; Peters’s men, equally stunned. Though all were armed, the men in blue seemed to have lost all sense of proportion and place. A quick call for help or a mad dash back across the field might have brought them to within supporting distance of the brigade performing maneuvers just beyond the trees. The wasted time gave Will’s squadron time to cut off their retreat.
“Halt!” Will commanded, and his other men stood their horses. Riding to Peters, they confronted their new prisoners.
“You men are ours; drop any thought of escape. Lay down your weapons,” Peters said firmly.
With several dozen pistols leveled at them, the Federals had little choice but to comply.
“You pickets?” Will asked.
“Yes, 70th Ohio,” answered the sullen lieutenant.
“How far to your camps?”
“About a mile toward the river. If you want to see more, we’ll gladly take you,” the lieutenant replied saucily.
“I reckon I’d rather take you the other way.” Will nodded in the direction they had come.
Disarmed, the Yankees were being relieved of the rest of their gear when a shout from Will’s skirmish line directed attention back down the road, where a column of Federal infantry was seen moving toward them.
“We got company!” came the shout.
****
Thoroughly bored with the brigade drill, Major Pickerel continued on. The lieutenant and his men were out of sight as he crossed the road to make for the picket posts of the 25th Missouri. The officer of the guard for the 25th had made himself scarce all morning, fearing to cross with Pickerel again about the duty. It had been his turn to berate an officer of his own regiment about the proper guard mount procedure, and he’d seen to it that the man drew the duty often enough that every little detail would be drummed into his skull. The enemy might be miles off, but the proscribed changing of the guard and seeing to his posts was something the man wasn’t soon to forget. Major Pickerel was going to find him and add to his duty if it took him all day!
The picket posts for Peabody’s brigade were out beyond the south Corinth road and down away from a steep hill. The fields that would soon need to be tilled for growing crops were being used for parade grounds, and the farmers had not been able to do much for the seasonal preparations to the soil. The Fraley farm stood to his right as he made for the wood line.
The rain was easing to a light misting when movement caught his attention through the trees. Horsemen. No cavalry had gone past him. He squinted for a clearer look. Dozens of horsemen were strung out along the Corinth road. They weren’t in march column. Patrols came and went down this road, but not in skirmish formation!
Major Pickerel stopped as if frozen. The hapless lieutenant and his picket relief were standing in a group, weaponless and hands raised. They were a hundred yards away through the clearing by the road and as plain as day: Rebels! After a further moment to let it all sink in, Major Pickerel beat a hasty retreat. Wet, dead leaves made the going tough as his boots had been made to look nice in a uniform and not for dashing about in wet soil.
“Rebel horsemen!” Pickerel shouted as he neared the brigade drill. To his astonishment, the brigade was gone. Only a few companies remained still out, changing formations on the double quick.
“Major!” Pickerel shouted at the first officer he could identify. Every man looked the same when the poncho covered over rank.
Major Leroy Crocket of the 72nd Ohio turned to behold the mad dash of Pickerel toward him.
“Sir?” Crocket asked.
“Major, Rebel horsemen are just a few hundred yards down the Corinth road and have captured a picket relief. Get your companies down the road, and you might just be able to recapture our men. Either way, get yourself down the road. I’m going to report to General Prentiss and get reinforcements!” Pickerel ordered.
Crocket hesitated, puzzled. It was irregular for one officer to order another about when they were in different commands, and he’d never seen this major before. “Sir, who may I ask ordered this? Just for my report.”
“Major Pickerel, 25th Missouri, Peabody’s brigade. Just get your companies down the road, if this is a larger force we may be opening the ball!”
“Major,” Crocket said and saluted as Pickerel ran off across the field and vanished from sight.
Acting fas
t, Major Crocket formed companies B and H of the 72nd Ohio into march column and dispatched a corporal back to the regiment to get help. Two companies were not going to stop a Rebel push up the road, but they were the only ones nearby. Ordering the companies into the double-quick march, Crocket pushed down the road. They spotted the Rebel horsemen spread out on either side.
Major Crocket marched the two companies into the clearing and sized up what was before him. Two groups of Rebel horsemen arrayed across his front—but there were only a few of them. The cavalry carbine could be loaded and fired more quickly than the musket but did not have a long range. Crocket decided he was going to push them away.
“Captain Raymond!” Major Crocket shouted to his B Company commander. “Wheel your company to the right and take that little hill; it commands the road. I’ll take H Company to the left, and we’ll force them down the road.”
“Sir,” Captain Raymond replied.
Major Crocket ordered H Company to march left oblique into the adjacent field. He was going to show these horsemen a thing or two.
****
“Maybe we won’t be going down that road after all,” the Federal lieutenant said to Will smugly as they watched the two Federal companies re-form into company front and advance along the roadside.
“We’d better be going back,” Will said to Peters as he whirled his horse to return to his own men. Hustling their prisoners along, Peters formed his squadrons in line while a handful prodded their captives along at pistol point.
Will brought his own skirmishers back into a single line and, still mounted, began to take potshots at the enemy. It soon became a noisy but ineffectual contest as the Federals pushed forward in skirmish formation, Will’s and Peters’s men wasting fire on objects that refused to stand still. Will knew it would be more effective to dismount his squads, but he would sacrifice mobility and fire if every third man had to be used to hold the mounts. Will kept his men in position, and they all began to hear the whiz of minié balls as the Federal skirmishers took careful aim. Having given time for their prisoners to get further along, both squadrons retreated en echelon, one wing at a time for fifty yards, to renew the contest. The enemy infantry kept a steady pace forward, as did their skirmishers.
The deadly game continued until it turned serious when the first horseman toppled to the ground. The fight was not without its own laurels as one or two of the enemy skirmishers also fell out and lay nursing oozing wounds. Will cast worried glances down the road, waiting for more enemy troops to pour down it. He gave an order, and his men wheeled, trotted fifty yards, and then re-formed, facing the enemy, and volley fired their carbines, covering the two miles they had marched more times than he had bothered to count. The enemy infantry, content to just keep up the pursuit, kept marching forward.
Coming up to a hill, a slight rise overlooking the road that was advantageous for commanding it and the approach to Michie’s, Will formed his squadrons at the top and ordered his troopers to dismount. Thinning his ranks but giving his men the advantage of elevation, he moved his remaining men and mounts below the hill, away from the approach of the enemy. In line and kneeling, they opened a brisk fire on the approaching enemy companies. Confronting the Confederates were sixty or seventy of the enemy, marching in tightly packed company front formations. Will had forty with him on the hill, and Peters’s squadron an additional thirty. Three or four of the enemy were already down, but the rest kept a slow, plodding pace, confident of their own power. Rain-soaked trouser legs and heavy brogans sloshed through the high grass. The two enemy companies, unaware of the closeness of the Confederate supports, were not dissuaded from their goal of releasing Will’s prisoners. They pushed forward, one company fronting Peters’s squadrons and the other pushing toward Will’s.
Even having the high ground was little use against overwhelming numbers in tight formation. One volley would be enough to cut down most of his men if he allowed the enemy to get close enough. Will ordered his men to remount, and they all scampered back down the hill as the enemy loosed a victorious yell and charged up the opposite slope. Having the advantage of speed, Will’s men galloped away and out of reach as the enemy company crested the top and fired a ragged volley in their direction. Getting out of the way and getting far enough out of the way were two different things. The crash of musketry and minié balls whizzing by told them how close they had come to meeting their Maker. Equally, Peters’s squadrons were pushed back, and the pursuit continued.
Circling around and out of range, Will spied grey-clad horsemen heading down the Corinth road. It was more than a troop—it looked like the whole regiment was coming. Grinning, Will turned to one of his sergeants.
“Them Yanks’ll rue the day they followed us!” Will shouted to his men.
Leaving his squadron to re-form and continue to exchange fire with the Federals, Will galloped to the head of the column to report.
He was met by a red-faced Captain Kearns.
“What the devil did you do now?” came the angry question before Will could so much as salute and bring his steed to a halt.
“Sir, we were surprised by a picket post … “ Will stammered.
“Damn you, Hunter! You were ordered to not go as far as the Bark road where we knew they had pickets!” Captain Kearns yelled.
“Sir, your order of the day was to push down the Bark road!” Will exploded. What his mouth did not say, his mind screamed in streams of expletives. “We didn’t even make it that far!”
“Lieutenant, you have … “ Kearns was cut short by the sudden arrival of the major.
“Captain, what’s the situation?” Major Allen asked as he rode up to the two men.
“Sir, Hunter’s stirred up a hornets’ nest of Yankee infantry,” Kearns answered.
“I can see that, Captain. Form line; Colonel Clanton is coming up. Get your troop together.” Allen calmly turned his horse to the rear and trotted off to form the troops as they arrived. Kearns glared at Will again.
“Two companies of Yankee infantry pursued us to this point. A few casualties in both squadrons,” Will reported, his cheeks still flushed with emotion. “Yanks are definitely beyond the Bark road.”
“Where there are two companies of Yankee infantry, there’s more coming, Lieutenant—if we’re lucky! Get back to your squadrons,” Kearns ordered gruffly.
As the troops filed past, Major Allen directed each where he wanted it on the field and returned to the hapless Kearns. “Captain Kearns, your troop has done more than just stir up a nest of hornets. You may possibly have brought disaster on us all!” Major Allen shouted.
“Sir, this was Hunter’s … “
“That’s enough, Captain!” Allen swung his mount to face Kearns. “If you told Hunter to push down to the Bark road, it is you who were in error! I want your troop to block the road in the direction of the enemy camp. Hold anything attempting to push down the road!”
The victorious Yankees paused to enjoy their high ground as troop after troop of the 1st Alabama formed lines to confront them. The firing was silenced, and only the pattering of raindrops and the thundering of horse hooves were heard as a battery of artillery rushed to take position along the road. Steam rose off the rumps of the cavalry horses and tunics alike; for a moment all was stilled. Gunpowder and musty grass mixed with horse lather filled nostrils with an acrid odor—or was it nervous anticipation?
In the interim quiet, both sides eyed one another, the Yankee infantry wondering how far they would make it if they turned and ran and the 1st Alabama how easily they could gobble up 110 men. Will’s, Peters’s, and Mitchell’s squadrons rode off to the right and around the Yankees on the hill. Another troop joined them, and soon the popping of musketry came their way as the Yankees began firing, picking their way forward on foot. The two Yankee companies were cut off from each other, one company on the right of the road and one on the left. Firing erupted once more as one of the troops dismounted and advanced on the hill in skirmish formation.
&nbs
p; Left as spectators, Will’s and Mitchell’s troops sat idly and watched. Volley fire from the Yankees kept the cavalrymen on their toes, but neither side seemed willing to sacrifice much for so paltry a prize.
“If they don’t hurry up an’ charge ‘em, we’re gonna lose them all when they friends decide to come up,” Peters said in a low voice.
Will nodded sullenly in return. This was not his fault, not this time. He had wanted to push further down the road, could have disobeyed the spirit of the orders if it meant gain. He wouldn’t have sacrificed his squadron for glory. He didn’t deserve the rebuke this time for sure. Perhaps Major Allen knew this as well.
On the hill, arrayed in a line of battle, B Company of the 72nd Ohio was feeling the pinch of an impulsive rush ahead. Shouting encouragements to his men, Captain Elisha Raymond tried to keep them from bolting in panic. He saw the other company, H of the 72nd, trying to fall back slowly as the Confederates moved cautiously forward. Raymond, himself a greenhorn in this business, knew surrendering the hill would mean certain capture, and he was not quite ready to call the fight over. Raymond looked for Major Crocket, who was supposed to be with H Company. He couldn’t find him.
Major Crocket was safe and sound, though stripped of his weapons and his good riding boots and being marched along the muddy road in stocking feet cursing to himself. Wide-eyed, he took in the numbers of Confederates milling about and swallowed hard. This was more than a mere cavalry raid. The rest of the 72nd Ohio was marching into a trap. Two exultant Confederate troopers led him along. Crocket looked up just in time to see a Rebel captain nervously scanning the road and looking agitated.
Confronting the newcomers, A Troop was now in a spot.
“Captain, comin’ down the road,” a private in the 1st Alabama notified Kearns with a nod in the direction of the enemy’s camps. What looked like several more companies of infantry were marching in column, intent on joining the fray.
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 38