The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3

by Phillip Bryant

“My hand, my God, my hand, oh my Lord, my hand; it hurts something awful.” The boy’s eyes were wild and his gait erratic. The hospital was some hundreds of yards away in the Toshmingo Hotel, and it would be a long walk to get there. Other wounded men were collecting just beyond the fortification called Battery Williams, and Philip dropped the man there. Regimental surgeons were tending to the lightly wounded and sending the more badly wounded further into the town. Those were the men who would lose a limb and be considered lucky, as the still-more badly wounded were lying where they had fallen, too far gone to be bothered with or too much in pain to be moved at all. Their pitiful cries for water and for mothers was heartrending.

  A wad of clean-looking cotton cloth was piled up near the dressing line, and Philip bound the young man’s hand to stop the bleeding, leaving his thumb in the dressing. He knew the surgeon wouldn’t hesitate to finish the job the Rebel minié ball had started.

  The boy could only wince and writhe as Philip tried to stop the flow of blood. Shaking uncontrollably, he tried to ask something, but Philip could not understand him. Guessing, he replied, “They going to take off the thumb; you’ve lost it and your forefinger.”

  The boy nodded, or what Philip guessed was a nod amidst his body spasms. Having nothing else to do, Philip decided to return to the line. Artillery fire was already landing amidst the buildings and scattering loose horses about the town’s streets. Men who could walk under their own power were coming toward him, toward the dressing line, cradling arms and dragging useless legs or feet behind them. Philip hurried to get back.

  Philip caught up to Captain Wofford. “Any more wounded?”

  “Yes, Corporal Peck is gut shot and two privates hit in the shoulder; they are over there.” A small crowd of the line’s skirmishers were gathering in a fold in the ground that offered some protection, and Philip ran over to see to the corporal. The man was stripped of his traps and holding back a gaping wound in his side, a crimson stain running down his trouser legs and brightening his shirt. The two privates were each hurt in the opposite shoulders and cradling useless arms in their laps, looking for the world like dead men, eyes vacant and staring off into nowhere. The corporal was suffering more than the other two, who but for their bloody arms would not have seemed scratched at all, just comatose.

  “Corporal, you know you aren’t going to make it,” Philip said as soothingly as he could. The man had been a stabilizing presence for the fresh fish and always there to help anyone out with advice and duty. A minié ball to the midsection was always a death sentence. He could go anytime or linger for days.

  The man nodded, and his eyes searched Philip’s face for some sign of doubt. With bloodied, trembling hands, he reached for Philip’s frock coat and held on while he struggled to get a few words out. “Don’t let me die here.”

  “You two, hey, lift him up on your shoulders.” Philip poked the two privates sitting next to the corporal. As if in a faraway place, each one took some moments to register his words and show signs of life. Philip had to place each one on either side of the corporal and get them moving, each balancing an arm over his good shoulder. Both men looked like they might pass out at any moment, but trusting them to stay standing, Philip grabbed Peck’s feet, hooked them under his arms, and led the way back to the dressing line. The only way he could tell that the corporal was still alive was by his moans and groans. It was a long and laborious walk of a hundred yards, and all the while the furious sounds of skirmishing surrounded them.

  The lines of infantry from Hackleman’s and Oglesby’s brigades were thin and dispirited. The whole division put forward a picture that lacked steadfastness. Worried looks as Philip passed through the infantry lines as they knelt and waited for the attack to commence did not give him a good feeling about what might come.

  Philip lowered the corporal’s feet to the ground and helped him off the shoulders of the privates, who still looked like they were sleepwalking. Philip had read accounts in the papers of the long lines of wounded at Shiloh who had uttered not a word or moan but took the pain in dignified stoicism and quiet. These were words written for the consumption of those back home, and not a word of it was true. It was no different here around the high walls of Battery Williams. The base of the battery’s earthen walls were now colored with dark stains as men bled out, creating a sickening mud that one tried to avoid stepping in but that became difficult to avoid. Grimaces or vacant expressions were to be seen on those cradling wounds or lying still—the movement of the breath the only indication the sufferer was still alive. Philip thought he knew who would survive the next few hours and who wouldn’t, who would lose an arm or leg, or who would suffer for days before an end came. He had little doubt about Peck. He was already white as a sheet and trembling, his bloodstained hands clutching and relaxing, shaking as if he were an octogenarian one moment and then grasping Philip’s arm with the strength of a strongman.

  “You prepared to die?” Philip asked Peck. Peck’s eyes wandered like he was trying to take one last look at the world before his lids closed forever. His mouth was open and the breaths came quickly, accompanied by groans and a string of “ahh” noises.

  Peck nodded. “Pray . . . pray with . . . me, pray with . . . with me . . . Chaplain.” His reddened lips trembled as he struggled to get the words out, the only pink left in his face to give it color.

  “You know the Lord’s Prayer?” No matter the church, this was a universal prayer that everyone knew. Not all knew the creeds, and not all recited them each Sunday service, but the Lord’s Prayer was something that everyone could recite without prompting.

  “Pray this with me, Corporal. Our Father, who art in heaven.”

  Jesus’s disciples had asked him to teach them how to pray, and this was what he taught them. Philip had said this, recited it many times, from the pulpit and from the seats. It was a simple thing to learn and just say without thought or concentration. One said it as if it were one’s own name at times. It was familiar and could be recited while thinking about something else. It was said from the seats in churches all over with eyes vacant and minds far away, the words having a cadence that lulled you into a thoughtless repetition.

  But here, the words had meaning for him and the corporal. The corporal might not breathe his last just here, but this would likely be the final time he would pray this prayer. The dying man struggled to get the words out, not in vain repetition but with emotion, the dying’s last attempt to reach out to the divine.

  “Are your transgressions forgiven?” Philip asked when the man had uttered a weak amen.

  Through charged breaths, the man shook his head in the negative. There was always some sin to be confessed, but that was not what Philip meant. Death was the finality of understanding and recognition that what was lived in flesh would live on in spirit. Somehow even the basest of characters knew this when life was fading away, but not all would accept or acknowledge it. Many a sick and dying man in Germantown, Ohio, had refused to acknowledge it even while wishing it were not so. Something in their eyes always told Philip that they knew even when they refused to confess.

  Some held on to that pride unto death. Some let it go at the final moments. There was a choice to be made.

  “If you confess that Jesus is Lord and believe it in your heart, your transgressions will be forgiven, and you will not suffer the second death. The second death is an eternity separated from Christ and the Father. If you believe these things, then you will die, but have eternal life.”

  Philip waited for some reaction, some acknowledgment of understanding. The man nodded weakly and grimaced. That was it. That was all Philip could do. That was the big mystery of why he had found the collar once again and why he was here on another battlefield, another field soon to be covered by the dead and dying. Those who still had breath in them would be wondering what this life was all about and if there was something after. He was here to offer an answer.

  It was up to the corporal now to either do or do not. To believe or bel
ieve not. Philip stood. One of the privates he’d brought back was lying down as if he’d been prepared for burial. His hands folded neatly upon his chest. His eyes open and his feet stretched out. If he’d been laid out on the kitchen table, the only things missing were the silver dollars on his eyes. The eyes were vacant, but it was the lids that told Philip the man was dead—half-closed, even as the eyes continued that same vacant stare. He must have bled to death from the exertion of carrying the corporal. His comrade was sitting cross-legged and cradling his wounded arm, still looking but not seeing.

  Philip unslung his carbine and walked slowly back toward the skirmish line. Whenever there was fighting, this was what he was going to be doing. Looking on as another man’s life flowed out of him and he struggled to come to grips with a lifetime ending. The carbine in his hands carried less responsibility with it. Load and fire, load and fire. Walking slowly toward the gathering clouds of war, he felt acutely aware that he had exchanged roles. He now had to deal with what the fighting man had wrought. Broken and dying men were to be his new crop.

  The fighting had been going on for three quarters of an hour. Still no grand attack, no advance by the enemy. Philip guessed this would not be the last time he would make this trek.

  Chapter 11

  Aim for That Battery There

  Michael felt the restlessness permeating the woods. Fifteen thousand soldiers were waiting for the order to form line and step off, and some were being further annoyed by the artillery fire falling among the trees and showering all with tree limbs and bark. They had been marched forward while it was still dark and told to lie down; the order to go forward would come shortly. That was three hours ago, and though it sounded like the battle was joined with the exchange of skirmish and artillery fire, the order to move had still not been given.

  “Any word?” Michael asked Colonel Rogers. The regiment was formed behind Phifer’s brigade and catching the worst of the barrage the Yankees were throwing at the wood. The company commanders were crawling and kneeling behind their company line, berating those who rose up or ventured to stand or get a better look forward. Daylight to an infantryman was both a necessity and a danger. One needed enough light to keep a formation, to see down the right and the left to keep the pace, but not enough daylight to alert the enemy that one might intend to attack him. Any thought of surprise expired with the rising of the sun and the crescendo of racket from both sides. The enemy knew they were coming, knew when they would come. Why delay it for hours?

  “No; General Hébert was taken ill and didn’t move forward with his division. We can’t move until he does or we expose our flank to enfilade fire. We wait,” Rogers replied.

  The 2nd Texas, along with Moore’s brigade, made up the second line of assault in reserve and couldn’t see much of what was happening out in the open space they might be expected to cross, missing the early morning drama. But the sharp rattle of musketry and volleys got everyone’s attention as heads bobbed up and ears pricked.

  “Maybe they moving?” Michael said. They still could not see anything.

  “We go when Moore orders us up,” Rogers snapped.

  Michael looked at Rogers askance, then scanned the horizon. Trees and the supine forms of Moore’s brigade; in front of them, Phifer’s and Cabell’s brigades; and out further a blur of occasional movement and shrubs.

  Michael looked at his timepiece: it was 9:30 in the morning. Just another day in the army and another turn of the time from hour to hour. When the order did come, from the sounds of it, it wasn’t going to be a welcome one.

  ****

  The skirmish line of the 7th Tennessee Cavalry was feeling the heat of the morning and the pressure from a strong force of Yankees pushing toward them.

  The troopers had not been prepared to hold a skirmish line for hours, and they’d been fighting since before dawn. Now the men were not only low on ammo but also on patience. They needed to be relieved. It wasn’t Will’s say as to when and where that would occur; he was just along for the ride. His own carbine was empty, as was his cartridge box. The men of Lieutenant Dunkle’s troop were lying down and only firing every once in a while if a target presented itself.

  “We’re falling back on the main line in the trees,” called Lieutenant Dunkle. Weary men struggled to gain their feet after hours of lying prone. On wobbly legs, they pulled themselves back into a double company line and tried to quick step to clear the way as a line of infantry replaced them. Strong lines of Federal infantry appeared, advancing up the Memphis road off to their left, and the roar of fighting increased. This was an infantry fight, not a cavalryman’s, and they were all glad to be getting out of the way.

  “That was different,” Will commented to Lieutenant Dunkle quietly as the troop entered the shelter of the wood and made their way up the crest of the ridge where enemy fire was still sweeping the exposed position the batteries had occupied hours before.

  “Double quick, march!” Lieutenant Dunkle ordered, and the troop took the remaining distance from the crest to the trees at a run. Their picket line of horses was still there, with the troopers still holding the mounts steady.

  Gaining their mounts, the troopers rummaged for food in their haversacks and gulped water from their comrades’ canteens. Will found his mount and lead it a short distance to where Dunkle was rummaging through his haversack.

  “Lieutenant, it was a pleasure. My man got himself lost the other day. I’ve a mind to cast about for him,” Will said as he reported with his mount in hand.

  “Do as you wish, Lieutenant Hunter. Thank you for seeing to the line. Just watch that the provost doesn’t try to scoop you up as a skulker. I can’t give you no pass since you not in my command.” The lieutenant shook Will’s hand heartily.

  Will mounted. The woods were a confusion of shot and shell, evidence of several large caliber rounds having landed near the picket line. Seth might have slipped unnoticed into these woods or still be hiding in between the armies. Rounds were still falling randomly in the trees. “The rascal,” Will said to himself as he turned his mount to and fro to take in the lay of the ground and the trees.

  Deciding what he thought he would do, Will turned the horse about and walked it slowly through the trees. He found it odd to be wandering about the rear as the cannonade increased in crescendo and musketry grew from the rough staccato of skirmish fire to volley fire by hundreds of rifles. Infantry regiments sheltering in the trees rose up and marched away, clearing the way for him to walk his mount slowly forward. There was a vast array of ground to cover that might reveal one runaway slave. Generals and their staffs loitered at the fringes of cover, observing the progress of their brigades. There was no one to ask about Seth’s whereabouts; all attention was on what was going on in front of the town. The ground leading from the outer ring of earthworks was also cut by several creeks, forests, and flat fields. If he had all day, he might be able to cover ground. And he just might have all day, if the attack went right.

  Even the rear of an army is an active mass of men and movement. He’d never spot one black man in a sea of men all in motion at once. Seth wasn’t even the only black man wandering about, and Will noted several coming and going as if they had a purpose. Then another possibility struck him.

  “Was he foolhardy enough to attempt to cross the lines?” Will asked himself. Turning his mount about, he headed out of the trees and struck the Memphis road. From the road he had a clear view of the town of Corinth and of the lead battalions of Price’s divisions moving off across the open ground. Mustering in the thousands, marching in close order, the infantry formed a cordon that was circling around and converging upon the outskirts of Corinth. Will directed his mount off the road and climbed the hill he and Dunkle’s troop had crossed in the darkness before heading down the same plain the infantry was crossing now. A gaggle of gold braid and starred collars was perched upon the hillcrest watching the assault unfold. Will avoided the group and tried to keep his horse steady as he neared the crest. Cannon fi
re was still indiscriminately targeting the hill and anyone showing themselves, plowing deep furrows at its top. Will scanned the ground below. Skirmishers had moved forward; they were the few things moving in the tall grass.

  ****

  Yards away, hiding from behind a tree and shrubs, Seth watched the shot and shell land and listened to the cannon roar. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten. He’d snuck in and out of every nook and fold in the ground, dodged from tree to tree, and skirted every soldier he came across. It wasn’t until the cannon fire that he halted. This was the reality of the white man’s war and what it was like to experience it even from afar. There seemed little to recommend it. He had remained safe as long as he stayed put, but with daybreak the Confederate soldiers were moving about the wood and moving became more perilous.

  Got to move, he thought, looking this way and that, carefully studying each tree and shadow.

  There were three directions he could move, none of them offering better cover, and one toward the fighting. Seth moved west from tree to tree. It wasn’t enough to just stay free, but to decide what was more important: life or freedom?

  Escape from Alabama had been just that choice. Live longer as a slave or risk any number of punishments should he be caught. The perspective of life in chains or death in freedom had kept him going before. The whites along the way had been avoided until he reached Cincinnati, and then they were of a help, to a point. He had stayed and performed whatever jobs he could. Freedom had been worth the price of leaving his family, or what he had been allowed to think of as family, behind.

  Seth darted from tree to tree and headed toward the sounds of fighting. Striking a road—he’d heard it called the Memphis road—Seth came upon the first mangled and bleeding bodies, men who’d been struck down by shrapnel from bursting shells. A caisson with its horses still in their traces was lying off to the side, with one poor beast still alive but wailing hideously as it tried to stand, its hindquarters perforated and bleeding. Two men were lying nearby, bleeding and moaning. Soldiers were everywhere: artillerymen seeing to their guns, infantrymen carrying a wounded comrade to a place of safety. Others who looked perfectly healthy were quietly sitting and watching from afar, as if there as spectators. No one paid him any attention, if they noticed him at all. Up the road was the town, now visible.