The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3

by Phillip Bryant

  “I’ll be damned!” Wofford said as he ferried his own men to the end of the line.

  “Captain, take command if you would,” Philip shouted.

  “This is not a place to make a stand, but the enemy’s hot on our rear!” Wofford shouted in return.

  “We need to gather as many as we can,” Philip said. “Hold here and maybe we rally enough to stop them.”

  “They comin’ regardless, an’ this line ain’t gonna stop ‘em!” Wofford replied.

  “What command is this?” a voice behind them called out. An officer on a giddy and dancing horse shouted to Philip, a sweeping gesture made with a begrimed hand clutching a pair of gauntlets.

  “None,” Philip called in return. “Rallying whoever I can stop.”

  “A chaplain; a fighting chaplain rallying my men!” General Davies hollered. “Rally what regiments you can bring to this line!” he called to a nearby orderly.

  Philip was too scared to blush or accept the compliment. Paul was in his place in the company line and looking no worse for the wear, and Philip was ready to let all of it go to someone else when he saw the unthinkable: in the line with Paul were Bushy and Pine, two men he’d not expected to see.

  “Captain, rally the brigades on this line; you report to the fighting chaplain!”

  Lieutenants, sergeants, corporals all came down the street and fell in, dutifully extending the line to across the street and beyond. Soon it was an ad hoc regiment, and yet no officer higher than a captain had appeared, much to Philip’s chagrin. Everyone was looking to him! Someone of command experience and rank had to turn up. Someone.

  From behind them, drums beating a cadence drew Philip’s attention as a brigade in march column snaked their way through the detritus of the battle to break into line of battle and form themselves on the left of Philip’s line.

  “You, Chaplain!” a major called out as he drew up with his horse.

  “Sir!” Philip said, relieved that finally he’d be able to turn the rabble over to someone else.

  “General Hamilton ordered me to form the brigade on your left; you’ll report to Colonel Sullivan.”

  “Sir.” No one was contesting command, not even Captain Wofford, who would have ranked him for commissioning date. He seemed to be content to take care of his own lost sheep. Philip couldn’t blame Wofford; why stick his neck out for men he wasn’t responsible for, and in a position they couldn’t hold? He hadn’t stuck his own neck out for glory or honor; he’d been hiding, if he admitted it to himself. That first group to come tearing around the corner of the building had found him. But having started it, Philip wasn’t able to quit it, at least not gracefully. A range of possibilities raced through his mind as he stood there a moment as the major strode off. Force Wofford to take charge. Finish what he’d started and take command and responsibility. Turn and run anyway. You’re not a line officer, he said to himself. No one will hold you accountable if you just turn and run. The panting and weary soldiers assembling in front of him forming a battle line might hold him accountable, Philip concluded. Someone might still recognize a mistake and take charge of the stragglers yet.

  Philip looked again for his brother. He was standing in the rear rank but looking calm, calmer than Philip remembered himself feeling at Cheat Mountain in West Virginia, the 24th Ohio’s first rush of fear in combat. The rush into Corinth had disorganized the enemy columns as much as it had the Union in retreat. As reinforcements were marching up on both sides, the enemy was re-forming his regiments for another push. The moments of waiting would soon be over.

  Reporting to Colonel Sullivan, Philip saluted and explained his situation.

  “You got that line in hand?” was the only reply from the harried colonel.

  “Yes sir, but I’m no . . .”

  “Someone put you in command? Then command, damn you! You keep those men in line and fighting, and then you can complain about being in command.” Sullivan turned his attention back to forming his brigade. Two regiments were brought on line with Philip’s stragglers, the 56th Illinois and the 80th Ohio. Three more regiments formed behind them in reserve as the street and buildings interrupted the formation of a longer line. A section of artillery went into battery behind the reserve.

  Philip ran back to his group. Privates and corporals stood in line, waiting for the enemy to make an appearance down the street. Lieutenants and captains saw to their own men, and sergeants collected ammunition behind the line. He wasn’t really in command, Philip told himself; he was just here to hold these men together. He didn’t have a sword, a sash, a means to give proper commands by signal. Captain Wofford paced the line behind the recruits and talked to each man in low tones. Philip could not hear what he was saying but could imagine that he was straining every ounce of himself to keep fear from putting these men to flight at the next appearance of the enemy.

  The other men who gathered around him were just as scared and tired looking, wondering why they had halted to begin with. A soldier knows his duty, but his officers are the ones who are supposed to keep their heads and give him direction and a solid footing to stand upon. When whole brigades break and organization collapses, regiments break down into companies and squads, and those in command gather whom they can lay their hands upon to halt and make a stand or retreat together. There were groups of ten to thirty men pulled into line, most commanded by only a corporal. What few officers there were were too busy holding their rattled men together to bother with questions of command.

  “As long as all we have to do is stand here and fight,” Philip said under his breath as he went from group to group in line, saying, “Remember your school of the soldier: load times nine, aim low, stand by your pards, mind your corporals.” Soldiers fought better when they knew who they were standing next to. Throw in strangers, and the desire to run or to only vaguely follow orders was a problem. When the colonel or popular captain was killed, the cohesion of a company faltered. Take away too many familiar faces, and the soldier lost his reason for fighting.

  Phillip cringed as the crescendo of firing to the front rolled toward his jittery line. A double line of Confederate infantry marched shoulder to shoulder toward them. Their banners fluttered in the slight breeze, with each brazen step after brazen step confident of final victory. General Davies’s line had again been breached, the enemy in possession of numerous batteries left abandoned in the retreat and the town’s outskirts. All that remained was the coup de gras, the driving deep into the heart of Rosecrans’s last-ditch defense line. Their own artillery behind them on the hills surrounding Corinth was still firing furiously on the old line, but nothing was falling on the advancing enemy—the enemy was too close. Colonel Sullivan’s words rang loudly in his ears: “Then command, damn you!” Taking a deep breath, Philip steeled himself.

  “Load, load and come to the ready!” Philip shouted, and the command was picked up by sergeants, lieutenants, captains, and corporals who were acting as file closers, commanders elevated to positions they’d never before thought possible. It was not a long line. It was not a strong position, exposed to fire from any enemy artillery and the infantry advancing upon them. But they stood.

  Movement behind him drew Philip’s attention. Several horsemen came to a halt behind the line of soldiers, several generals and their aides who made conspicuous targets.

  Philip recognized General Rosecrans pacing his horse nervously to and fro as he conferred with Colonel Sullivan and other officers.

  “Fire by regiment, fire by regiment,” shouted Colonel Sullivan as he turned from Rosecrans and ran from regiment to regiment.

  “Give them a volley!” the colonel shouted to Philip.

  Philip gave the command to his group, and a burst of smoke and a roar issued from their leveled muskets. The next regiment in line gave a solid volley, followed by the last regiment in line. The advancing Confederates were staggered by the rolling volley that slammed into their front ranks in succession. Then came the thing that Philip always feared: when
the enemy took their turn. Thrown into confusion by the stiffened resistance, the enemy’s return volley lacked punch, sailing harmlessly over their heads. One well-aimed volley might have scattered Philip’s already loosely knit group of stragglers, but this was not that volley.

  “Fire by files!” Philip called. Anchored by the house on the right of Philip’s line, the enemy was not contesting the side street yet, and it was clear of retreating Federals.

  “Sir, my men are low on rounds!” shouted a corporal who ran up to Philip. “We got two rounds a man.”

  There were boxes of munitions scattered about, tossed or lost in the retreat—enough to fill the need. The problem was that not every regiment had been issued the same caliber weapon.

  “Send one or two men to scavenge from anything they can find open,” Philip ordered.

  “Hold this line! Hold here, understand? Hold this line!” Rosecrans was shouting as he rode the length of the firing line.

  The enemy was contenting itself for the moment to stand and trade fire with them, but their columns were advancing and spreading out into the town.

  “You there,” Rosecrans called and pointed to Philip.

  Running up, Philip sputtered, “Sir, yes?”

  “You a man of God?” Rosecrans was a short but intense-looking figure while mounted, and his eyes dazzled with the excitement of battle, taking in everything at once and getting caught up in the moment. “You a man of God?” he repeated as Philip looked at him blankly.

  “Yes sir, chaplain 21st Ohio.”

  “You pray with your fire, you hear me? You pray with every round. Hold your men together and stand fast!” Philip had heard that Rosecrans was an excitable general and given to expressions of religious and irreligious fervor in the same sentence, a pious man but fully a fighting man when it came to war.

  “Sir,” Philip saluted.

  “Your line falters, and it takes everyone with it; keep the stragglers in line,” Rosecrans added as he turned to leave. “God will win the day, Chaplain. Make sure your men hear that!”

  Philip was sure God didn’t care if a general or a private claimed the victory in the hopes that it would move him to act. By the looks of things, it might be that the enemy would be granted the victory this day. He was going to stand and prevent it as long as these men had rounds to fire and were not forced to retreat, but God was not on their side as much as he was going to see his will be done. Should that mean defeat, then there was nothing Philip was going to do to prevent it.

  Philip found himself ranging up and down the rear of the line, with men scrambling about for spare rounds, digging into cartridge tins for the one or two remaining paper cartridges left, loading as fast as they could and waiting for the next moment when something small and fast would collide with them and send them to earth.

  “Our Father, who art in heaven,” he heard himself shouting, “hallowed be thy name. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name! Commanders, keep your men in line. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done! Speed us to thy kingdom, Father! Speed the dead to thy kingdom! Speed the enemy to thy kingdom!” Up and down, those commanding their little cohorts took up the repetition of the Lord’s Prayer to settle the nerves of their men. It was working. Splinters of wood rained down on those closest to the buildings, and not a window in sight still had its glass panes in place.

  A sudden roar and cheer came from the right of the line, along the side street which the building anchoring his right stood. By the emergency of the moment, the defensive line that formed to confront the advancing enemy had left several holes and avenues of approach open, the street that enfiladed Philip’s scratch line was now filling with raucous Confederates and, but for the building, would take Philip’s line in the flank . An enemy regiment was advancing along the street and would soon enfilade their whole line, raking it with destructive fire at an angle. If the enemy could get behind Philip, it would be all over. The two reserve regiments were still in place behind Philip’s line one hundred yards back, on one knee and waiting the order to charge forward.

  “Cease fire, cease fire; commanders, bring your men to order arms!” Philip shouted. “Load and come to the ready!” He ran down the length of the line to get the attention of those in command.

  “Listen for my command!” he shouted. “Fire by the right oblique, by the right oblique, ready, aim, fire!”

  All muskets turned from their front to their right, the men in the rear rank leaning in to the right and aiming their muskets over the opposite shoulder of the man in front so that all fire would travel obliquely toward the new threat.

  “Load, load, load and come to the ready!”

  The enemy line halted and fired, and men fell out. Philip repeated the right oblique fire by volley, and again as fast as the men could load. The enemy in their front also advanced a few paces and halted to fire.

  “Sir, we are out of rounds and can find no more!” a sergeant said breathlessly.

  Philip grabbed a corporal and shouted, “Tell Colonel Sullivan that we are out of rounds and need to be relieved!”

  One of the regiments, the 10th Missouri, rose to their feet and swung around to form on the other side of the house Philip was using to anchor his line. The enemy was moving about and around the houses to find the rear. As Philip’s stragglers ran out of ammunition, he would have to send more and more of his line out of harm’s way.

  Behind anything that offered shelter, the wounded had crawled or been dragged, and the dead were pulled out of the way and lay in repose along the street. He should have been tending to them, offering a few last words of comfort to guide their dying breaths, ferrying water to parched lips. Another roar of musketry rumbled from the 10th Missouri regiment as it loosed a volley into the faces of the Confederates forming in the side street and appearing by companies between the buildings.

  “Pearson!” Captain Wofford of the 21st grabbed Philip by the shoulder. “We are out of ammo, I’m pulling the company back!”

  “Captain, you do that and everyone else will follow!” Philip shouted over the roar of another volley.

  “I have to take care of our men; we’ve lost five today already!” Wofford protested. Seeing Philip’s eyes suddenly widen and the question forming he added, “Your brother is still on his feet!”

  “Sir, Colonel Sullivan says he’ll pass his other regiment over you for relief,” the corporal Philip had sent reported.

  “Captain, don’t pull out yet until they pass over us!” Philip shouted. “They see you leave and they’ll all leave, and we’ll have a panic.”

  “They better hurry; our men are down to throwing bricks and stones,” Wofford said tersely. The short little line, full of strangers to one another and fighting on near-empty cartridge tins, was slackening its fire. The enemy in front and on their right were pressing forward an inch at a time, though the fire from the two regiments on Philip’s left was hot. The juncture with the buildings and the street was the weak point. Philip turned about to see if the last reserve of Sullivan’s brigade was moving. It was still lying down in column of companies, waiting.

  “I’m out! My tins is empty!” came the cry from more and more men in Philip’s group.

  Philip started to run toward the reserve regiment but stopped short. He was needed to give orders. Colonels had staffs and runners, captains had lieutenants, lieutenants had sergeants and corporals to run messages about. A mere sergeant or corporal wasn’t going to move the reserve forward. The one captain who was to be had was more concerned with his own men.

  “Wofford, make sure no one runs! I need to get that reserve moving forward!” Philip shouted.

  The major in command was calmly observing the fighting from his perch atop his horse. “Can you move your regiment forward?” Philip shouted to him.

  “When Sullivan orders me forward.”

  “I was told you were to pass over me!”

  “I’ve no o
rders to commit. Who the hell are you, and where did you hear that?” the major asked, a look of annoyance on his face.

  “My men are on the line with empty tins and are going to start moving to the rear, taking your whole line with it. I’m anchored on the house there. You don’t relieve us, you’ll be facing the whole Rebel line by yourself,” Philip snapped.

  “Who put you in command?” the major asked.

  “General Rosecrans ordered me to hold the line there, and now I cannot any longer. Your colonel sent to me that you were to move forward. I leave, and your brigade line will have a hole in the middle. You do with that what you please,” Philip shouted. He jogged back to his line. The firing from all but a few had ceased, and those still standing were looking to march away, orders or not.

  “Battalion, fix bayonets!” Philip shouted. Some already had; most had not. But all looked to their commanders with worry, concerned that the mad preacher was about to march them into the muzzles of loaded muskets with just cold steel to defend themselves.

  “Lay down! Lay down!” Philip ordered and knelt down himself. “Keep your men down, flat as possible!”

  “What the hell!” Captain Wofford crawled up to him.

  “If we can’t vacate the line, we’ll make ourselves small. They rush us, we up and fight with the bayonet,” Philip replied evenly.

  “Where’s the relief?”

  “He doesn’t have orders to move forward. Best I could think up without withdrawing the whole line and causing a panic.” It was not the best place to be; minié balls were still sailing overhead and now turning up the dirt around the prone line.

  Emboldened by the slackening of the fire, the Confederates approaching from the side street moved forward with a cheer. Philip could only watch the approach and steel himself to give the order to rise and receive the enemy with the bayonet. If the enemy had any fight in him, the stand would be brief, and he’d have to bring out his stragglers as best he could.

  From behind them, a company from the 10th Missouri, deployed at right angles to Philip’s line, fired a volley and then charged forward, passed the side of the bullet-riddled building, and vanished from sight. A moment later they came tumbling back and attempted to re-form when a volley ripped through their scattered ranks, sending several men to the ground and putting the rest to flight. With their flank now exposed, the next company in line also began to scatter as Confederates appeared between the buildings and behind the Union line.