Pinned down from the front, right, and now rear, Philip was trapped. If the enemy could move more companies through the breach, the whole line would collapse before the relief regiment, still sitting idle, could do any good. The sudden ruckus behind them drew the attention of the 80th Ohio and 56th Illinois to Philip’s left. The Confederates advancing along the side street began to veer through the buildings and between them as word spread that there was a break in the Federal line. Philip decided to act.
“Rise up!” Philip ordered. With Confederates crowding the windows of the building, taking potshots from the upper floors into the Federal line stretched out before them, soldiers pitching forward struck by flying missiles—it looked like the position was lost. The way to the rear was bristling with Confederate rifles. Any flight out of harm’s way was going to be a fight. As the fifth man was struck after giving the order to rise, Philip heard himself shout an order that made little sense.
“Half-wheel to the rear, march!” Like a door, the men swung to the rear in a backward march with the rightmost men having to hurriedly backward walk, through the fire of the gathering Confederates as Philip swung his men in an arc, with the pivot holding on to the rightmost man of the 80th Ohio regiment standing in line next to them. This brought the stragglers to a position forming an L with the other regiment in line, bringing his men fronting to the new threat.
Confederates were now in the houses and between them in force, and more were trying to push their way through the hole. The 10th Missouri was becoming entangled and dispersed as each company in line found itself standing alone with an enemy forcing his way past the open flank. Fugitives were being rallied out of harm’s way, and the recalcitrant relief was finally bestirring itself to the danger. The enemy was just as broken and confused as they were; groups of enemy soldiers crowded the spaces between buildings, and companies tried to re-form so as to deliver solid fire into the Union rear.
“We need to charge into the breach!” Philip shouted to Captain Wofford.
“We can’t stand here and take fire any longer!” Wofford shouted back.
There was a mass of Confederates pouring through the alley and firing every which way, a target-rich environment in the Yankees’ rear. Bottled up as they were and vulnerable, it was act now or lose the chance when the enemy formed a solid line clear of the buildings.
“Charge, bayonets!”
With a roar, Philip’s stragglers dutifully thrust their muskets forward as the rear rank went to port arms. Whether it was fear or obedience and discipline that led these men of disparate commands to act as one and follow orders Philip did not know, but that they followed orders and were prepared to charge into the confused mass of the enemy was what counted.
“At the double quick, march!”
Philip’s line charged forward and pitched into the gap. The bayonet was the only weapon they possessed, and the distance was covered in short order. The rear of the building anchoring the line formed a modest courtyard of fifteen to twenty yards in width and forty to fifty yards in length as the backs of the buildings lining the side street emptied into a commons that was being used by the army as a staging area for wagons and supplies. Bales of cotton, too, were in abundance and now being used by the Confederates for cover. The long, narrow commons was teeming with enemy units vying to force their way into the open street and the rear of the Federal defense. Federal muskets poked out of the upper stories of a few of the buildings lining the opposite sides of the commons, but few buildings stood to offer obstruction to the enemy as he spilled his way through the commons in a rush to find the clearest way to re-form.
The Confederates pushing their way forward were taken aback and stunned by the sudden, impetuous charge that stalled their fire and sent some retreating from the steel charging toward them. A three-story brick building formed the terminus of the space the Confederates were endeavoring to get through. The store, the building Philip had rested by before the fighting reached him, was wood and of the tall and narrow variety, with wooden sides that were splintered and marked. The clash of wood upon wood was heard as opposing rifles met in thrust and parry and the shouts of the combatants echoed upon the brick building.
Melee is a contest of man to man, looking for the advantage of weapon to weapon or fist to fist. There is no training for it other than how to thrust with the bayonet and scream at the top of one’s lungs while doing it. The other man isn’t going to let you skewer him without a fight. The mass of the enemy moving forward through the commons met the mass of defenders charging at them and became a jumble of men beating one another with anything at hand. A melee was something to be avoided, as it threw your own forces into as much confusion as that of the enemy and left men isolated and easily captured or overpowered. A charge into an enemy succeeded or failed in the first few moments as it created fear and demoralization in the enemy even before the two forces met. But there was nothing else to do now.
Caught between the men pushing forward and those trying to avoid the charging Federals, the Confederates began to break in panic. As those further in the back were trying to pitch into the fighting, those forced to face the determined Federals either surrendered or were struck down where they stood, and panic soon spread through the mob. Set in motion, the Federals kept pushing forward and were soon joined by the fresh battalions of the last regiment of the brigade.
Philip found himself in the front of the mob of his own men, urging them forward, when a burly Confederate sergeant grabbed him by the collar, intent on dragging him away. Caught off balance, he tried to swirl around and break the Confederate’s grip, but only succeeded in falling backwards and letting his carbine clatter to the ground. The Confederates were in flight now and rushing back through the commons as those who found ammunition and men of the other regiments took parting shots to speed their retreat. Pockets of the enemy were still grappling with Philip’s men, while those who charged too far forward found themselves cut off from their fellows and surrounded by the retreating enemy. Philip fought with the fingers that still gripped his coat as he was being dragged backwards. Several men of the 21st Ohio charged forward and struck at the Confederates, trying to get to where they could rescue him, but they were too far away.
These were men who’d only had their first bayonet drill days before and were as clumsy with their weapons as anyone who is trying to learn how to use a new tool. Screaming and thrusting bayonets forward, four soldiers whom Philip recognized lunged at several Confederates attempting to cover their man as he dragged Philip along. Private Bushy was one; Philip caught a glimpse of his face as he tried to fight his way forward, fire in his eyes, howling like a madman.
The veteran Confederate infantrymen quickly dispatched those who were attempting to release Philip, and each man was felled with a quick blow or killed outright, left in a writhing heap or lying still. Bushy was struck in the head by a deft swing of a rifle butt and sagged to the ground.
“Find yer feet, Yankee bastard!” the Confederate sergeant shouted and gave Philip a heave upward.
Spilling back out into the side street, the Confederates ran for all they were worth. Philip had no recourse but to run along with them and hope that the rounds being fired into the rabble would miss him. A few other Federals were also being herded along with the mass of soldiers running for cover.
Back through the yard of the White House and across the road, the enemy streamed in a mass, over those regiments attempting to re-form. Artillery rounds were sailing overhead and landing among the enemy all along the roadway and out into the fields beyond. Panicked teams of horses were still rampaging the roadways, and many of the guns captured from the Federal line were standing idle, the retreat too sudden to haul them off.
It seemed impossible to Philip, but the enemy was in full retreat everywhere. Those regiments still under command were marching toward the rear; those who were not were running as fast as their feet could carry them. Battery Powell, that earthwork that had seemed so impregnable earlier th
at morning, stood silent and empty, its guns removed by the Confederates already. Scores of wounded from both sides lay huddled together, anywhere that offered any shelter from the shrapnel raining down. He was surrounded by fleeing Confederates, but a deviation from the path they were running in seemed foolish, not worth a jab in the ribs or a blow to the head. Confederate officers were madly waving sabers and pistols at the mob to slow them down, rally them at any spot that appeared to be safe enough to stop. As a rallying point was coalescing, Philip saw his chance to bolt.
“Hold it there,” a Rebel with a pistol commanded, shoving the barrel into Philip’s chest.
“Don’t fire!” Philip shouted.
“You prisoners, over there.” A small grouping of unfortunates who had also been nabbed were being herded together by a few surly-looking privates.
“You surrendered, now you take yer place.”
“I . . .” Philip stopped short. He hadn’t made it his intention to surrender, nor would he utter the words. If he ran, he’d not be guilty of dishonor to his word. Philip walked slowly over to the group of prisoners and looked about him. They were far beyond the Memphis road, where Union artillery was still pounding the Confederates attempting to rally. Their old line with the battery was still empty, but fierce cannonading and firing was coming from the direction of Battery Robinett, the far left of the defensive line. Some Confederate brigades were still fighting it out in the town but were falling back slowly.
“You was awful close to the line, Chaplain,” a voice said.
“You do not know the full of it, sir.” Philip turned to face a colonel.
“Colonel Joseph Mower, 11th Missouri. Looks like they maybe licked?” The man had a bandage tied around his neck and a bloody spot trailing down his tunic, turning the dark blue a dark purple.
“Come near close to the other way around, sir. Sullivan’s brigade stopped them in the town. Looks like they might be forming for another try,” Philip replied.
“Some of my skirmishers were gobbled up this morning as the enemy attack began. There was too many of them to deal with; we couldn’t get back to the line. Saw the battery fall and feared the worst, but was a sight to see them come tumbling back,” Mower said eagerly.
“Some of us didn’t surrender,” Philip said in a low voice. “They just grabbed us. I’m looking for a chance to get back.”
“We surrendered. Half my brigade was out on skirmish detail this morning when they came rushing out of the trees at us. Nothing to do but lay down our arms. You sure you want to risk it? They likely to shoot you for the trouble,” Mower said warily.
“Just keep my eyes open. I’ll not do anything to endanger the rest that did surrender,” Philip said.
“Reinforcements arriving means the enemy’ll have to regroup. Perhaps we get left behind,” Mower said hopefully.
“I’m sure no one here will argue with that.” Philip smiled wanly. It did seem like wishful thinking, but not more so than commanding a line of stragglers in a convergence of unlikely circumstances.
Chapter 13
We’ll Plant Our Banner High
"The Yankees were running. Everywhere. General Moore’s regiments were advancing boldly through the field littered with their own dead and wounded; some of Phifer’s regiments had made it into the town with portions of Cabell’s brigade. The ground had been traversed through a galling fire of enfilading cannon from batteries unlimbered at the run raking their flank, from the rifle fire of Fuller’s Ohio brigade putting up the fight of their lives, through the fire raining down from enemy batteries on the high ground all about the town. The 2nd Texas did what it was told to do: angle for the crossing of the railroads and make for the battery. Phifer’s 6th and 9th Texas dismounted cavalry took the brunt of the blows as they approached in grand style.
The battery they were marching toward was like the point of a spear, each face meant to bring heavy guns to bear on any avenue of approach. It covered the Memphis road and the Memphis and Charleston railroad as both ran northwesterly into Corinth, the battery straddling the space between. Fuller’s Ohio brigade attempted to cover the frontage of the battery on the two roads. The open fields in front of the battery stood four hundred yards out, giving shelter to Maury’s Confederates and allowing them to mass before emerging into the open. The early-morning bombardment and delay in starting forward had allowed the enemy to prepare.
Michael’s heart skipped a few beats watching how Phifer’s Texans pressed on through a rain of shot and shell to confront the 63rd Ohio regiment when it rose from the ground to fire a volley. A cloud of smoke rolled forward, and an instant of flame from three hundred and fifty muskets. The effect was devastating. So sudden, so executed as to spread shock and despair into the hearts of the 9th Texas cavalry—men now armed with muskets instead of shotguns and carbines, whose horses had long ago been stripped from them. They staggered and stuttered as the blow fell, sending men to earth. Then the 6th Texas came up, and both together delivered a volley of their own into the faces of the 63rd Ohio and the 27th Ohio on the 63rd’s right. The regiments of Moore’s brigade came up even with Phifer’s, and the contest was joined as both brigades spread out to assault the battery position from two sides. The walls of the battery fairly glowed with the fire of small arms, and for fifty yards all around it, the regiments of Fuller’s brigade peppering their opponents with volley fire that shook the ground.
Another regiment rose up from the ground and fired into the 2nd Texas and 15th Arkansas, but the fire went high and whistled overhead.
Colonel Rogers halted the 2nd Texas, and company officers scrambled to get into the rear. A volley was fired into the faces of the 43rd Ohio regiment, and the fire cut across the front of the 27th Ohio as well as into the flank of the 63rd Ohio confronting Phifer. If it hadn’t been so deadly, Michael might have let out a cheer. It stuck in his throat.
Rogers ran up to Michael as the order to fire was executed by the whole regiment, blasting a wall of lead into the 43rd Ohio. “You advance with the whole regiment, keep the wing in touch with the right wing!”
“Sir.” Michael set his jaw, choking down any useless retort. It was unnecessary for Rogers to tell him to do this. The action was assumed as the regiment came to a halt. Rogers was in a state of mind that Michael did not like. Distrustful and arrogant, that was Rogers’s problem. He didn’t like anyone and trusted even fewer. Michael saluted and turned back to his own responsibilities.
Michael wasn’t going to allow the distraction. He could not help but interpret the action as a lack of confidence in his obedience to command or his loyalty to Moore, but the best he could do was ignore it. Yesterday notwithstanding, he didn’t need to be badgered. The 2nd Texas was standing and blasting away at the regiments in their front; they were secure in that they were not the only ones confronting the enemy. That was, until the regiments on Michael’s left began pulling back. Worried looks came his way from file closers and men in the rear rank as they watched their comrades pulling out.
Phifer’s regiments were falling back to regroup, but Moore kept his in line. The enemy fire, however, intensified upon them, and the front regiments were bleeding casualties now at an alarming rate. Michael was losing lieutenants and sergeants to wounds. A pulling back of the line would save some needed veterans for another push; staying was draining manpower. Watching and waiting for some order, Michael ran up to Rogers.
“We should pull back!” Michael shouted.
The 15th Arkansas, in line next to them, was staggering from successive fire from both infantry and artillery across their line, some of that fire descending upon Michael’s wing and cutting down several in his leftmost company.
“Moore hasn’t ordered it!” Rogers shouted in return.
“We pull back, the rest have to! Phifer’s not coming back!” Michael replied. “Our left flank is in the air, and we’re taking enfilade fire!”
Phifer’s regiments were not making any sign of returning anytime soon, and those who had jus
t penetrated the town were also streaming to the rear. If he didn’t return, they would either have to charge forward or be slaughtered where they stood. The reprieve was allowing the 63rd Ohio and the 27th Ohio to fire obliquely into the 2nd Texas, along with the fire from the 43rd Ohio and 11th Missouri, who came up at a run from behind the 63rd. Through a gap in the line, the combined fire was felling tens of men at a time.
“The hell with Phifer! See to your wing, Major!” Rogers yelled. He was going to take that battery.
Michael snapped a salute and clenched his teeth. Worry from his sergeants and captains confronted him as he ran back to the middle of the left wing. No one wanted to request to fall back, but they were taking a punishment that needn’t be. His own request must have sounded of cowardice in Rogers’s ears, though it wasn’t for his own skin that it had been made, but for the lives of those who were standing and falling out.
A welcome though unexpected noise came from Phifer’s regiments returning with a whoop. They quickly surged past the 2nd Texan line, and Michael felt the flush of how wrong he’d been just moments before. More fuel to Rogers’s fire; perhaps Michael really was a coward.
“Forward, forward!” shouted Rogers as he waved his sword above his head. A rippling of fire came from the three Ohio regiments arrayed around the battery position. From within and between the embrasures, defenders were firing into the mass of Confederates charging forward. Colonel Rogers dashed to the middle of the 2nd Texas line and urged the regiment onward with a command and a roar to march toward death. Michael took up the call and waved his wing forward, his limbs tingling with fear and bravado.
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 94