The brigade breaks out of the woods. Ahead, Johnson can see a blue line, brigade length. He feels his gut rumble and wonders if Cleburne reacts this way, if he too worries about controlling his sphincter every time he comes upon the enemy. No, he wouldn’t, would only salivate at the prospect of the slaughter to come. He recalls something in Marcus Aurelius that Garesché once quoted to him: Life is a battle and a sojourning in a strange land; but the fame that comes after is oblivion. True, no doubt, but easier for an emperor or a saint to accept than a simple college professor who would enjoy a small fame, however insignificant, within the ultimate scheme contemplated by holy men.
Falling back with the last of his regiments to the new line, Colonel Post is delighted to see another Federal brigade establishing a position a quarter mile in rear of his right. It must be Baldwin of Richard Johnson’s division. If another two or three brigades come forward, maybe we can hold them, he thinks.
Captain Pinney has placed the guns of the 5th Wisconsin Battery just west of Gresham Lane and a quarter mile north of the Franklin Pike. Post disposes the 22nd Indiana and Housum’s 77th Pennsylvania to the right of the guns, the 59th Illinois to the left. On the east side of the lane, he places the 74th and 75th Illinois across the top of a narrow, swampy field.
Pinney strides uneasily behind his guns. He is a Milwaukee judge’s son, himself a law clerk, but he has always dreamed of a soldier’s life. He is fascinated by ordnance, has memorized entire tables of ballistics. He loves his ten-pounder Parrott rifles, takes pride in the devastating accuracy of the solid bolts and exploding shells he can fire at long range. But at short range, the Parrotts lose much of their punch, their rifling imparting a tight spiral to canister, reducing its spread and effectiveness. At Perryville, he had fired round after round of canister into the charging Rebel line with little effect. Meanwhile, the twelve-pounder Napoleons that make up the majority of the Rebel artillery had ripped gaping holes in the Union lines with their wide blasts of canister and grape. That’s why he loves rifled case shot, which can reach out 800 yards, more than twice the distance of canister, to spray shrapnel over attacking formations. But the manual says that case shot shouldn’t be fired inside of 500 yards because of the danger of premature detonation. Most Parrott gunners will risk cutting fuse to a slightly shorter range, but only warily.
Pinney has his field glasses on the first skirmishers coming out of the woods, watches until the main line appears. No doubt that they are Rebels this time, although their uniforms vary wildly in makeup, design, and shade of butternut. Why are the newspapers always talking about the gray ranks of the Secessionist legions? Except for a few of the officers and a little of the artillery, he hasn’t seen a Reb in gray in the entire war. He looks at Post, who is sitting calmly on his roan gelding a few dozen feet away. Post nods gravely, and Pinney shouts: “Fifth Wisconsin Battery, by number. Rifled case. Fire!”
The battery begins working in steady rotation, a gun firing every six seconds. Pinney clambers atop a caisson for a better view. Two more Rebel regiments have emerged from the woods east of the lane. Pinney does not worry about them. The footing is bad east of the lane, the field of hay untended and the ground sodden, sure to slow the Reb infantry.
A couple of his cannoneers are down, hit by sharpshooters, one dead apparently, the other rolling on the ground clutching a knee. But the battery is at its full strength of 110 men and can absorb casualties. The range is down to 400 yards, the Rebels pushing forward, filling in the holes left by the case shot. Come on, give way a little, Johnny. “Wisconsin battery!” he shouts. “Fire canister!”
Suddenly there is a crash that nearly throws him from the caisson. For a moment Pinney thinks one of his limbers has exploded, but then realizes that the 59th Illinois has opened fire. It is uncommon to hear such uniform musketry. Usually a volley has more the sound of tearing canvas, but the soldiers of the 59th Illinois, edgy with the wait, have discharged their 350 rifle-muskets almost as one. Beyond the battery, the 22nd Indiana looses a volley. Seconds later, the 59th fires again.
Out in the field, the Rebel line stumbles to a halt. The 25th Tennessee retreats across the lane. The other two regiments go to earth 150 yards short of the Yankee line, the soldiers firing prone. Pinney stalks behind his guns. Perhaps he should mix in some common shell, scare the bejesus out of the Rebs though it will be less effective than the canister.
“Captain, you’ve got some competition.”
Post, beside him, the roan soft-footed in its approach. Pinney frowns. “Sir?”
“A Reb battery coming round the wood. They look a polished lot.”
Pinney swears, hurries again to the caisson, clambers up amid a buzz of minié balls, spots the four-gun Rebel battery coming fast, looking very polished indeed as they swing about to drop their limbers. “First section, shift to common shell!” he shouts at the lieutenant commanding his left section. “Lay into that battery before they unlimber!” He is off the caisson, sprinting for the middle two-gun section. Stay with canister or go to shell? No, stick with the canister. Less tricky setting the range. Go to shell in the third section, see how it works, maybe try a solid bolt or two for effect. Nothing like a rifled bolt howling through a position to make men crap their pants.
The first Rebel shell explodes thirty yards beyond the guns. God in heaven, they’re quick. He gives orders to Lieutenant Humphrey, senior of his lieutenants and commander of the center section. Another Rebel shell, short this time, but closer, showering more mud than iron but still killing two men of the 59th Illinois. Pinney runs on. The third section has shifted aim already. He pushes in between the guns, tries to make out the Rebel cannons through the smoke. All their guns off their limbers and firing. Unusual efficiency for Rebel gun crews, which are often undermanned and underequipped, and almost always short of horses. Maybe it’s those rich New Orleans pricks. Worse luck. He jumps back out of the way at a warning from the gunner, covers his ears as the gun fires, wills the shot to fly true.
Captain Putnam Darden of the Jefferson Flying Artillery of Mississippi has his first Napoleon unlimbered, common shell rammed. He orders a second ranging shot for 150 yards. A round of canister rips through the battery, the iron balls whirring about the gun crews. Darden ignores it, watches his shell explode short of the Yankee guns.
“One seventy should do it, Jones,” he tells the gunner.
“Yes, sir. One-seven-oh.”
The second gun is off its limber and rammed. He walks to it. “One-seven-oh, Smith,” he tells the gunner.
“Yes, sir. One-seven-oh. Here we go, boys. Let’s make ’em jump.”
Darden smiles to himself. Smith and Jones. Easy to get them confused. A blast of canister splatters the field to their front, pocking into the damp hay stubble. I’d like to send a little canister their way, he thinks, but I’m afraid it’d hit our boys out in the field. I’d pull them back if I were the general, though I guess it’s never wise to pull back infantry unless you absolutely have to. Gives them too much leisure to think.
Darden strolls down his line. His second section is unlimbered, the Napoleons going into action. More Yankee canister, longer this time, better aimed. He pauses to shoot a horse down with half its belly torn away. Must have taken the full load of canister from one of those Parrott rifles.
One of the teamsters is sitting nearby, cradling a broken arm. Darden hesitates theatrically, revolver in hand. “And how are you doing, Partridge?”
“Never felt better in my life, Captain. Not at all like that horse.”
Darden grins, holsters the revolver. “Take cover behind Old Nelly, then, and we’ll be out of here in a little while.” He strolls on, watching the effectiveness of his fire. Odd how little there is for a commander to do if his men are well trained. He is taking casualties, but not many. He pauses to shoot another wounded horse. Only two horses dead. Not bad for unlimbering under fire.
The Yankee line is all but obscured in smoke, and he knows his own is as well. The Yankee guns have gone to shell
but are consistently shooting long. Darden wonders if their trails have begun to dig into the wet earth, raising the elevation of the barrels. Have to watch that always, and usually the Yanks do. Can’t criticize much about the Yankee gunners. Better than ours on average. He glances at his watch. Fifteen minutes since his first round, both batteries firing with a will. His confidence is growing with each minute. Soon, he thinks, we’ll get in the telling shot.
Bushrod Johnson has ridden down the line to watch the battle east of the lane. His regiments are taking and giving a beating: a thousand men blazing away at the Yankee line in the shadow of the cedars not more than 150 yards ahead. Johnson would like to pull the infantry back, wait for the artillery to decide the battle, but he cannot: it is a stand-up fight, a test of courage and, in a larger sense, of the justice of causes. Or so he would like to believe as he watches men fall.
Suddenly there is the whump of an exploding caisson in the Yankee line west of the lane. Johnson stares at the rising pillar of smoke, feels all pondering wash from his mind, replaced by the sudden incisiveness of knowing exactly what to do.
Darden, too, has seen the explosion. He grabs his orderly by the arm. “Max, get out there to that regiment lying flat in the field. Tell the colonel that the Yankee battery will probably start limbering up any minute.”
“Do I tell him to charge?”
“No! I’m only a captain, for God’s sakes. But he’ll see the chance.”
Darden jogs to his horse, swings up, waves to his senior lieutenant to take command, and goes in search of Johnson. The battle is about to go their way. He can feel it. A minié ball clips a chunk from the mane of his horse, bare inches in front of Darden’s hands. He ignores it, focuses on what to advise Johnson. A small part of his mind wanders onto the inconsequential. He has known the same sensation every time in battle, suspects it is the mind’s relief valve, easing the pressure lest consciousness explode like an overheated boiler. Smith and Jones, he thinks. Why did I never notice before? I wonder if they find it amusing.
Out in the wet field, Privates John Berry and Dick Janes of the 17th Tennessee roll on their backs to reload their Enfields, ramming fresh cartridges while the Yankee minié and canister balls sing over them. Looking upward, it seems to Berry that his spectacles are dancing with flyspecks, not so much beyond as within the lenses themselves. He doubts the reality of any of this, screws his eyes shut for a moment, but the buzzing and hissing of the balls is too terrifying to listen to in the dark. He rolls back on his belly, is about to rise up the three inches necessary to fire at the Yankee line when a musket cracks directly over his head, the muzzle blast hot against his scalp.
Momentarily deafened, Berry snaps off his shot and rolls on his back, digging for a cartridge. “Goddamn it, Janes! You goddamned near shot me!”
“Na, ah didn’t. Keep yer fool head down and you’ll be fine.”
“Like hell. You parted my hair with that last shot.”
“Mus’ not ’ve kept yer head down.” Janes pulls his ramrod free, draws the hammer, and sticks a cap on the cone beneath. “Now pardon me, son. Ah got fightin’ to do.” He rolls over on his stomach, takes aim, and fires before Berry can even turn his face. The blast pocks Berry’s spectacles and cheeks with powder and wadding fragments. With a snarl, he whips his ramrod across Janes’s head and springs on him. The two roll in the corn stubble, pounding, kicking, and biting. Their sergeant crawls close, grabs fistfuls of long hair, jerks hard. “You damned fools! We’re about to charge. The Yankees is gonna kill you in a minute anyways. Now get your muskets!”
Pinney’s 5th Wisconsin Battery is a shambles, a gun smashed, at least thirty men down, twenty others with walking wounds. “Colonel,” Pinney yells to Post. “We’ve got to get the guns off. We need some time to reorganize.”
Reorganize, Post thinks. If it were only that. “All right, Captain. Take them back.”
The horses are brought in, teams of six for each surviving gun and caisson. There is a sudden shout, the 59th Illinois rising up, firing into the smoke. Then the Tennesseans coming, specter shapes resolving into men, a volley sweeping the battery, men and horses going down, pitching, screaming. The 22nd Indiana on the far side of the battery is up and firing, but the Rebels keep coming. Another blast of musketry, and horses and men drop by the score.
A tall, ramrod-stiff officer marches to Pinney: Captain Hendrick Paine, the only regimental commander in the army who has turned down a colonelcy, for he was a captain in Prussia and refuses to be more in this land where colonels’ and generals’ commissions are granted to lawyers, judges, political hacks, and fakers of every description. “Come, Captain. Ve get the guns off by man hand. My men take three, yours take two.” He does not wait for a reply from Pinney, but about-faces and begins giving orders.
The fire of the 59th Illinois and the 22nd Indiana holds back the Tennesseans long enough for Pinney and Paine to get the guns off to the rear. Pinney himself is pushing at a wheel when he feels a stinging slap against the back of his thigh. He sprawls forward in the mud, watches in dumb surprise as his men wheel the gun away into the smoke. He manages to sit up and find the wound, sees that a minié ball has severed the femoral artery in his leg. He tries to stem the gushing blood, cannot. Oh, hell, he thinks. And I was going to ask Fanny Preston to marry me when next I was home on furlough. He tries to summon her face—round, dimpled, a wisp of blond hair falling across a plump cheek. He is unaccountably tired, lies back, the earth soft beneath him.
Post’s brigade comes apart in the wake of the battery’s withdrawal. The 22nd Indiana misunderstands the withdrawal of the guns and falls back in confusion. The 77th Pennsylvania, already unnerved from watching the destruction of its sister regiments in Kirk’s brigade, takes fright and breaks for the rear. The 59th Illinois, like its stern Captain Paine, maintains its composure, covering the guns until they reach the cedars. On the east side of the lane, the 74th and 75th Illinois, the newest and greenest of Post’s regiments, deliver a final volley before falling back into the woods in good order. But instead of inspiring a sense of safety, the dark cedars frighten the raw soldiers. Order breaks down and most of the men are soon fleeing through the dripping trees toward the rear, pursued by fears more terrifying than the actual, which are certainly terrifying enough to unnerve even veteran troops. Post sends his staff to rally what men they can for a stand farther up the lane, and then rides calmly after the guns, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Out of sight of the Rebel battery, Lieutenant Humphrey manages to get the remaining guns of the 5th Wisconsin Battery under harness. Captain Paine and four companies of the 59th Illinois bring up the rear, turning every sixty paces to deliver a volley at the Rebels. A gun lost and too many men, Paine thinks. And that boy Pinney. Too bad, for he would have made a soldier, given time. These Americans. All this savagery, all this rush to kill each other with so little discipline. Shocking somehow, though understandable given the violence of their emotions. That boy Pinney… . Too bad.
Colonel Philemon Baldwin, commanding Second Division’s small reserve brigade, stares in disbelief at Brigadier General Richard Johnson. My God, it’s just gone seven, we’re about to fight the battle of our lives, and the man is drunk as a fiddler’s bitch! Lord, save us from all West Pointers.
Baldwin clears his throat, speaks respectfully but firmly, as he might to an aged client come to write a son or a daughter out of his will over some imagined or minor slight. “I think we should move forward, General. Kirk and Willich are under heavy attack and we should relieve what pressure we can.” (Heavy attack? Christ, they’re being absolutely thrashed from the sound of things.)
Johnson gazes at him, belches. “Very good, Colonel. Advance and choose a position. But don’t go too far.”
Baldwin leads his four regiments in column along a narrow alley hacked through a thick belt of cedars by the Pioneer Brigade the previous afternoon. The sound of the fighting is shifting steadily to the west, not artillery or volley firing now, but r
ather the constant crackle of skirmishing. A pursuit, Baldwin thinks. Kirk and Willich have broken.
They come out of the cedars into a cornfield, start across. Beyond it lies a half mile of cleared, uncultivated ground stretching to the Franklin Pike. Johnson’s chief of staff comes cantering up. “The general says to go no farther than the edge of the cornfield. Halt your trailing regiment back in the trees as a reserve.”
Baldwin holds his temper. “Is that where he’ll be?”
“That’s where we’ll set up division headquarters, yes.”
“So one of my regiments is to serve as the general’s personal bodyguard.”
“It will serve as the brigade reserve, Colonel.”
Baldwin turns away, sweeps the scene deliberately with his field glasses. Hundreds of men in blue are pouring out of the trees and across the fields to the west, some running in terror, others trudging along sullenly, weapons on their shoulders. A few units still maintain a semblance of formation, their colors flying in desperate pride. We are not whipped, Baldwin thinks. Driven, yes. Not whipped. Not yet. “The general should go rally those men,” he says.
“Some of the staff are attempting to do that, Colonel. Now, if you will establish your line—”
“There’s a brigade forming four or five hundred yards to our front left. You can’t see it from here but the captain in charge of my skirmishers sent back word. He thinks it’s one of Davis’s. My guess would be Post. We should advance to form at an oblique on its right.”
“No, Colonel. The general was emphatic that you go no farther than the edge of the cornfield.”
Baldwin spins on him. “And the general is drunk and incapable of making a rational decision! Do you recognize that, or are you drunk, too, sir?”
The chief of staff sighs. “No, I am not drunk, Colonel. And I know the general is. But he is the general and we must follow his orders.”
“And what gives him the right to command when he’s drunk?”
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