They Met at Shiloh (11 page)

“Mahoney! Direct fire on those sons of Hades there! We have to support the attack and ignore the counter battery fire we’re taking!”

General Cheatham’s brigades moved forward once again toward the enemy’s line; the long lines of butternut and brown uniforms snaked toward their target. Mahoney directed each gun’s target and gave the order to fire. Guns one and two, St. Peter and St. Paul, spoke in succession, the concussion of their report causing a shockwave to raise a cloud of dust from the ground and Michael’s clothes to vibrate. Down the Shiloh Road, another artillery unit roared up the hill and prepared to go into battery next to them. The gun crews stood to their duty and fired case shot into the Federal defense line, one from St. Paul cutting obliquely felled a whole company of infantry before disappearing into the camp and knocking down several Sibley tents.

Michael’s job was done. He was forced to watch his men take to their work. The battery coming up next to them swung into position but not before a solid shot dismounted a carriage. An entire crew was killed while rolling the piece into position. Body parts and splintered wood lay strewn around the piece. The men of that battery took little notice. Their four remaining guns went into position and started firing.

There was a rhythm to the crews’ work. The six-man crews stood around their pieces and performed a role that kept the gun in play. With each pull of the lanyard, the guns rocked violently backward and were quickly rolled back into position. The barrels needed cooling and were swabbed before powder could be re-introduced, lest a remaining spark ignite and take the gun out. Targets were determined and fuses on case shot timed. Then powder was added, followed by the round rammed down the barrel. Finally, the lanyard with its percussive fuse was placed into the touch hole, and the gun was again ready to fire. The ammo bearers ran back and forth from the line of caissons to the gun after each report. If even one of these men should become incapacitated, the smooth working of the crew would slow and its efficiency would decline.

So far, the crews were full, and the work was heated. Polk’s regiments began to falter in the face of the Federal defense. The additional batteries did not make much of a difference to the infantry struggling to find a weak spot. The regiments in front of their battery regrouped and moved forward once more. They bled a constant stream of dead and wounded behind them.

Michael ran over to St. Peter’s crew sergeant. “Fire on that line in front with solid shot!” Moving from gun to gun he repeated the order. Working the guns quickly, the crews sent shell after shell into the Federals. Michael watched as their shots created havoc in the enemy line. His heart leapt as he watched the Federal line begin to disintegrate, as a trickle at first, then as a steady stream. Then, as if on cue, the enemy regiments retreated for the rear.

The once-solid line of blue stretching across the open valley melted. The enemy moved in a mob, skittering through the camps and away from the advance of General Polk’s victorious legions. The sight brought forth a cheering and jeering from Polk’s infantry as they advanced through the abandoned tents and reaped a crop of wounded and prisoners. Terrified Federals surrendered as fast as they could be caught.

“Stand down! Stand down!” Michael shouted. He motioned Sergeant Mahoney over to him and shouted in his ear, “Limber up and get ready to move forward.”

Despite the breaking of the enemy’s lines, the racket of battle did not abate nor did the fire from the enemy batteries. While St. Peter was being swung around and the caisson brought up, a solid shot landed near the gun. It rebounded into the crew’s swabber. The boy’s leg was torn off at the knee. Those standing near were splattered with blood and dirt. The crew stepped over him to finish the work of securing the gun to the caisson.

Michael studied the boy with pity, knowing he would bleed to death before anything could be done. What was worse than leaving him there, though, was being down half a team of draft horses to pull the guns, which left nothing free to take the wounded to the rear.

“Lieutenant,” Michael called out, “take the section off this infernal hill and onto the pike. Go through the camp there and unlimber on the elevation to the left of that command tent.” With a quick salute in return, the bookish man trotted off.

Michael ran over to where Charger was, still held by the private. “Private, find Captain Polk and tell him I have moved my section down the Shiloh Road in support of B. R. Johnson’s brigade.”

Michael mounted and followed the battery as it descended the hillock to the road below. The sides of the road were rapidly filling with a stream of wounded and prisoners. The prisoners looked beaten and shocked. They slogged by him with downcast faces and vacant eyes. Many were nursing flowing wounds. Though a few of the enemy were lively enough to chatter with one another, overall they did not seem fearsome to Michael. Only minutes before, both captor and captured had cursed and poured fire into one another. Now, the scene was different, and camaraderie existed where none had been before.

Michael had heard stories of illicit consorting between enemy picket lines where tobacco, newspapers, coffee, and anything of scarce value was to be had. He wondered if he was seeing this first hand as the battery made its way past the throng. Picket duty was performed by the infantry brigades, and his artillerymen had no such experience.

The approach to the former lines and area of the hardest fighting was littered with corpses and discarded equipment. Far from being peaceful looking, the fields surrounding the enemy’s encampments were literally crawling. Hundreds from both sides were moving along the ground or staggering about as if having imbibed too much drink. Faces blackened with powder and bodies reddened with blood moved to and fro, looking for comfort and water. Comrades, some wounded themselves, moved about with these crawling wretches, giving what aid they could. There were so many lying on the ground that Michael wondered who was still standing and fighting. Friend and foe lay intermixed where the waves of attack had washed into the walls of defense, and, in places, the bodies were stacked several layers thick. He remembered his own men left on the hill, the dead and the wounded; each of these had once been a man who had been known and loved.

First Sergeant Mahoney’s horse sidled up to Charger, and the two men rode in silence for a moment. “Brisk work,” Mahoney said.

“Indeed,” Michael muttered.

“We’re pushin’ ‘em. I heard that we are moving forward all along the line, ‘cept to the right. Cleburne is stuck in front of some swamp.”

“Shouldn’t matter as we push forward. The enemy’ll have to fall back,” Michael replied.

“You hungry? Seems to be plenty of vittles in these camps. How ‘bout I send someone to gather some hot food? Probably be last chance fer anythin’ hot,” Mahoney said when they rode into an encampment. Fires still smoldered in company streets, and coffee still steamed. Food, fresh and in various states of preparation, lay scattered about. Stragglers from Polk’s corps rifled the tents for plunder.

The passage of time struck Michael as oddly motionless. How much time had elapsed since they first limbered up in the darkness of early morning? Save for the passage of the sun in the sky, Michael had little to tell him how much time had passed. Still feeling the energy of excitement, Michael had to think a moment to realize he was famished and that the morning was turning hot.

Michael shifted in his saddle to look at Mahoney. “Better send Chapman and Scott, but tell ‘em to be quick about it.”

“Yes, sir,” Mahoney said. “The battery’s unlimberin’ over there in that clearing. A few Fed batteries is playing upon the right of Clark’s division, but we got a good enfilade fire on their flank. Them trees in front will mask us from any Fed batteries in front of Polk’s advance.”

“Good. Get them going as soon as they are able.”

Mahoney pointed toward a horse and rider advancing in their direction. “Uh oh, looks like a messenger comin’ our way.”

Michael and Mahoney reined to a stop, and the messenger brought his steed to a quick halt.

“Sir, General Cheatham’s compliments. He wishes you to position your battery so as to support his advance, and you are to detach from B. R. Johnson’s brigade to support Stephens’s brigade. Follow me. I will direct you to the position chosen by the general.” At that the rider spurred his horse and made his way through the encampment.

“Forget the food, Mahoney. Get the battery limbered up and ride in that direction.”

Michael spurred Charger to catch up with the courier. Everywhere was a sea of white and green from the Federal camps sprawled between overlapping tree lines like rough, foam-capped water. All about him was movement, and he had to rein in several times to avoid groups of prisoners and troops moving across his path. Catching up with the courier, he stopped and surveyed the surrounding ground.

“See there, Captain?” the messenger asked. “General Cheatham wishes for you to engage those enemy batteries on that high ground to the south of the Hamburg-Purdy Road. His direction is to take those positions to the south of that little hill in the center of their lines and continue marching up the Shiloh Road. You will move with his advance.” His instructions delivered, the courier quickly turned and galloped off to the rear.

Michael pulled his glasses out of their pouch and focused on the enemy artillery. Two batteries of what he could make out as six-pound Napoleons, formed in line of battle off of the Corinth Road, were shelling Cheatham’s brigades. The enemy infantry, positioned upon a slight rise several hundred feet in their front, formed a continuous line that ran down the rise and across both the Hamburg-Purdy and Corinth Roads. Taking cover in the tree line just below the hill upon which he stood, the infantry of B. R. Johnson’s and Stephen’s brigades were showered with explosive charges that burst in the tree tops. Only two hundred yards of open ground separated them from the enemy guns.

A low rumbling and creaking sound rolled up the hill from teams pounding up the slope and swinging the cannon into play. Mahoney’s horse came trotting up beside Michael and reined to a halt.

Michael shouted to him, “Silence those guns up there on that hill to the left of the Purdy Road.”

Mahoney scrambled toward the three remaining guns to pass the orders on to each crew. Working feverishly, the men brought the weapons into ready positions. Michael dismounted and moved to the center of his gun line and studied the enemy through his glasses again.

“Five second fuse, ten degree elevation, Sergeant!” Michael shouted to the gun sergeant of St. Paul. “Fire for range!”

The guns spoke, and Michael waited for the shells to detonate. The gun crews would make adjustments as each shell landed before locking the elevation and firing for all they could humanly manage. Geysers of earth erupted behind and in front of the enemy position.

“Sir, if General Stephens don’t move soon, we’re gonna be eatin’ lead from those guns up there,” Mahoney shouted to Michael.

Below, still in the tree line, the Confederate infantry mingled and showed little evidence of moving forward. As Michael watched, four guns of one of the enemy batteries changed position to front him.

“Quickly, work that range. It’s gonna get hot quick,” Michael shouted.

As if to punctuate his command, a shell came screeching overhead and hit the earth at the bottom the hill before exploding. More shells came singing over in quick succession, all landing behind them.

Three quick reports and shells began exploding around the enemy guns. Michael’s guns began to speak as rapidly as the crews could work. The incoming rounds began landing closer; the enemy was finding its range. The hill shook with the concussion of the reports and the landing of shot. Above the din, Col. Stephen’s troops shouted with enthusiasm while marching out of the woods and onto the plain. Michael saw three of the enemy guns change front once again to fire on Stephen’s men. His own guns kept up the fire, and he watched a trio of shells dismount a carriage and silence one of the guns firing on the Confederate infantry. A ragged and short lived cheer arose from St. Peter’s crew before an enemy case shot plowed a furrow into the earth twenty feet from the gun, erupting in a shower of dirt clods. Shielding his eyes, Michael recovered his hand to see Mahoney raging up and down the gun line, hatless and covered in dirt. Suppressing a smile, Michael dusted himself off and motioned to one of his lieutenants.

“Take the extra caisson to the rear and find the supply trains. Get as much case shot as you can! Take the crew from St. James with you,” Michael shouted in the man’s ear.

A thunderous volley added to the near constant booming of cannon, signifying that the infantry had engaged. The lines were engulfed in smoke. The crackle of rifles grew as the firing rolled down the opposing lines. Michael felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Grierson! I’ve brought the other section up on Cheatham’s orders,” shouted Captain Marshall Polk. Four more guns with their crews rolled up the hill and unlimbered alongside their comrades. “Hope your Texans are up to the task, or shall we show ‘em how Tennesseans parley with the enemy?” shouted Polk with a grin.

“With my compliments, sir, Texas is ready to join Tennessee in sending them a-runnin’,” Michael said and bowed with mock deference. “We’ve been playin’ on those Fed guns up there.” Michael gestured toward the cannon with a sweep of his hand. “We could use more help. They’re sweeping the lines and ignoring us. We did unseat one gun.”

“All right, we’ll get four guns on the enemy batteries, and the rest will fire on the enemy infantry,” Captain Polk ordered.

“Yes, sir,” Michael said.

He turned and ran over to Mahoney. Once Mahoney heard Polk’s orders, he ran from crew chief to crew chief to get each in compliance. Michael regretted his commander’s arrival and the sudden loss of initiative and freedom. Polk, in the West Point graduating class of 1859, ranked and had seniority over Michael. Although Polk never lorded his rank over others, Michael still resented having his command of the battery superseded. He stood behind the guns of his section while the crews worked and occasionally shifted the fire to a different target. For the most part, he felt ancillary to the fighting, particularly when Captain Polk sent him directives for new targets.