They Met at Shiloh (16 page)

“That’d be nice. Give these feet a rest for a spell,” Philip said with a sigh.

“Ha!” said Johnny. “Have we ever ridden anything but our own feet?”

“Ridin’s fer paper-collar soldiers like them troopers we passed.” Sammy said.

“Paper collar or no, I could use a transport about now.” Philip answered.

“Looky there,” Sammy said. A line of ambulances and wagons tottered down the road toward the docks. “That’s somethin’ a man don’t wanna see afore headin’ down this here road.”

“I’ll march. Them’s for band box shoulder straps an’ the dyin’,” Johnny said glumly. “You’ll see every one of them later carryin’ one officer each, drunk and feignin’ injury.”

Second Sergeant Harper passed them and interrupted. “I’ll bet the good Reverend would gladly have exchanged his holier-than-thou collar for a paper one any day, seein’ as he always liked lookin’ the dandy.”

Johnny snapped back at him. “Nobody talkin’ ta you, Sergeant.”

“You hear that sound, Harper?” Philip called to him. “It’s the sound of the flames of Hell and your brother callin’ you home!” Philip could see he struck a sore spot, and he worked it. “You’re just as evil and hard-hearted as he was and twice as deserving of perdition’s flames!”

“Watch yourself, Reverend, or it’ll be me givin’ your eulogy befittin’ a dead dog! You’ll be beatin’ the Secesh to Hell’s gates. Beelzebub hisself will roll out the welcome mat for another of Methodism’s servants!”

“You wish,” Sammy shouted at him. “We’ll just have to see who greets who in Hell first, you nasty piece of rat filth!”

Philip put his hand on Sammy’s shoulder. “Shut up, Sammy. Don’t pay the mean-hearted beggar any more mind. He’s heard his true father callin’ him home, and he’s just scared.” Philip stared hard at Harper. “I do hope it is I who can send you to him with proper words so your brother can feel rightly reunited with his kin. I told the truth then, and I’d tell the truth again. Only this time I won’t mince my words with pleasantries and empty platitudes as I did for Robert, your fornicating, gambling, liar of a half-wit brother whose only mistake was to be smarter than yourself by dying first!”

There was an awkward silence while Harper and Philip brooded upon their hasty words and Philip’s comrades looked upon him with puzzled expressions. Philip explained, loudly enough for Harper to hear him, “I had the good pleasure of having the Harper family in one of my smaller societies that I was blessed to give spiritual comfort to upon occasion. It was one of my poorer societies, in both value and understanding, requiring much of my energies. It seems that the Harper progeny had not taken well to their studies of Scripture nor of their letters. They were the scourge of the county and subject of whispering behind closed doors.

“It seems,” Philip continued, “that one day Robert Harper, the youngest of five, found himself at the business end of a rifle and his hands upon the sullied breasts of ole man Puget’s homely but buxom wife. He was duly shot by Mr. Puget and drug out into the lane to die. Bein’ the notorious scalawag that he was, nary even the most pious Good Samaritan would stoop to dirty their hands upon his dyin’ body. It was I who picked up the sufferin’ soul and took his absolutions and confessions of guilt, and I tried to make his last moments upon this earth comfortable. He remained un-absolved to the end, refusin’ to recognize God or his Savior, and he died in his guilt. Even the family of this upstanding model of humanity refused to give their own aid as he lay dyin’.”

Harper’s face turned bright red, and he shouted in Philip’s face, “What you did at the funeral was not right, you messenger of Satan! You knew mother didn’t know what kind of life he lived, and yet you still stood there like a judge and passed the sentence of Hell upon him for all to hear! You knew what to do, and you didn’t do it!” He shook with rage, and spittle flew from his mouth. “I don’t care what you thought of me or my brother or what you knew to be fact or rumor! You had no right to tell your version of piety before a gathered crowd! My mother’s ill health and death are on your hands, you son of Satan!”

“It was a slip, but no less believed and known to all!” Philip shouted back. “If I erred in anything it was to allow that wretch to be buried in God’s name to begin with. If I would have allowed it, you Harpers would have run your business out of the meeting house in open view of all.”

Harper’s fists came up. “Don’t you say another word, Reverend, unless you…”

“Fall in! Get your traps back on, fall in!” rang the first sergeant’s voice.

*****

Philip’s heart beat in his chest, angered and shamed for his outburst. Falling in line in front of the stacks of muskets, he took his place in the rear rank. An officer gave the command to take arms. In an instant, the orderly rows of stacks disappeared, and the weapons returned to their owners. With the command to right face, the formations moved into march column of fours. In the sudden hush once the men were in place, they could hear the sound of continuing battle ahead.

“Men of Ohio!” shouted Colonel Jones, “a great battle is being fought up this road. General Grant is hard-pressed by an obstinate enemy who believes by pure guile they can defeat the arms of our great cause. We will be force-marched upon this road for the hour is grave. We march to the cause! To the cause!”

A chorus of “To the cause” rang out from the regiment, and Jones gave the command to forward march. Stepping off, the fifers played “John Brown’s Body,” and all voices joined in with hearty accord.

John Brown’s body lies a-moldering in the grave.

John Brown’s body lies a-moldering in the grave.

John Brown’s body lies a-moldering in the grave,

But his soul goes marching on.

Glory, glory, Hallelujah!

Glory, glory, Hallelujah!

Glory, glory, Hallelujah!

His soul goes marching on.

Polk’s Battery

Ruggles’ Gun Line, Sunken Road, 3 PM April 6, 1862

M
ichael lazed upon the pommel of his saddle, watching a long line of Federal prisoners move down the Corinth Road. Dispirited and exhausted, the prisoners trudged along unaware of the beauty of the afternoon. Fires still burned in the underbrush along the road, and smoke billowed from the wood line where the division of Federal General Prentiss made its last stand. Thousands of men in blue streamed out of the trees in silent dejection. The guns were finally stilled, and the men in each battery collapsed at their posts. More guns than Michael had ever seen in battle, of every caliber, were hub to hub as the artillery arm of the army flexed its muscle in one accord.

The nest of Yankee holdouts was vanquished in violence, and other than the noise farther to the right, the stillness on this part of the field was welcome. The battery strained every muscle and collective will since the opening shots. Michael felt the same numbness he saw in the faces of their captives. Victory can be as exhausting as defeat, he thought. The haggard appearance of his own men made him thankful for the respite, though every sudden crash and burst of noisy battle ahead made him wish to be a part of the final victory.

Infantry regiments sorted themselves out and began filing down the Eastern Corinth Road toward a new battle line. They left behind the guns and rear chaos of fugitives, couriers, staff officers, and prisoners. The wounded and winded lay where they fell, making it hard to distinguish who was hurt from who was too enfeebled by the heat and fatigue to move on. Scavengers wandered among the dead, rifling through haversacks and coats and stealing anything of value. Every dead and wounded Federal soldier had been stripped of his shoes.

A lawless element accompanied any command. Generally, it was motivated by the desire to possess a Yankee souvenir or a replacement article of clothing. A watch, smoke pipe, Testament, or gold rings were things that Michael could not countenance. It was desecrating the dead. So far, his men were refraining, or at least the presence of the command structure was keeping them honest. Those robbing the dead were loners, separated from their own units and free to do as they pleased.

“You’d think them stragglers would have some sense of decency, even if they is the enemy they’s robbin’,” Mahoney said.

“I suppose that’s why this army has men like you and I, Mahoney. Someone’s got to keep the men in line,” Michael replied.

“Even when we’s not ‘round to watch ‘em, not very Christian-like to rob the dead.”

“What about war is Christian-like?” Michael pondered aloud.

“Well, them fellers out there strippin’ them Yanks certainly ain’t doin’ it for God or country but out of greed an’ avarice. The act of war may not be Christian-like, but we didn’t ask for war but for independence,” Mahoney replied.

“Never considered this no crusade. Just a fight to survive.” Michael watched a looter dragging something heavy through the brush. “Maybe war jus’ brings out the worst in us.”

“No argument there, but it also brings out the best in a man. What is it the Good Book says? No greater love can a man have than this, that he give up his life for his friends. Love, love of country and one’s pards, that be a good thing,” said Mahoney. He, too, stood silent and watched the spectacle. “Still, someone should put a stop to what they’s doing.”

“Suppose that’s what the provost is for, but it’s a big area,” Michael said and straightened in the saddle, “and these thieves would just go and do it somewheres else. That’s why we need to keep a tight rein on our own men.”

“They’s not all robbin’. They’s some out there bringin’ water to the enemy wounded, see?” Mahoney pointed to a figure in the distance going from spot to spot.

“That man’s got the idea of Christian charity, all right, I suppose.”

“Don’t take church goin’ to have that kind of charity, jus’ a sense of right, wrong, and honor. That be someone who loves what is right.”

“They would seem to be character qualities anyone can have regardless of claiming a faith. There is a sense of honor inherent in the officer corps, for example, though I can’t say who is or isn’t someone I’d call a Christian,” Michael stated.

“They’s a difference between a society of gentlemen an’ Christian charity, though I’d say that the code of conduct for officers wasn’t developed by men of faith.”

“If that be truth, it would seem a disconnect betwixt peace, war, and faith. Ol’ Stonewall Jackson’s reputed to be a man of faith and Christian principles yet be a man of war,” Michael said. “They say Johnston be the same.”

Mahoney thought about that idea for a moment. “No disconnect that I can tell. War be the basest of humankind in response to pressure and strife. It trains a man in killin’ and to do it without remorse or feelin’. A man needs a faith to buttress times of war, and war brings a man closer to his Creator than any other happenstance. War is just as Christian as peace is.”

“I’d much prefer peace. Safer that way,” Michael said with a chuckle. “Although I suppose the good Lord did say sumthin’ ‘bout not bringin’ an olive branch but a sword and dividin’ family from family in the end times.”

“Don’t know that the verse is one of war or not, but of realism in dealin’ with anythin’ contrary to the faith, but I suppose it might also describe a time of strife such as this.”

Michael laughed suddenly. “I’ll bet we sound like a seminary class at the moment. Queer place for holdin’ such a discussion, no?”

“It is on such a field that it is most appropriate, fer many a man has faced his mortality this morn in both honor and dishonor.” Mahoney motioned with a sweep of the gauntlets in his hand at the scavengers in front of them. “Maybe they’s angry at some slight by them Yanks, or maybe they’s jus’ angry and resorted to thievin’ to settle they’s souls. Who knows what evil can come out of a man? You and I, we don’t pull the lanyard in hate or anger. We do it out of honor and dedication to our cause, and we’d punish any of our command for pilfering the dead, even if they were Yanks. ‘Vengeance is mine,’ says the Lord, and we don’t ‘venge. We fight with honor. That’s the difference between a Christian act and a devilish one.”

Michael shook his head and said, “I would surely wish pain and trouble upon any of the enemy what caused me any personal pain or loss, for sure. Only my rank and my own sense of honor would prevent me from such desecration, not God.”

“I think you be closer to God than you think, sir. For it ain’t an absence of hate that makes a man think twice before striking back or planning revenge but the presence of the Almighty in him that restrains the passions of a man.” With that, Mahoney looked at Michael with the fatherly glance Michael had grown to enjoy from his older subordinate.

“You keep that talk up, we gonna have to pitch a tent here and turn our seminary into a meetin’ tent,” Michael laughed.

“I think we got a fight to win firstly,” Mahoney returned the grin. “Sir, if I may, I’m of the mind to scatter that lot of grave robbers and give them the flat of my sword for they’s impudence.” He stood straight and saluted.

“You have my leave, certainly, First Sergeant.” Michael returned the lazy salute tendered by his subordinate and watched Mahoney spur his horse forward to a trot. Was this an act of Christian charity or military honor that drove Mahoney to put the lash to the carrion scavengers? Michael didn’t know which, or if they were even separate, for military honor and guidance seemed to owe much to what he could only label as Christian or gentlemanly honor. Yet the two together upon the field of battle presented him a conflict of their own. Love for his fellow man and death to him who stands in opposition did not mesh with Michael. How could he love and kill in the same spirit of charity? It was not out of any specific deploring that he beheld any man in blue, but for the cause for which he stood.

The sun bore down upon the combatants, and the heat sapped their energy. Like the spring in a watch, the army of men, animals, steel, powder, and lead had sprung and recoiled and sprung again as the fight progressed. At this time of elated victory over the invading foe, Michael sensed the weariness around him in the men’s lethargic lounging upon the grass and search for shade. They gathered as families of gun crews. They were men of different births but bonded by their common brotherhood of membership in the battery. With familiarity not seen even among brothers, they lay upon one another and caught whatever rest they could. Michael saw it in the lines of infantry brigades marching down the road. The army was spent, and yet the fight continued—the enemy fighting for survival and the Confederates for victory.