They Met at Shiloh (17 page)

Michael watched Mahoney herd and scatter the dozen or so thieves in the distance, and he began to get restless, even though he knew every one of the gun crews needed rest. It was inaction in the midst of battle and a straining to be a part of it that tried his patience. The act of limbering, unlimbering, and bringing the guns on line, and the working of each and every load meant constant motion and strain on the nerves. Looking at his men, he knew the battery would be slow in responding should the order come to limber up. There was only so much a man could be asked to do in a single day.

Often the target of both infantry and opposing artillery, the bombardment arm killed from a distance. Yet they were prized possessions from an impetuous charge of the bayonet, or they were jeered by their enemies when disabled by well-aimed salvos. It took a special courage to march forward and face the enemy. It took something else to be the magnet of all of his fury once unlimbered upon the field. For once today, they were not the targets of either artillery or infantry, and the respite was most welcome.

“Splendid work,” came the voice of Captain Polk, causing Michael to startle.

“Yes, it was,” Michael replied.

“Is that your man out there?”

“Yes, that’s Mahoney.”

Polk frowned at the thieves Mahoney was chasing. “Scalawags. I’d turn the battery on them if I could get away with it,” Polk sneered. “Every army has its skulkers.”

“They’ll scatter and come back later once we’re gone,” Michael replied. Without taking his eyes from Mahoney, he asked, “Fight’s still going, but I’ve not seen any movement from any of these batteries since the surrender. We in reserve?”

“Don’t know. Half the corps artillery was gathered to this spot for reducing that nest o’ Yanks an hour ago, but it don’t sound like they’s any less for guns up yonder,” Polk replied.

“They’s gettin’ close to the river,” Michael added. “You can hear them gunboats booming now and again.”

“Yup, mighty close. Heard tell Johnston was wounded a bit ago leadin’ an attack on an orchard down that-away.” Polk pointed across the road. Michael couldn’t see any orchards, only the long tree line formerly occupied by the enemy stretching across the road and on down toward the river.

“Johnston was jus’ wounded?” Michael asked, surprised.

“Don’t know that either. Just heard it is all. We thought we was doing capital work on this day only to hear of that. Dead or not, it don’t spell anything but problems if it be true. Like changin’ yer lead horses mid fording a stream. Can’t be nuthin’ but trouble for our enterprise on this field,” Polk said.

“Good God,” Michael exclaimed.

“Them batteries what took off a bit ago did so on they’s own, but I’m inclined to let the men rest a spell more.” Polk stopped and thought for a second or two. “Still, that would explain the lull we’s havin’ and, unfortunately, that of the enemy beyond them trees, as well. All that noise is comin’ from Bragg’s Corps on the right.”

“If this be true, it does not bode well for the success of our arms today,” Michael said with a frown. The lack of coordinated movement and energy exhibited upon that part of the field indicated that Johnston was no longer driving the attack. The intervening confusion and lack of coordination would soon tell upon their army.

“That will remain to be seen, Captain. If you’re a prayin’ man, you might start, for if we lose this opportunity to destroy this army of invaders, we’ll have lost any prospect of retaining Tennessee for our cause of arms.”

“Can’t say as I am,” Michael replied sheepishly, “but I would agree that some praying couldn’t hurt.”

“We’ve cut the enemy down by a good third at least with that crowd what surrendered awhile ago. If we can’t capitalize on that and seal this victory now, perhaps the Almighty was against us all along,” Polk surmised.

With Polk’s candid summation ringing in his ears he said, “Who can say what the fates will bring? We still have many more hours of daylight to finish this thing.”

“That’s true,” Polk said. “This will be a shame if, after all this effort and loss, we throw it away on the chance that Johnston is un-horsed in the midst of the climax. We’re in possession of the enemy’s lower camps and pushing him into the river, but for all of this to hinge upon one man and control of the effort, it will be as nothing if not finished before sundown.”

Michael faced Polk directly. “Marshall, if called upon, the men will stand to their pieces as they did this morning under shot and shell.” He was proud of his Texans, and he hid his own doubt to praise them.

“That is a given, Michael. Your Texans are always reliable in a fight and have yet to dishonor their flag. I fear if something is not got up soon, what they will be called upon to do may be in vain.”

With that, Polk turned his steed to the side and spurred it away from Michael, leaving him with the words echoing in his mind.

Mahoney trotted back from his errand with a gaggle of miscreants cajoled at pistol point and divested of their spoils.

When Mahoney reached Michael, he asked, “Sir, if I may take my leave to deliver these rapscallions to the division provost?” The dozen or so fugitives looked downcast and ashamed. Michael doubted they felt any true repentance.

“Carry on, First Sergeant. Hurry back. We may be ordered forward soon,” Michael replied.

“March, you band of fools,” Mahoney ordered, and the men started forward past the line of guns.

The men being herded by Mahoney were a rough-looking lot and from as many different commands. Yet there were healthy-looking men, too, moving about to bring water to the enemy wounded and to give a hand in making for the aid stations. They were not looting but aiding an enemy. How could these two extremes co-exist in such an army? Though some were rogues and others were angels, most men were those who stood to their positions in obedience to the call of arms, not shirking the honor of falling in with their cohorts.

“Section Sergeants,” Michael called out, “get your sections limbered up. I want a column to the right of the road ready to march.”

The men had rested for half an hour by his recollection, and the inactivity would not last before some staff officer noted the current state of their unemployment. A battlefield is a site of horrors and depravity, as well as bravery and honor. The dead rent apart by the work of his own guns lay along the sunken road ahead and over the field of retreat. Heads, arms, legs, entrails, and cast-off equipment littered the way. Moments of supreme sacrifice for one’s cause were evidenced by broken bodies of the enemy on the field and by the victors laying on the ground in exhausted revelry.

Michael hated passing over ground where he knew he’d caused the enemy to leave their dead men, horses, and broken gun carriages. To see up close the damage done with such clarity was often enough to make him sorry for the poor fellows left mangled in the aftermath. And yet, he’d had to do just that several times this day, often occupying the ground that had been held by the enemy batteries he’d shelled or the lines of infantry he’d bombarded. The infantry dead were the most pitiable. In close formation, a bounding shot would bowl through whole ranks and leave human remains scattered in every direction.

Once this morn, after being ordered forward, the battery unlimbered on a rise formerly occupied by an enemy battery and line of infantry. Michael directed the battery’s fire upon this height for a time to silence the enemy guns whose own work was slowing General Polk’s advance. From the distance, Michael observed the enemy working his guns and receiving fire in return without hesitation. Only upon arriving at that locale did they witness their own destructive efforts. A ruined caisson and broken, twelve-pound, smoothbore cannon shattered by a bounding shot now sat silent and abandoned. He had noted a deep furrow in front of the cannon where the solid shot struck the earth and ricocheted into the gun, knocking it from its axle and splintering its left wheel. The gun’s commander had been eviscerated, a sergeant whose body now lay prostrate at its tail.

The men cheered when, from the distance of a hundred yards, the shot disabled the gun. Yet the enemy kept up their fire upon the line of Confederate infantry, not slowed by the tragedy. The loader, his station by the right wheel, had been struck full in the chest with the shot passing through his body cavity, severing arms and head from his lower torso. He left only that evidence to remind one that a human once stood on that very spot.

It was not good to fight upon soiled ground. It affected the men, just as it affected Michael, to bear witness to their own destructive deeds. Michael tried to pull the gun line farther from the slope of the hill, but the ground slid down the opposite side too steeply to work the guns, and they were forced to bear the indecency of fighting upon blood-consecrated ground. Michael had never been so glad to surrender the high ground, even in ignominy, when the converging fire of several enemy batteries caused the death of one of his own and wounded three others. It was not a hard decision to limber up and re-position, even if it meant a tactical retreat to preserve his strength.

The enemy’s fire upon them was severe from the moment they unlimbered to the time they galloped off the slope. It was Gunner Jones from Michael’s third section who carefully moved the enemy gun sergeant splayed behind the ruined gun and covered the body with his own blanket. There was little time for such activities in the midst of hot action with solid shot bounding around them. Jones casually did his errand, and then returned to his own gun as if he’d been ordered to treat the Yankee corpse with such kindness and humanity. Michael, though preoccupied with the action of the battery, could not help but watch Jones and feel a sense of pride in the honorable act. Even the lower ranks understood and recognized a noble enemy.

Would the enemy treat one of his own, or even him, in a similar manner? The thought of an honorable enemy seemed like a contradiction to him. An honorable death for the rough-cut Texans was in facing one’s adversary, not found face down in attitude of retreat. The dead men of that opposing battery served their task well and fell victim to the skill of his own gunners by no fault of their own. Jones’s singular act would more than likely be the gentlest treatment the man’s corpse would find. After the field was rightly won by their arms, others would come behind and pitch the remains into a common grave with a marker reading “ten Yankees.” If lucky, the burial parties would get to the job before the dead putrefied

During the lull, St. Peter’s crew buried Private Nelson, who had been killed by shrapnel during their trying fifteen minutes on that deadly ridge. His body had lain upon the gun’s caisson and was interred at the foot of his gun with the whole battery taking part in the quick but solemn ceremony. Michael stood back so the men could run the particulars out of reverence for the man’s pards. His lieutenant said a few words on behalf of the section crew.

Soon, the battery was drawn up on marching column, per Michael’s instructions, with the men sitting listlessly upon their stations. They drooped with heat and exhaustion. When and if the call came, they would be ready to move, but Michael hoped it would not come soon. The battery had given yeomen service since first light and deserved a break.

One by one, the batteries began to limber up and trot off. Michael knew their rest was about to end. Some of them headed toward the rear, and others across the field to the Corinth Road, and then along it toward the fighting. There were three sections of a battery of guns settling ready to march. By whose order would the call come? From Captain Polk? Or from some staff officer hell-bent on solving a problem and grabbing the first guns he saw?

Captain Polk trotted up, and the battery perked a bit at his approach, knowing that whatever the outcome, they would be moving with a wry eye upon what direction that entailed. After a few hurried words with Michael, and a nod of agreement, Polk galloped off in the direction of the fighting. Michael turned Charger and trotted down the rise to the battery drawn up by the roadside. He motioned Mahoney to come stand by him. It was always better to have one’s first sergeant around to exercise control over the men when delivering bad news.

He faced the men and shouted, “To the right by sections, march!” For a moment, no one moved. Then, without complaint, the limbered sections filed down the Corinth Road.

*****

24th Ohio Volunteers

Opposite Pittsburg Landing, 3 PM April 6, 1862

Aboard a paddle steamer anchored past Pittsburg Landing, the 24th Ohio’s companies crowded the upper decks, staring at the pandemonium on the opposite shoreline. Philip and Mule leaned on the railing and watched in awe. Over the trees that lined the shore they could see a cloud of haze marking the place where the fighting was fiercest.

“We seen some sights in West Virginia in the rear of a battle, but nothin’ like this,” Mule said.

“If we didn’t hear the firing, it wouldn’t be a stretch to question what was left on the firing line. There’s thousands of men milling about on the shore!” Philip answered.

Exclamations of surprise and curses were heaped upon the cowards. The boats anchored away from the shoreline to avoid the crazed and fear-stricken mob attempting to board the steamers arriving with Buell’s forces. Life boats and anything that could float were being used to ferry the companies ashore twenty men at a time. Philip and the others waited impatiently for their turn.

Whenever one of the smaller boats pulled to the landing, the men aboard had to fight their way through panicked men attempting to climb aboard. Philip watched as several men launched themselves into the water to follow an empty life boat. One by one they disappeared below the surface. Those on the shore line waved and screamed at the boats but cared little for anyone drowning in the water. Philip’s pards had no pity either; disdain for the mob ran high.

Philip, watching the spectacle, said to Mule, “They’re mad with fear. What must be happening over there is unbelievable.”

“I think I even see officers among that rabble,” Mule said.

A loud report shook the water’s surface as the gunboat Tyler let loose with its large 32-pound rifled gun. The gunboat shook and swayed slightly as the huge gun recoiled. At long intervals, this gun and a 20-pound Parrot rifle fired at the battle lines advancing toward the shoreline. Farther up the river, the gunboat Lexington fired into the Rebel rear areas, hoping to cause havoc.