They Met at Shiloh (27 page)

“I saw him go down the line during the firing a couple hours ago,” Philip said and looked over his shoulder. “See, he’s there behind us.”

Johnny spit on the ground and grimaced. “If they keep tarrying, we’ll be on this line fer sure once full light hits.”

“I don’t know about you,” Mule said, “but I can’t stop shiverin’, and my teeth is chatterin’ awful.”

“They’ll fetch us back,” Philip reassured them, though without conviction. He didn’t place much faith in military thoroughness or fairness. There was always a sense that some fatigue detail was too long and that some companies were favored when details and dirty work were assigned. Perhaps someone did forget to call them in, or perhaps the major was punishing their captain for some personal slight. Whatever the reason, they had been on the skirmish line far too long and would be useless in the coming fight if not allowed to rest.

Before frustration and fatigue could turn to despair, they heard their captain’s call. “Company, prepare to fall in on the regiment!”

Behind them, another company spread out in skirmish formation and advanced on their position. Philip stood and almost fell over. After lying prone for so many hours, his legs were stiff and weak. He made his way on unsteady legs to where the regiment gathered in formation. It was the relief they had sought, but it looked to be short lived. The other companies had fallen in line and were shaking themselves out in front of the rifle stacks. This could only mean they were preparing to break those stacks and move out.

Their own company formed up at the end of the regimental line and dressed down. Then, much to Philip’s surprise, their captain gave the order to stack muskets. He heard a collective sigh of relief as the men eagerly created the teepee-like rifle stacks with intertwined bayonets. Everyone knew the next command, an order that no soldier was reluctant to obey.

“Rest!”

Fatigued and drenched, the company broke in a collective stagger toward their knapsacks in the rear of the regimental line. Bedrolls were unfurled and dry undershirts unpacked. Someone started a company cook fire, and men were quick to find their tin cups. Mule was beside himself.

*****

Polk’s Battery

Wicker Field position AM April 7, 1862

Across the dead space separating the foes, a messenger charged up to Captain Michael Grierson with messages concerning the day’s hostilities. Michael suddenly found himself in command of the whole battery. Captain Polk had succumbed to the wound in his leg and relinquished command to Michael. Frustration over being a subordinate evaporated, but the change in position came with responsibility. Michael had to determine where the other sections of guns were located and their deportment. Orders from General Polk and Major Bankhead, Polk’s chief of artillery for the corps, followed in quick succession.

The enemy was making a fresh start upon their lines and would soon be in front of the battery. Was the infantry still out there? The morning fog from the late evening rain hung thick upon the ground, limiting visibility to a few tens of yards. Should the enemy appear out of the thick, the battery would be in dire straits. Through the fog, Michael heard firing begin to the right and roll in their direction.

“Lieutenant,” Michael yelled to Lieutenant Young, “take command of the section and prepare the guns for action! Captain Polk has been carried from the field, and I must find his section.”

“Sir,” the young man replied and hurried off, barking orders as he went.

Mahoney gave Michael a look of concern and a quick tip of his hat in recognition of the gravity of Michael’s sudden elevation in command. It was one thing to handle a section well in battle, but another to command the whole battery and have the eyes of the generals upon you. Captain Polk’s orders were to bring the battery into action on the front of Cheatham’s division, somewhere off to the right of where the other section stood in battery. Sounds of battle rumbled in that direction. Michael noted the brigades of marching men shaking themselves out in battle lines and the bustle of couriers ferrying orders to and fro from the headquarters. The men still had a tired look to them, but they moved with purpose. The rumble off to the left only added animation to their movements.

Yards away and separated by a wood, the lines were engaged in hot fighting. Scattered wounded and dead lay where they fell. Michael wished he could re-unite the battery, but by the sounds of it, they were committed where they stood. The familiar flags of the 2nd Divisional HQ of Polk’s Corps fluttered into sight, and officers and cavalry clustered nearby. Passing the gaggle of braided sleeves and star-studded collars, Michael rode cautiously through the wood toward the booming of cannon. He nearly lost his hat to low-hanging branches and soon reached the cacophony of shouts and whizzing lead.

Two batteries were playing upon the advancing lines of blue but were being pounded in return by enemy guns unlimbered defiantly ahead of their own infantry. Enemy gunners worked their pieces like men possessed. Report after report shook the ground in succession of delivery and receipt. The enemy’s columns filled the open space, and his skirmishers pushed forward. It didn’t take Michael long to see that this side of the line needed help.

Heedless of the lead hissing by his ear, Michael spurred toward the other section of Polk’s battery where men worked their guns with equal fury. Michael spied Lieutenant Parker, hatless, sporting a gash along his scalp and a trickle of blood running down his cheek.

“Parker!” Michael shouted as he ran up to his subordinate, “We’re about to be taken enfilade. The enemy’s brought up another battery on the left to that rise over there!”

“Sir, we’re playing with all we have. We won’t be able to hold for long,” shouted Parker.

“Detail the leftmost piece to respond to that battery as soon as it unlimbers! Reinforcements are coming, but you’re right, we’re about to be overrun. How are your limbers? We’re far away from our supplies.”

“Limbers are full, but if the enemy pushes us, we’ll have to leave some. We’ve lost ten horses in the last minutes, and I won’t have much to retrieve the battery with if we have to leave quickly.”

The fire of the enemy batteries concentrated on them. Bankhead’s battery opened from a position one hundred yards to their right. Solid shot bounded through the caissons and took off the tops of nearby trees.

Over the noise, Parker shouted, “How is the other section?”

“In good spirits and unengaged when I left them, but the fight is moving their way. They are posted near that church.”

Parker shouted to a harried-looking non-commissioned officer working the number one piece. “Sergeant Smith! Turn Number Three toward that enemy battery on the left and open on them with solid shot,” Turning back to Michael, he asked, “How is Captain Polk?”

“I don’t know. I saw him last night after dark. He was getting around and refusing to go to the aid station.”

A cheer heralded the arrival of another brigade, and the infantry moved forward to meet those of the enemy, who had come even with his batteries and had begun to advance past them.

Michael pointed at the battery in the center of the enemy forces. “Now’s the time to hit that battery there with explosive while they can’t fire over their own lines.”

The Union regiments, marching in front of his own batteries, masked their fire, giving Michael’s section some breathing room.

“Battery!” Parker shouted as he ran from gun to gun. “Three-second fuses, counter-battery fire, fire for effect at the center battery!”

Loaders hustled forward with cone-shaped charges. Gun commanders measured and cut the fuses. The guns were loaded and fired as if nothing had interrupted their work. Puffs of smoke burst above the enemy guns. Everything below the explosions was showered with shrapnel.

“Adjust your elevation, Number Two!” Parker shouted.

Just as quickly, rounds began to crash around them from the enemy battery on the right. The number three gun responded in kind, but it was to be an unequal contest. The enemy’s center battery was helpless to respond, with the Federal infantry blundering too close to their line of fire. It was their turn to suffer fire they could not return. Muskets from opposing lines of infantry cut loose upon one another. The situation looked as if it might turn to the better. Bankhead’s battery was free to play upon the rightmost enemy battery, relieved of the pressure from the meddlesome center battery, which was now diving for cover.

Wounded and otherwise healthy-looking men filed by the battery in ones and twos from the infantry line fifty yards ahead. Without warning, a flood of panic-stricken men ran past the battery’s left, followed by their colors and several screaming officers. Whether by hint of disaster or premonition of defeat, the regiments next in line also began to disintegrate. A roaring cheer echoed from the enemy lines, and a general advance began.

“Load canister! Load for canister!” Parker shouted.

Now it was their turn to sit helpless while their front was masked by their own fleeing infantry. Staff officers darted among the fugitives and saber whipped several groups to form a line. Those out of reach turned tail and continued the retreat. On the right, the lines were still exchanging fire. As each successive regiment had its left uncovered and open to the oblique fire of the enemy, the Confederate line dissolved.

“We need to slow them down!” Michael shouted to Parker, “but get the caissons ready to move!”

The enemy infantry marched triumphantly forward, freed to have a go at Michael’s unprotected section of guns. The last of the retreating regiments cleared their front, and the guns began firing toward the approaching lines of the enemy. They were still out of musket range, but only barely. A volley of canister thrown into the enemy slowed their advance but did little more. The Confederate regiments to the right had begun to pull back slowly, fighting as they moved.

“We need to hold them a little longer, Lieutenant!” Michael shouted. “When they get into range, charge with double canister and let them have it!”

At best, canister range was slightly greater than musket range; double charge shortened that distance. The enemy would need to be close for full effect.

Cheering, the enemy regiments pushed forward and entered that arc of deadly space where foes meet one another on equal footing. It would be five hundred muskets against double canister-loaded cannon, an equality that would last only for a single volley. Michael had to make it count if the guns were to be saved.

36th Indiana Line of Battle

Purdy Road AM April 7, 1862

T
he church steeple Robert could see through the mist reminded him that this place was once peaceful farm land.

“Guide is left. Left!” shouted the captain as the 36th Indiana’s line undulated in a serpentine manner.

Robert was already sweating. Steam rose off the shoulders of the man next to him, moisture from his damp wool sack coat evaporating in the morning sunlight. Fog was lifting along the trees and dissipating in the light. Booming cannon and musket fire thundered ahead. The men were excited but anxious. These Indianans were still green, despite having caught some small glimpse of the elephant the evening before. The hungry maw of the beast was ahead. Robert marched again into the face of battle but without his comrades at his side. Huebner was several paces away, as were the other men of his beloved 25th Missouri. That was home. They were family. The Indiana men around him exuded a naïve desire to pitch into the battle. They had something to prove, mainly that they were soldiers worthy of their calling.

Deafening musketry volleys and singing lead informed them of the struggle beyond the pall of smoke. He heard a Rebel yell over the cannon fire, sounding more like the shrill yipping of crazed animals than the voices of men. The yell reminded him that the enemy was in earnest and in good spirits. The sound turned his blood cold. The enemy was winning on this field.

The regiment broke through the curtain of smoke to face a field full of butternut and gray. Ahead of them, a brigade was advancing into the storm. Rebel batteries fired into the masses of blue-coated soldiers. When one brigade was unable to stand the tempest’s pounding, another brigade took its pace. Flags fluttered in the centers of the regiments. The number of standards suggested to Robert the number of brigades and divisions arrayed against one another.

The regiment marked time nervously. Their glee at seeing battle once more melted in the face of horrible combat. The brigade in their front advanced steadily and bled a string of casualties. Men writhed or were stilled as they fell. Robert knew they would either charge and break the enemy or halt and be broken. Shots of grape and canister tore gaps in the double line formations, laying dozens low. Bravely, the men would cover down until the gap closed. Piles formed of broken bodies that were once healthy and stalwart humanity. If this brigade succeeded, they would be spared the chore of advancing into that cauldron.

The brigade advancing on its right halted and delivered a volley. The colors rose and fell to rise and fall again. The best men in the regiments, whose honor it was to carry the colors, stood to their duty, knowing full well they were the target of hundreds of muskets. Each fall meant that a brave man died, and each rise meant another brave man took his place. The brigade in front kept up their advance alone. Each step carried those regiments closer to delivering a volley into the ranks of the enemy.

The men in the Indiana ranks cheered from relief and from admiration for the men facing the sheets of flame and lead. The brigade covering its flank turned and marched back from where it came, leaving the other brigade of some hundreds of Union men alone to the work. Naked and drawing flank fire from the left, the lone brigade, too, stopped and delivered a volley, hoping to accomplish something, anything, for the price it paid in blood to get there. The hurrahs ceased. The unequal contest could have but one result.

The man next to Robert shouted “Look!” and pointed left.

Prodded by its officers, the brigade had regrouped. It marched forward once again to aid its sister brigade alone on the field.