They Met at Shiloh (31 page)

*****

36th Indiana line of battle

Hamburg – Purdy line April 7th, 1862

Farther west from where Philip and the 24th Ohio stood panting, Robert and the Indianans collapsed from the strain of the mornings exertions. Instinctively, his Missourian pards sought each other out. Like their Indiana comrades, their numbers were fewer once again. Quiet conversations replaced the sounds of battle echoing among the hill and grass. The pause was welcome, though cruelly short-lived. War has little regard for flesh and will. Huebner sat slumped over as if weighted down with a heavy load, shoulders drooping and head hanging low.

No one asked where their missing comrades were, for their absence was evidence enough. A profound heaviness hung around the group. Even the greenhorns from Indiana seemed to have aged several years since the prior day. Gone were their cries for action and animated tales of bravery. They had earned their battle flag today. A name would adorn their colors to commemorate their first battle. If the standard for the 25th Missouri was not in the hands of the enemy as a trophy, it, too, might yet sport such a name for this place.

The colors of the 36th Indiana fluttered in a cool breeze. Robert found himself drawn to it as if it were his own. Perhaps it was as much theirs as it was the Indianans.

“We fought fer that standard,” a familiar voice said. Robert didn’t turn to see, for the voice was like that of his own flesh and blood. “Mebbe the 25th’s escaped somehow.”

“Maybe,” Robert sighed and replied. “Might be a long time before we see another one flutter.”

“We can’t be too far from the camp,” a voice piped up.

“Possible, we might be able to retake it before evening if’n the Rebels keep runnin’,” Robert replied.

“You think we be punished for runnin’?” Huebner asked.

“Punish half th’ army then,” someone responded.

“True. Lots ran yesterday morning,” replied another.

The Missouri men lay on the grass, out of sight of the putrefying dead and the wailing wounded. The enormity of what happened across the Tennessee farmland was inescapable. Eventually, they would be called to account for it. They took advantage of the calm to find the peace of a moment’s rest.

*****

Polk’s Battery

Hamburg – Purdy road line April 7th, 1862

Michael reined up next to General Cleburne’s staff and returned the adjutant’s salute. What was left of the battery was drawn up a few yards distant, one gun short.

“Polk’s battery is unlimbered and ready to support the line,” Michael stated. “We need to replenish our caissons. We’re low on grape and canister.”

“Can’t help you, Captain,” the weary man replied. “Division supplies are way back in the rear and moving toward Corinth. You’ll have to forage.”

Michael was surprised. “Back to Corinth?”

“Beauregard’s ordered the army to retreat. We’re going to hold a line till the wounded and prisoners make it along, but don’t expect too much standin’ around.”

“If the other section of Polk’s battery turns up, point them my way. They was by that church this morning,” Michael said and pointed.

The days of marching and fighting produced not a victory but a defeat. Surely the army was made of sterner stuff than this, Michael thought as he slowly made his way back to the new defense line. Enough stragglers to form several regiments had formed near the Corinth Road. The infantry, drawn up and waiting for the enemy to burst upon them, were a pitiful sight. The roads leading south were clogged with wagons, broken men, and thousands of skulkers seeking safety. From where they formed, Michael did not see the steeple of the church and wondered at the fate of his own Texans. With no caissons about or on the roads, Michael knew there wouldn’t be any scavenging for munitions. The paltry supply he still possessed would have to do.

The men from Polk’s section were strangers, though he knew their faces. He knew little of their personalities and less of their abilities. They were well-drilled. Save for the unfamiliar air about them, they performed no worse than his own Texans did. He still felt like an unwanted step-child in their presence, however. They just were not his own men. The bond of common upbringing and months of togetherness was not erased by the sudden elevation to command and responsibility. He did not know if any of them felt as he did. He only saw them respond to him as a superior officer.

One lieutenant and several sergeants remained to command the two-gun section. The privates did what privates do when left unmolested by their sergeants; they lounged and slept around their pieces. The acting first sergeant, a Sergeant Miller, looked up as he approached and walked over to meet him.

“Sir, we got five case of shot and six canister to our name,” Miller said grimly, a darkness shading his expression.

“We’re retreating, Sergeant, so we won’t be firing that much, anyway,” Michael replied.

“Any news of the other section?”

“None. They may be on their way back to Corinth by now,” Michael said with a sigh as he dismounted. Clutching the reins of the horse, he led it up to the caisson line. Two of the loaders were leaning against the wheels, fast asleep.

“Sir, here’s the roster as it stands right now for this section,” Miller said. He handed Michael a crumpled piece of paper.

Michael read it quickly and folded it into his pocket. “Thank you, Sergeant. Have the crews stand down.” He looked at the loaders and said, “They need the rest.”

The sergeant saluted half-heartedly, but Michael ignored the gesture. The man’s eyes said his mind was halfway to his pillow. His own weariness beginning to tell upon his legs, Michael walked his horse over to one of the caissons, tied the reins to a wheel, and settled in next to a snoring private. Little separated officer from enlisted man in this moment, as both were of flesh and bone and in need of quiet. He hoped the enemy would make a show of pursuit so he’d not be rudely awakened mid-stupor.

He watched the columns of wagon teams and soldiers move by. In the distance, he spied a familiar landmark, the hill they topped yesterday before being drawn away to bombard the sunken road. Many of the dead from the day before rested in shallow graves dotting the field. Only the stripped enemy dead lay where they had fallen. All the signs of victory were to be had yesterday evening. Upon the hill, in silhouette, the dismounted gun carriage still stood.

There was little to recount of the failure, save for the deplorable cohesion he witnessed last evening in his own army. Was it the rain? Was it the delays leaving Corinth? Was it General Johnston’s death? Was it the arrival of Buell? Something went wrong, and someone was to blame for sacrificing men and material and then leaving the field to the beaten enemy. Someone was responsible. He grew angry thinking about it. His crews, both sections, did their part as well as any man could under fire. They did not run or shirk. What was it that Mahoney said? “God’s will”? Was not God on the side of the rightness of their cause? Who shouldered the blame for such a catastrophe as this? Michael shifted uneasily.

“Captain?” a voice called through the fog Michael felt behind his eyes.

“Uh?” Michael looked up into the face of his lone subaltern. The lieutenant’s uniform was open at the collar, and his vest open to the air showed a calico undershirt. His sword, the symbol of command, hung loosely upon the straps and trailed a step behind him. His unshaven and grimy face told Michael this man needed sleep more than he.

“Sir, there’s movement out in front. Looks like Federal reconnaissance in brigade strength.”

Without looking away, Michael blew out a long breath. “Rouse the crews,” Michael ordered listlessly, hoisting himself to his feet. The infantry regiments on station around the battery were rousing themselves sluggishly, as well. Behind their thin screen, the retreat moved slowly down the Corinth-Pittsburg Road as if unconcerned with the imminent danger.

The crews to the two remaining guns stood to station and watched as the Federal brigade advanced with skirmishers out front. Michael hadn’t noticed them before, but their own skirmish line was waiting.

“Parker,” Michael called, “mind our skirmishers out there.”

The lieutenant nodded in acknowledgement and motioned to each of his section crews. Soon the pop, pop, pop of skirmish fire filled the air.

A peppering of fire spoke from the opposing lines, and puffs of smoke appeared from the barely visible skirmishers who went to ground at the first fire. The enemy skirmishers advanced in spurts, firing, then standing to walk forward. Their own skirmishers merely seemed an annoyance to the enemy, who marched forward as if on a parade ground. They needed a miracle to save the ordinance train slowly creaking down the road.

In an instant, their skirmish line stood upright and bolted for the safety of the firing line. The Federal skirmishers barely trotted along, however, showing an uncharacteristic lack of urgency. A few walked as if on a leisurely stroll. Michael cast a glance behind him and toward the road the enemy was advancing obliquely to cut. The enemy banners fluttered some two hundred yards beyond the road, and, to the right, another defensive position was being prepared behind what looked like an abatis. They could use an abatis right now, as the only thing to prevent the fire storm of lead soon to be flying about was one’s own body. If the fugitive trains did not hurry along, their retreat to the new position would be short. The enemy would gobble up the tired remnants with little effort. The infantry, bearing defeat as well as they could, readied themselves to resume the conflict.

“Parker, open on them with explosive. Watch your fuses,” Michael ordered. Tired or not, the battery sprang to life. Fire belched forth from one cannon, then the other. Michael knew it was only for show. He hadn’t the wherewithal to keep the enemy at bay or do any real damage. There only was the presence of a line of cannon to strike fear into the enemy’s heart. Bluff was all they had left.

A few more shots and they would have to beat it to the rear, leaving the infantry to their own devices. All the same, Michael would put on a loud show. Shots flew down range and detonated airborne, though not near enough to the enemy to do anything but make them duck. The firing was sloppy at best and below their normal standards. Michael kept silent, knowing that each man knew this but was doing what he could.

The sixth shot arched toward the enemy, and Michael shouted to Parker to limber up. That was it; infantryman’s best friend was cutting out. Michael gave a glance at the infantry line. The sudden movement of the guns toward the caissons drew men’s eyes toward the battery with forlorn expressions. It was often the lot of the infantry to fight to defend the guns and retake them when lost. Gunners served a solitary weapon and alone were powerless to do much in a close-quarters duel between massed forces. Each man would fight to resist letting the cannon escape until he no longer had it in him. Should not the lowly infantry expect a little more loyalty in return?

The drilled precision of limbering up was executed quickly, and the battery was moving as fast as the remaining horses could effect. Michael galloped on ahead to the new line. He discovered a rich defensive position cluttered with felled trees and brush, a position that could not have been constructed any better had the army’s engineers been put to the task. The fallen trees had been arranged hastily into crude breastworks. To his surprise, Michael found a familiar sight reclining on a cannon.

“Mahoney,” Michael blurted out, oblivious to the military impropriety. Blushing a bit, Michael quickly dismounted and ran over to his old section of Texans looking tired but strangely exuberant.

“Captain, good ta see you hain’t been captured,” Mahoney replied and nodded in his peculiar frontier disregard for convention or etiquette.

“Tell me you have munitions,” Michael said breathlessly. The rest of the section rattled across the open field and pulled around the infantry battalions to rest behind their barricade.

“A full complement, sir,” Mahoney replied smugly.

“Good, this section is out.” Michael nodded toward the arriving men and ran out to meet them. A spot was already cleared and prepped for the two guns, and they were soon in place next to their comrades. The Tennessee boys acquitted themselves well. But for the unfamiliar faces, Michael could have been with his fellow Texans. A sense of relief overcame him. Had the virtues of manhood not prevented it, he might have given each one there a hearty hug and handshake. He didn’t feel naked now, as if the few piled-up tree logs and scrub brush were of any real military value for protection. Yet he saw the same expression on everyone’s face. They were safe at last.

In their front, the regiments they had abandoned earlier were marching up to the position, unmolested by a cautiously following enemy. They, too, seemed energized by the position, as if they were marching into an impregnable fortress. A livelier step propelled the regiments forward, and the defensive line now appeared to have real force behind it. Yet the enemy approached with the brazenness of a predator closing on its wounded prey.

“I think the good captain will find this position a little more to his liking, no?” Mahoney said with a grin.

Michael grinned back. “Very, First Sergeant, very much to my liking. How did you come to have full caissons?”

“We had to pull back to replenish after you left. The fight went much better by the church than where you was at, I take it,” Mahoney replied.

“Much better. We lost two guns and some crew. I think the left was under an ill star this day.”

“They couldn’t budge us. We had to move when the left collapsed.”

“How are the men?”

“Tired, but we’re all still here. A few minor scratches, but everyone stayed at his post,” Mahoney answered.

Michael looked about at faces that told him he was home. Bandages adorned foreheads and arms, but it was good to see so many still on their feet. The pursuing Federals marched forward, undeterred by the strength of the position opposite them. An artillery unit raced across the field ahead of the Federal infantry and went into battery. With precision, the crews manhandled their pieces into position while loaders cradled shot in their arms, ready to be rammed home.