They Met at Shiloh (32 page)

Michael, along with the rest of the battery, stood by, fascinated by the energy and work of their opposite numbers. Four guns were readied to fire in a matter of minutes, their first rounds crashing into the trees behind the Confederates. Perhaps it was the fatigue or perhaps just the admiration of a maneuver well executed, but the artillerymen watched agape. Four rounds of shot exploded before Michael nodded for Mahoney to prepare their own response. It was a dangerous game, this recognition of an enemy’s prowess, and one measured in moments lost to the pageant. Once set in motion, the battery responded in kind. The air was soon filled with explosive rounds as the range was gained between the batteries and shot and shell began to fall uncomfortably close.

The approaching infantry pushed forward and passed the Federal battery, whose attentions were drawn to other parts of the Confederate line. Another Federal battery perched itself atop the rise of a hill, just behind the advance of their infantry brigades, and began lobbing solid shot at Michael’s guns. They sat just out of range of Michael’s smooth-bore napoleons, enjoying that rarest of opportunities to inflict damage while remaining untouchable themselves. The rifled guns of that battery gave them an edge.

“Get ready for grape shot!” Michael yelled. The Federal infantry closed to within musket range, and a peppering of lead flowed to and fro across the open space separating the combatants. Yet, the contest was uneven. The Federal brigades soon backed away to lick their wounds, all but that troublesome battery. It continued to plow the earth with solid shot all around them, seeking to knock out their guns and men with one well-placed shot. The Federal infantry gathered themselves once again to march forward and exchange blows. In moments, more of the field was covered with blue wounded and dead.

Again and again, the contest was renewed, and the firing was hot. A rousing cheer erupted from somewhere along the line that sounded strange to Michael’s ears. It was from their own infantry, and it was of that kind of yell men give when achieving a victory or being relieved of a burden too heavy to bear. Horseman swept across the field toward the enemy infantry, which fell back after another attempt to break into the hasty redoubt.

“Cease fire, cease fire!” Michael shouted. He ran up to one of the guns and leaned upon the low breastwork thrown up.

The men of the battery raised their hats, waved their arms, and cheered as the cavalry cut into the now-fleeing enemy like demons bent upon scooping up the last remnant of the damned for Hades.

“Good ol’ Forrest! God bless the man,” Mahoney shouted.

Nathan Bedford Forrest’s cavalry squadrons rode pell-mell into the fleeing enemy, cutting down as many as they could reach before running headlong into a charge of Federal cavalry themselves. The field, once covered with enemy infantry, was now an-every-man-for-himself clash of sabers and pistol shots. Even so, that meddlesome battery, undeterred by the success of Rebel arms and horseflesh, continued to prey upon Michael’s guns.

“Damn that battery!” Michael cursed as another well-placed shot tore into the earth and shattered the hasty barricade in front of St. Paul. The shot furrowed the ground for a yard before bounding high into the air and over the surprised crews. No one was hurt but for splinters that showered all who were unlucky enough to be standing near the gun.

The Federal cavalry quickly enveloped Forrest’s troopers, who were unaware of their approach until too late. Beating a hasty retreat back across the field, the horsemen galloped for the safety of the infantry and barricades, followed closely by a jubilant enemy.

“As soon as they clear, give ‘em a face full of grape!” Michael shouted. The gunners regained their composure and readied their pieces. The Federal cavalry seemed hell-bent to ride over the abatis and engage in their own game of saber slash. As Forrest’s men dashed toward safety, the Federal horseman nipped at their heels. The battery had them in oblique as the retreat took their own cavalry far to the left of the rest of the infantry and Michael’s battery. Suddenly aware of the acute danger they had placed themselves in, the Federals reined to a halt too late.

The Confederate infantry let loose a volley at the instant Michael’s battery fired by section, and the vainglorious pursuit melted away in a circus of spinning horses and flailing humanity. The dust and smoke settled to reveal a field empty once again but for hapless animals and men cut down from both sides. The Federals retreated to a safe distance to watch and wait. Many a man breathed a sigh of relief as they realized they and their pards were still standing. Still, that battery of Federal guns played upon the line. There was nothing to be done about it. The enemy was building barricades near the rise in front of that battery. Any attempt to silence those guns would lead to another engagement, and neither side really relished another clash. All they could do was wait for darkness to descend.

“Mahoney, get the sections to the rear for some coffee and rations. Leave a few by the guns for show. The men need to rest,” Michael ordered as he felt his own exhaustion overtake his senses. A hot cup of coffee sounded heavenly. The infantry regiments were also settling down behind their protection and sorting themselves out for a rest. The remaining officers in the battery, all subalterns of lieutenant grade, gathered around a fire to absently poke sticks at the flames while waiting for the coffee to brew. Michael wearily walked up and took a seat upon a stump reserved for him by Mahoney. The Texans had little use for titles or formality, but even the seat of honor, such as it was, was surrendered to Michael in heed of his rank and command. Unable to refuse, Michael took his seat and stared into the dancing flames.

Though only a first sergeant, Mahoney’s position as head enlisted man and his closeness to Michael granted him his place at the officers’ mess. Officer’s privilege also meant not having to cook for himself. That wasn’t much of a boon today. The only food available was whatever they could find in the passing ration wagons, and that was paltry. A few of the enlisted men scurried around preparing the officers’ mess. Usually, this gave them the chance to eat something other than poorly preserved meat. This evening, though, they would have to be content with the mean fare of boiled salt pork and captured Federal hard tack. Michael ignored the muckets filled with briny water and odd-looking meat and focused, instead, on the sweet aroma of coffee boiling.

“I’ll bet you hain’t had anythin’ to eat since yesterday, Captain,” Mahoney said. He made himself comfortable on the ground next to Michael and looked up with sallow eyes above sweat-streaked cheeks. His shell jacket was grimy, lying open.

“It ain’t the food I want, First Sergeant. It’s a good swig of what’s brewin’ on that fire,” Michael said. Those around the fire all nodded in agreement.

“Don’t worry, sir. Plenty for all,” the enlisted man who was tending the muckets of boiling pork replied as he lifted the lid on the boiler holding the coffee. The water was steamy but not boiling yet.

“See that they get theirs first,” Michael said and nodded at the other officers around the fire.

“Yes, sir,” the man said and turned his attention back to slicing the few apples they had found. Another crash near the infantry line reminded them all that they were not on holiday.

“Bastards hang just out of range and shell us,” one of the lieutenants groused.

“I believe it is called having the tactical advantage,” another replied.

“It’s un-gamely, cowardly, even.” He was a stocky young fellow from Tennessee and someone with whom Michael was only barely familiar. His uniform, like everyone’s, was wrinkled and unkempt. His beard and moustache were scraggly and showed lack of attentive grooming. Michael could tell he was fond of looking the part of the dandy in a polished uniform. His collar, still wrapped with a bow tie, was stained and dirty.

“I’d do it in a heartbeat,” Michael replied. “Stand just out of reach and deliver blows with rifled cannon such that the enemy would think twice before advancing farther.”

“Still, don’t seem gentlemanly,” grumped the chastened young man.

“No, it don’t,” Michael replied.

“Didn’t think we’d be back here this soon,” Mahoney said and suppressed a yawn.

“No, not back here holding the line.”

“Any word on Captain Polk?” the young man from Tennessee asked.

“Nope, he’s prolly back in Corinth by now.”

“He was hit pretty bad in the leg. Might lose it, from the looks of it,” the young man said. He didn’t look away from the fire, where he pushed some coal pieces with a stick.

Mahoney made a grunting sound. “Shame. Good man.”

“Better a leg than a life, eh?” another officer said.

“Suppose,” Michael replied, the lone dissenter, “though I couldn’t imagine a life with a wooden leg or on crutches.”

“Better half a man in my estimation than a whole corpse,” Mahoney added. “Not sure family and friends would disagree.”

“What would a man do? Scuttle about and draw sympathy from every passerby? How would he make his way in life if he couldn’t clear the scrub and brush from the land or make his way to the markets to sell his goods?” Michael asked. “Seems he’d be less of a man without the means to be a man.”

“I seen men make they way with less,” Mahoney said. “What makes a man isn’t in his body but in his mind and heart.”

“Not on the frontier where it’s the hard work that separates a man of noble character from the town drunkard,” Michael stated. He caught a waft of coffee aroma. “That done yet, Private?”

“Lemme check it. Yes, sir, boilin’ good now,” the man replied. Using a cloth wrapped around the handle, he lifted the coffee pot off the coals to a chorus of raised cups and expectant faces.

Mahoney shook his head and continued the discussion. “But it’s the man of noble character that rises above the challenges of life and presses on. The drunkard may be whole but still a laggard while it’s the half a man who sacrificed his freedom and limbs for a cause who has his life favored by the Almighty.”

His cup filled and steaming, Michael lifted it to his nose, breathed in a deep taste of its aroma, and blew across its hot surface. The others cradled their cups as if they were valuable possessions. Just the aroma was enough to brighten the mood and lift the flagging will. Michael didn’t really want to fall into this conversation as he quickly saw that he was outgunned and out-argued by his trusty subordinate and friend. He knew when he was out on a limb. But for the presence of the other subalterns, he would have ended it sooner.

“But what a high price,” Michael answered Mahoney, “has been called upon by the Almighty this very day. How many men of noble character have been laid low and forfeited their lives for the Almighty?” Michael stated, instantly wishing he had kept his mouth shut.

“They did so willingly and knowing they were imperfect,” Mahoney said. “They did so even as One who was without fault did so before them.”

There it was again. Mahoney was not a man to be trifled with or matched for wisdom or wit. He certainly was not to be called upon to lose a theological debate. The others sat silently out of deference to their chief, unwilling to open themselves up to either Mahoney’s or Michael’s scrutiny.

“This they did,” Michael conceded. “But how is one to add up such cost of what we have failed to achieve today? Was it to be God’s own demand to throw us into conflict to lay waste to so many noble men?”

Mahoney looked hard at Michael and drew a long sip of coffee. “Don’t know, Captain. Men have given themselves to lesser pursuits and for more sordid gain in the past. We give ourselves to a cause of freedom. What more noble cause can there be?”

“None,” Michael answered, clearly troubled. “We do what our forefathers did against England. But had they lost, would not their sacrifice have been in vain and that of the Tory’s been for gain?” He looked at the others gathered around the fire, seeing who nodded and who frowned. “Would not we today have been saying God upheld the rule of England over rebellion?” The coffee was now coursing down his throat and settling warmly in his belly. His senses brightened, and the drink sitting well emboldened him.

“No one dares speak of the possibility that we ourselves would wish for the reward of the Tory instead of the patriot. God’s will is not clear in all of this.” Mahoney gestured to encompass all the land about them, the carnage and the living. “What we all know is that we volunteered to free us from the dominion of a tyranny not unlike England’s. We don’t do this knowing the end, only knowing that what beats in our breast be freedom.”

The realization that the outcome might be different than what they hoped and prayed for was an unwelcome guest in their conversation. To admit the desire that motivated hundreds of thousands of men serving in deprivation and hostility and also to acknowledge that the opposite desire might be true was, to Michael, a larger step than he was willing to take. He needed to believe that they were doing God’s will. He could hold no other belief and yet continue. This time, he kept his mouth shut.

“That the Almighty could be on the side of tyranny and not on freedom is something we dare not think about,” Mahoney continued. “But who of us knows the future from the past?”

To Michael’s relief, another voice spoke up. “It was another failure born under a bad sign from the beginning. That we almost whooped them must have been more than we could have expected.”

The question that had most been troubling Michael finally came clear. “How can we both act upon the Almighty’s will? Either we or they are in the right, or, from what I can see, despite the punishment we gave him yesterday, the enemy is successful when he should have been thrown into the river.” How absurd, he thought, to call upon God when he had little hope of expecting God’s aide. “How can anyone call upon God to give special dispensation for anything when even in the rightness of our own cause, we find and taste bitterest defeat?”

“That’s the thing, Captain. No one can ask but through faith. Perhaps in faith we are destined to lose. God certainly did not always give his own people victory.” Mahoney fingered the lip of his cup.