They Met at Shiloh (33 page)

“But their defeats came from sin,” the young man from Tennessee spoke up. “We have no direct command from Heaven to do this or that or observe some special commandment. I won’t believe that we are not on the side of righteousness.”

“I won’t pretend to know,” Mahoney said. “I only know what I can understand and follow. He also raised up the nation of Israel to be a beacon to the world of his grace. That lasted only a short while, but He was in no less control over her, even in subjugation.”

“Well, I’m not sure I’ll put much into all of that. We win or lose based upon the fortunes of this war and the things that no one can control. We had the opportunity to keep the field and throw Grant’s army into the Tennessee, but we were more disorganized in victory than the enemy was in defeat,” Michael surmised.

“Who’s to say the things that did happen were not supposed to happen?” Mahoney countered. “General Johnston dying was something that caused that confusion. I can’t discount anything. Just because I can figure it all out doesn’t mean that the hand of the Divine was not present.”

“I suppose I won’t ever have that understanding,” Michael admitted. “It’s all stuff that happens out of our control.” He took a deep breath and looked at Mahoney, almost pleading to be convinced that God was in charge. “Perhaps more of that happened to us this time and not the enemy. We seem to barely have gotten away with our army more or less intact. For that I suppose we were lucky.”

“I won’t go about attributing every victory to God and every loss to sin or some disobedience,” Mahoney said. His shoulders slumped a little as the discussion turned back to more tangible affairs. “We did not win this day, and the enemy got his reinforcements. We’ll retreat back to Corinth and hunker down there for a time.”

Michael thought about Mahoney’s last statement. How easy it is to think one is safe when one is winning and all is right with the world and God. But once troubles happen and plans go awry, was it God’s lack of support or active opposition? It made little sense to think that way, for Michael was sure he could never know, that no man could ever know, where he was in that mystical connection with God. Good today but wrong tomorrow; the harness breaks, and the field cannot be plowed; the rope breaks on the well because one didn’t pray long enough that morning. There had to be more to it than just that.

The man sitting next to Mahoney said, “Maybe General Beauregard’s not a prayin’ man like Johnston was. He fergot to put in a good word this morning.”

The group fell silent for a time, and the meal of fresh apples and boiled salt pork was ready. It smelled good to Michael. Anything would have smelled good to him after not having eaten anything hot for several days. The private doing the cooking had drained the pork from the water and fried it, with the apple slices and chunks of sodden hard tack making the pork edible.

Michael ate absently. With the thoughts in his head, he didn’t notice the food he ate. Was the fate of thousands of men merely a product of chance and of little account? His side was not victorious, and the honored dead were not vindicated by clash of arms. Dead or maimed were left unburied and unattended upon the fields and thickets. That God would ordain one side to win and another to lose was not the question. That God would ordain one cause to be defeated and another to be victorious was the issue. How could freedom lose to tyranny?

Michael finished his plate and took his tin cup, now only half filled with cooling liquid, and stood up. The blood ran back into his legs, and he was unsteady for a moment. The lethargy of inactivity after a long spell of being on his feet made them feel strange. After taking one last swig of coffee, he walked back to the gun line. A few of the men were ducked down behind the barricades, chatting and eating as if they were back at camp and unconcerned about their proximity to an enemy. For their part, the enemy was unseen, other than his own hastily constructed abatis across the field. The skirmishers were silent and comfortable in rifle pits hurriedly dug into the ground. If one did not notice that battery upon the hill, one could nearly believe this to be a peaceful part of the line.

A report from those guns sent a shot hurling and arching over Michael’s head. He could feel the rush of wind and ducked, and he heard a crash and alarmed cry. He looked in the direction the shot had taken. A cloud of dust hung over the officers’ mess, and the fire was out. A few men were running to the scene, but Michael could see a jumble of arms, legs, and torsos where there used to be living men. In moments, the air was filled with shouts and calls for aid. Even knowing there was nothing he could do to help those men, Michael rushed forward.

24th Ohio line of battle

Shiloh Church line April 7th, 1862

A
fter taking the hill, Philip’s brigade found itself marching to the right where the battle was not going so well. Hardly allowed time to gain breath, the whole division marched toward the sounds of battle like insects drawn to light. The enemy stubbornly contested every inch of ground gained, though their flank was in the air with the collapse of Cheatham’s line. Around the church, the ground was thick with wounded and dead. The maimed were finding comfort in each others’ presence, regardless of affiliation. Hours later, the fighting on this part of the field was also silenced. The brigade had pushed the Rebels from their defensive line in front of their field hospital and through it. Now, they rested in line with arms stacked.

Where their line once stood, the enemy dead were especially numerous. The rows upon rows of silent fallen caused Philip to shiver. They were in every attitude of disquiet one could imagine, faces upturned in terror, bodies distended from the previous day or freshly ripped open by shell and minié ball in the aftermath of the recent fighting.

Philip and his pards lounged on the ground, the anxiety of the day melting away into exhaustion and unease. So many dead were about that he could not look in any direction without seeing a corpse. Where a battery had been, the rear of that line was littered with horses that had been cut from the traces, dying while still haltered to the caissons. The stench was beginning to tell in the heat. Some of the men were souvenir hunting among the dead, and others were combing the field of suffering around the church, giving aid.

“Them boys put up a fight, didn’t they?” Johnny asked.

“When you think rations’ll get up to us?” Mule asked and rubbed his sweat-stained undershirt. His sack coat was open, save for the last button at the collar, exposing his homespun flowered shirt. It was soaked, and his belly showed though the wet fabric.

“Plenty of haversacks out there,” Sammy said and motioned toward the field.

“Yeah, but they’s Johnny rations, and, well, them’s dead men’s possessions,” Mule protested.

“They won’t be needin’ them vittles where they’s going.”

“Well, I can’t go about doin’ that.”

Sammy made a snort. “What difference does it make ta the dead?”

“It not the dead I’m worried about,” Mule protested. “It’s the robbing that I’m against. They may be dead, but it’s still they’s food.”

Johnny slapped Mule on the back and grinned. “Well, we all know how to protect our ration now.”

“Not funny,” Mule said, his face screwed into a grimace. “Looting is a sin, and looting the dead is worse!”

“So, the papist has a conscience,” Johnny said.

“Enough to know right from wrong, heathen!”

“Let’s ask our pard here,” Johnny said with a smirk. “Let our former man of the cloth his’self answer to who’s a heathen or not.”

Philip shook his head wearily and answered, “You two can leave me out of it.”

Relaxed for the first time since their hurried wake-up and departure from Savannah yesterday morning, Philip wasn’t about to interrupt this peace and quiet by feeding Johnny’s fire. That fire didn’t need much to stoke it, and Mule always played into Johnny’s hands. Johnny never passed an opportunity to needle their Catholic pard. For the most part, Mule put up with it, though Philip could tell Mule wished to be left alone with his faith, as did Philip. Though he felt no qualms about rummaging a haversack when hungry, he opted to let the hunger settle. What separated lifting some food from lifting other unneeded valuables that the poor souls couldn’t take into the next life? A ring taken here, a gold filling there, a pocket watch or other valuables—they were the same as the food a corpse no longer needed. Rationalize one act, Philip thought, and soon they would be no different from the skulkers. Thievery was thievery, no matter what the object.

The afternoon was still hot and sultry, making their bodies feel wilted. There was little to separate this moment from the thousands of moments Philip had experienced in the war thus far. He had experienced endless days of fatigue duty or sitting around a mess fire, talking politics and army life. That this particular moment resulted from a battle’s aftermath rather than other more routine experiences made no difference to him. It was enough just to enjoy the moment they had. Philip and his pards had found a patch of ground to call their own for the brief time they would be allowed to rest, and that patch of ground was cool and lush despite the heat. The silence, however temporary it might be, was divine.

Roll was called after the enemy retreat, and the vacancies in the company were noted for the casualty report soon to be tabulated at the various headquarters. Those numbers would create emotionless columns of killed, wounded, and missing, and those answering roll for each regiment of the brigade, numbers that could not communicate the human suffering and loss. One name stood out: Harper. The fifth sergeant did not answer to his name, and, for a moment, Philip’s heart leapt. Johnny looked over at Philip and winked. It bothered him now, that moment of elation. Had he heard of the death of Jefferson Davis or some other personage in the enemy ranks, would he have been any more justified in feeling glad? No one saw Harper fall, and no one could confirm his death or wounding. He might yet be living. That his tormenter should be taken away from him was more than Philip dared hope.

The company was decimated after the last push past the church yard and to the spot where they lay. As the roll continued, name after name went unanswered. Many were lying wounded in the field hospital around the churchyard, joined with the enemy in suffering under the cross of Christ atop the steeple. Some died where they had stood. His pards were still here, but many familiar names were unanswered. Philip felt but the smallest pang of remorse at the winnowing of his former flock at the hand of the gods of battle.

Disease had claimed many before a shot was fired. The empty bedroll and a missing spot in the formation was a familiar condition. The funeral for the first victims of disease had been a somber affair that sobered all of them to the realities of service, but after the fifteenth funeral procession, the sadness was spent.

West Virginia showed Philip the reality of the war. The engagements they had fought and the prostrate forms of men he once knew as loyal parishioners left Philip with little reason to rejoice. Even so, the slopes covered with human and animal wreckage made those who survived a fraternity of veterans, men hardened by service and privation and the shared experience of combat. All boasting ceased on that day at Pine Mountain, West Virginia. No longer did they feel pressure to display prowess in courage and manliness. Meeting the enemy wasn’t along a picket post or skirmish line but in a toe-to-toe delivery of fire into the face and body. Fear took on new meaning, braggarts discovered their own frailty, and those most afraid found expression to their fears. Still, all stood as there was nothing else to do but stand and load. It was up close and personal engagement with the sights and sounds of battle. It was the cannonade and rifle shot, wounded and dead, cowardly skulking, and heroic death. It was here where Philip renewed his longing for the pulpit.

Another battle fought and another battle survived for his little flock. Was it enough to just survive? Was the fire delivered in calculated steps for the sake of seeing the enemy cut down? The pulpit was a battle no less intense, but his true enemies were falsehoods and demons, not their unwitting servants. What purpose did this latest skirmish serve, if it could be called that? It was just another clash in a string of battles since Charleston fired upon Ft. Sumter. The ardor of patriotism faded with the first rainy night spent huddled over a fire to keep warm. The enthusiasm washed away with the first winter night spent on the picket line keeping watch for an enemy advance. The first long roll of the drums calling a man to stand with his fellows and advance upon an enemy line cured him of his eagerness for battle forever.

Anticipation of a peace and final defeat replaced motivations now long absent and forgotten. Israel, Philip mused, did not conquer the land given them in a day, and the union army under Grant and Buell had not yet won the war. Philip recalled with sadness the faces he only saw within his memory.

Philip took hold of Sammy’s arm and said, “We should go find our pards.”

“Huh?” Sammy replied.

“Our pards, find those who fell and see to their deportment.”

“Yeah,” agreed Johnny. “We should go find our wounded and see that they made it to the aid stations.”

“Not just them. The dead, too.” Philip’s voice didn’t betray what he was really thinking. Harper needed to be found, the man to whom the most harm could be forgiven if wished. Philip needed to know the truth about his state.

Mule eyed the dead bodies nearby with their full haversacks. “Yes, we need to bury our pards.”

“Let’s go retrace our steps,” Philip said, rising to his feet, “and see that they are taken care of by our own.” The peacefulness of the moment seemed incongruous with the human carnage not more than a few feet away. The birds returned to their songs, and a breeze blew over sweaty brows.

The group secured a pass, gathered their gear, and walked through crowds of soldiers relaxing upon the ground. They approached the church but found it impassable with every square inch of ground covered by some prostrate form. The bodies were Confederate and in pitiable condition. To avoid the pleas for water and aid, they gave the grounds a wide berth. Some of their number could be there, but the task of finding someone in that throng was more than any of the group cared to undertake. Finally, they reached the last line of battle. A few forlorn forms lay where they had fallen, and still more were in rear of where they had fought, having collapsed before finding succor.