They Met at Shiloh (34 page)

“Here’s ol’ Parker,” Johnny called out. At his feet lay a still form, face down. The group gathered round the body. His name had gone unanswered at roll call, but the first of their number to be found dead, where hope was to the contrary, came as a shock.

Philip remembered the old man, old even by most of their company whose ages ranged from twenty-five to fifty-five. Though the older men did not stand the rigors of army life well, Parker had stood with the youngest of them without complaint. Worse still, Philip knew Parker’s brothers, wife and children. The man’s brothers were in other Ohio regiments, and his own son was possibly somewhere on this field. Father Parker, they called him. Though he was quiet and unassuming, his presence in camp was always a welcomed sight.

“Sarah’s going to be heartbroken,” Sammy said, speaking of Parker’s wife.

“Someone’s already robbed him of his shoes!” Mule exclaimed in disgust. The body was stripped of cartridge box and belt. “Detestable thieves!”

“C’mon, let’s gather him up over there by that tree,” Philip directed. “Cover ‘im with his sack coat.” With as much care as they could, they carried the bodies of Parker and the others to a shady spot and laid them to rest side by side, six in all from the regiment. Some they recognized only by sight, and others, such as Parker, they knew from their own company. Moving on, the group found a few recognizable faces that had made it to a low spot in the field and were under the care of several divisional surgeons. They gave the wounded water and some food before leaving to see if anyone had made it farther to the rear.

“We’d look forever back that way. Let’s go back to that hill where we caught up with the regiment earlier,” Johnny said as the group started to range far apart. The bodies of both days’ fighting were numerous. One poor man, his jaw and front teeth missing, was especially desperate for something, though no one could understand his gesticulations.

“I think we came along this way,” Philip said as he pointed toward a heavy copse of woods. Here the dead were numerous and of no particular army. Some were leaning against trees with their coats and shirts ripped open to expose stomach and chest wounds. They lay still with heads hung low as if in deep sleep. Many were stiffened and starting to distend from mortification, making them appear to be fatter in the midsection. Hands reached up in claw-like grasps, and mouths puckered. Philip became increasingly disturbed at the number of bodies and the obvious pain in which they had died.

Ahead was a clearing and the most disturbing sight, equal to the ninth level of Hell. An open space in the trees, roughly twenty yards in length and ten in width, revealed a low-lying pond. The gently sloping ground around the water writhed with wounded from both armies lying side by side on muddy banks relieving their thirst. Many were still, but an equal number of sufferers had life in them. Stepping around the pond was impossible without kicking some poor soul.

“God have mercy,” Philip whispered. Hospitals and aid stations on a battlefield were sights of suffering, but the sufferers knew help was on the way. This pitiful mass of bodies was a collection of all the desperately wounded on this side of the battlefield who had one desire in mind: water. They lay on top of each other, and those who did not have the strength or life left to draw their heads out of the water were pushed into the soft banks by those coming after. In their fight to relieve their thirst, man desecrated man to lap a few mouthfuls of bloody water.

“Have you ever seen the likes?” muttered Sammy.

The pond was tinged muddy red, and a few corpses were visible floating on the surface.

They gazed in silent disgust and horror. Mule asked, “You think any of our pards made it this far?”

“Don’t know,” Johnny said quietly, “and I don’t think I can look.”

“Don’t we got to try?” Mule insisted.

“We din’t come here to help all them,” Johnny retorted. “We go down there, and they’re all gonna want our help.”

Philip couldn’t look away from the sight, but he shook his head, rejecting Johnny’s argument. “But what if some of the company made it back this far? We formed up not far from here, so we have to look.” He stepped out from the trees into the small clearing. There were a few live men who’d had their fill of putrid water and cleared the way for others. The living huddled in groups and looked at the whole beings walking among them with feverish eyes. Philip stepped by the forms carefully, looking at each face. A few men with only superficial wounds crouched by supine forms, offering what care they could.

“Yank, got any water?” a man in Confederate uniform asked Philip.

“No, sorry, Reb. Emptied it awhile back for some of our wounded. I might have some hardtack left.” He opened his haversack.

“Be obliged. My pard here is in a bad way,” the man said and smiled weakly. At his side was another young Confederate soldier with a bad shoulder wound. The bones of the man’s shattered arm were visible, and the man had done what he could to bandage it.

“You don’t look wounded,” Philip stated.

“Came back lookin’ fer him,” the man said and motioned to the wounded man.

“That’s what we’re doing.”

“I suppose I’ll be a prisoner since you’uns is walking about freely.”

“Suppose so, but not by us.” Philip handed the man two crackers. “Here’s what I got left.”

“Thanks.” The man put the hardtack in his coat pocket. The man at his feet was still but breathing in shallow drafts.

Johnny looked from around Philip’s side, his face tight. “He ain’t gonna make it, huh?”

“Don’t know,” the man said. “I came lookin’ fer him and finally found him here. He’s been feverish but don’t seem to be in much pain no more.”

“Smoke?” Sammy asked as he and Mule joined the group.

“Been out fer days,” the man said.

“Mule, give ‘em some of that tobacco you carryin’,” Sammy ordered. Mule hesitated. “Just do it, ok?”

“Uh, ok.” Mule fumbled around in his haversack and pulled out his tobacco.

“He’s gonna lose that arm, fer sure,” Johnny stated.

“If that’s all, he’ll be lucky,” Sammy said. “What’s yer name, Reb?”

“Murdoch, Stephen Murdoch, and this is Willie Hawkins from Mississippi.”

“Ohio, Samuel Henderson, and this is Theo Mueller, John Henson, and Reverend Philip Pearson.” Sammy looked at Philip and blushed. “Sorry. Philip Pearson.”

“Reverend?” Stephen perked up.

“Used to be,” Philip said, glaring at Sammy. “Just a soldier now.”

“Would you do the last rites fer my pard here?” Stephen asked. “He’s a Catholic and I don’t know the Mass.”

“I only know the Methodist extreme unction, not really the last rites.”

“C’mon, Philip,” Sammy urged. “Man of the cloth or not, you’re the closest thing to the Almighty His’self we got at the moment.”

“We don’t give last rites. Mule here’d be more qualified to give last rites than I,” Philip protested. “I can pray fer him, but it’s up to God and his soul to work out the rest. Nothin’ I can say or do’s going to change his eternal reward.”

“Well, I s’pose anything would give him comfort,” Stephen said. He looked straight into Philip’s eyes.

“All right, faith or no, every man deserves a good prayer.” Philip knelt next to the wounded man and removed his forage cap. As if directed, the others removed their headgear and bowed. Mule crossed himself. “Father God, we seek Thee with humbled hearts and distress at the end of this battle. Many a man has lain here on this field and met his eternal reward, and we ask that if this man’s soul be prepared that You welcome it, and him, into Your rest. If his soul be not prepared, Father, allow him breath to confess his trespasses to You with earnest repentance. Receive this brother in arms into Your grace and all who bore the battle this day and have passed from this life. We beseech Thee, O Lord, in the name of the Christ. Amen.”

“Thank you, Yank,” Stephen said while looking into the peaceful expression of his sleeping pard.

Philip stood, feeling awkward. This was the first time in over two years he had practiced anything remotely spiritual. Silently, Philip returned the forage cap to his head and walked away from the group, stepping his way around the banks of the pond.

“Take care of yourself, Reb,” Sammy said and followed Philip’s footsteps. One by one, the group left the two Confederates.

The bodies surrounding the pond ceased to be individual humans and looked, instead, like so much fallen timber. So numerous were they that Philip found himself unable to feel anything for each individual face he encountered. Those who were able to move about tried to care for those whose strength had left them. All were in a terrible state of filthiness from the muddy banks and blood. Stepping over each form took concentration, lest a wrong step plant the foot square upon the hapless wounded. The dead gave neither complaint nor moan, only an unsettling feeling of having disturbed their eternal slumber. The wounded pleaded with feverish eyes. Philip quickened his pace to escape the labyrinth, and his last careless steps sent two men into spasms of pain and cursing. Making the tree line and away from the clearing, Philip caught his balance against a tree trunk, hugging it as if he needed it to maintain his balance. Breathing heavily, he closed his eyes tightly to remove the visions of suffering.

“You’re not well,” Johnny said matter-of-factly.

“I’m fine,” Philip puffed. “Just needed to get out of there.”

“In all my days, I never want to see something akin to it again,” Johnny said when the others caught up. The pond of suffering lay behind them with its bloody banks and its writhing forms.

“We goin’ ahead?” Mule asked, his face paled by the effort and the scene.

“Yeah, we got to get to that hill we attacked earlier,” Sammy said.

“I’ll be fine. I just need to catch my breath,” Philip said and exhaled slowly. “Let’s find a different way back.”

“Never heard the priests give such a prayer,” Mule said, his eyes full of wonder.

“That’s ‘cause you papists don’t pray at all,” smirked Johnny. “You too busy talkin’ to Christ’s mother.”

“Don’t start with that, Johnny,” Mule glowered. “I don’t see you on yer knees much prayin’ ta anyone.”

“I left that far behind before,” Philip said. “Don’t any of you get any ideas about me performing your last rites, neither.”

The trees were dense and used in typical southern farming fashion of allowing stock to run wild in the woods. The group stumbled upon a pack of pigs feasting upon the remains of a soldier. Squealing and grunting in anger at the interruption, they disappeared into the thickets, leaving their supper behind.

“Oh Lord, that is abominable,” Johnny froze, his mouth agape and his hands listless against his thighs.

The body was opened in the chest cavity, and the swine had been feasting upon the entrails that were scattered about the corpse. The poor soul was missing his fingers and toes. The body had been stripped of socks and shoes by human scavengers. He was a Union man, and his Kersey blue trousers were open at the crotch. As if the pond hadn’t been enough of a sight, to behold this beastly feast was enough to cure any man of the desire to find glory at the end of a bayonet. The group gave the scene a wide berth and hurried to leave the forest. Emerging from the trees, they stood to the right of their previous attack upon the hill. The ground was cut and furrowed by shot and littered with dead and wounded men. Several men were carting off the stricken as best as they could, to the discomfort of their charges.

Silently, they made their way to the crest of the hill amid the corpses of the enemy infantry and horses, walking down the gentle rise to the firing line marked by wads of paper cartridges and bodies. A few faces caught their attention, but they were of men only seen in the other regiments of their brigade. Finding their own firing line mostly void of casualties, they made their way straight down the hill, following the path of their own advance a few hours earlier. A few forms littered the direct path. They found a few men matching the names missing from the roll. They had been struck down as they marched and were forgotten by those marching next to them.

There was a melancholy wafting about the former field of flame and death. Examining the bodies of once life-filled comrades was vexing, for they had neither means nor tools to bury them. Each was left where he was discovered and noted. Far to the rear by the tree-line, more wounded gathered. Having found a few of their missing, the group presumed they would find more with the wounded. The gathering was larger than it had looked from a distance, for as the group drew closer, the whole field for a distance of several hundred yards was covered with the prostrated from both sides.

Philip was disturbed by not having found the one corpse he most sought. When he came across the bodies of men who had enriched his life, both in and out of uniform, he offered a short prayer. The condition of their souls had been decided long before he found their lifeless forms. The most he could do was hope their souls were written in the annals of God’s kingdom.

They were greeted with something akin to the pond, only less disturbing. But the suffering was no less disagreeable. One by one, the group found a man from their regiment or company and stayed to comfort them until Philip was the only one still wandering from form to form. The search was strangely less emotional now, as if the brief exposure to so many wounded men was enough to harden his heart to the pleas from those obviously near death. The entire area stank of blood and excrement, and the flies buzzed over opened wounds like carrion beasts waiting for the desperate struggle for life to cease. Philip was helpless to improve their fate, and he was little inclined to try. He wondered what good came from his former life of ministry that he should be here right now, with nothing remotely godly to encourage a man. It was of little use to him, so why should it be of use to anyone else?

A Confederate lay near his feet, holding in his bowels, with protruding intestines crudely bandaged up with dirty rags. He suffered more from the sunlight burning his eyes than he did from the ghastly wound in his stomach. Try as he might, he could not avoid the bright rays of the sun nor spare a hand to block the light lest his bandage fall apart. Philip watched the man turn his head from side to side, squinting until his eyes were but slits. Something struck Philip’s heel, and he swung around quickly.