FRIENDS OF THE WIGWAM: A Civil War Story

by John William Huelskamp

  “And what are those plans, young man?” asked Colonel Loomis.

  “My plan is to be a colonel, like you, of a Negro infantry regiment,” Alfred said, proudly puffing out his chest.

  “A Negro regiment!” Loomis replied with a bombastic tone that broke the civility a second time. “Well, my boy, you best go buy a thousand shovels for your boys because they’ll never see the front. They’ll be digging ditches for the regular army!” Loomis smiled wryly, expecting a supportive chuckle that never happened.

  Colonel Smith reached over to confront the arrogant little colonel directly, but Putnam interceded and pounced on Loomis, grabbing him by the back of the collar. He lifted Loomis off the floor in one swift motion and then dropped him on his butt like a rag doll.

  The orchestra stopped, and the crowd watched in stunned silence.

  Putnam lifted Loomis again by his collar and hustled him across the floor, holding him so his feet were dangling an inch above the floor. The red-faced colonel looked like a puppet ballerina tiptoeing with Putnam as his marionette. Putnam carried Loomis out the ballroom and through the front parlor. The silent patrons of the ball heard a rustle and the solid creak of the old oak door followed by a resounding boom as the door slammed shut.

  Now outside, Putnam carried Loomis, arms flailing, across the street where there was a large snow mound mixed with street mud. He then tossed the cursing Loomis headfirst into the snowbank. Turning away, he returned to the front stoop of the Brewster House. He opened the door, paused, turned to face the colonel, and shouted, “You will not recruit our men from Freeport, you coward. You can go to Waukegan, or you can go to hell!”

  He slammed the big oak door shut behind him, its resonating boom echoing through the ballroom. The crowd waited in silence as Putnam reappeared. A split-second later, the ballroom erupted in cheers that echoed off the rafters. Nodding to the orchestra leader and then to those gathered around him, he took a graceful bow. Leonora Putnam approached him, and he gently took her hand, leading her to the center of the floor. Grasping her around her waist, he stood erect as the music touched off again. The couples advanced to the floor again.

  Molly was with Alfred now, her hand on his shoulder, his hand on her waist. She looked once again to the chandelier above and knew as long as she was in Alfred’s arms, she would not fall back.

  The lights seemed to burn brighter as the long dark shadows on the walls rose and fell with the night.

  Chapter 23

  Shiloh

  Forty-Fifth Illinois Infantry

  Washburne Lead Mine Regiment

  Colonel John E. Smith Commanding

  April 6, 1862

  The rustle in the ravine sounded like swarms of squirrels wrestling in the leaves. Dogwoods were in full blossom, but there were no birds or wildlife to be seen. The men of the Forty-Fifth Illinois Volunteer Infantry were positioning themselves on the southern-most slope of the ravine where a rebel advance was anticipated.

  As the Yankees peered over the lip of the ravine, they saw a beautiful field of knee-high Tennessee grasses mixed with wildflowers. The field continued in a gentle slope for another hundred yards until it topped out on another ridge, a natural defense that obscured any rebel movement. All was quiet for now.

  Many reclined peacefully on the slope of the shadowy ravine, which felt cave-like in its perceived security. Some sat on the slope, boot heels dug into the dense leaves at awkward angles, arms outstretched. A few rested on their backs with packs for pillows and muskets to their side.

  All of them had been bloodied. Led by their colonel, John E. Smith, they had fought for Brigadier General Ulysses S. Grant and had beat the rebels in the battles of Forts Henry and Donelson. But the victories had been costly. Almost half of the original volunteers who so gladly marched off to war the previous year were dead of wounds or sickness. A few, lucky to be alive, went home maimed for life.

  No longer raw recruits, the veterans silently stared across the open, silent field. As they waited for battle, many thought of home, calling up memories of loved ones far north in Illinois.

  “Attention, Forty-Fifth!” Captain Cowan shouted, breaking their reverie. The troopers jumped up in response and stood in anticipation of the next order.

  “Colonel Smith wishes that I read this pronouncement to you from Congressman Washburne!” He had a folded yellow-tarnished letter in one hand. Standing at the base of the ravine, he looked up at the soldiers, who returned his gaze in respectful silence.

  After putting on his reading spectacles, he stated in a firm, steady tone, “I take the liberty of reading this correspondence to you. It reads…”

  Sir:

  I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of the proceedings of a meeting of the officers of your regiment… every promise made by persons connected with the Regiment in regard to arms has been fully redeemed…I am proud to know that all go into the hands of brave and true soldiers, who will vindicate the honor of the National Flag and give additional luster to the glory of our own beloved State.

  To have my name connected with such a Regiment is a distinguished, though I fear, an undeserved compliment. For it, I desire to tender to the officers and soldiers, one and all, my sincere and profound acknowledgement and to assure them of the deep and heartfelt interest I shall ever take in all that concerns them. Whether amid the clash of arms, or in the beautiful walks of life, under all circumstances and at all times, they can command my best services and my most earnest efforts in their behalf.

  I have the honor, to be, very

  Truly, your friend & servant,

  E. B. Washburne 6

  Captain Cowan looked up at the soldiers as he took off his spectacles. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “You may go back to your positions.”

  As the captain turned away, the silence was broken by the startled shouts of soldiers all along the line. They saw hundreds of rabbits suddenly bounding across the field toward them. Seconds later they reached the lip of the ravine and scurried down the slope, dashing between the legs of many of the men as they did so. Scores more followed with all disappearing in the woods behind the troops.

  “For God’s sake, men! The rebels are comin’!” shouted Cowan. “Hunker down, and prepare to fire!” The regiment dropped to the ground and readied their weapons.

  “Jumpin’ jiminy!” shouted a private near Cowan. “Those rabbits can sure run fast. And those followin’ ain’t too slow either!”

  Seeing approaching movement in the distant tree line, one sharp-eyed soldier shouted, “Those aren’t rebs in the field! Those are our boys comin’ at a fast pace. And they don’t have their muskets! They are runnin’ as if they’ve seen the devil himself!”

  “Get your heads up, boys!” cried another. “Before these boys run right through us!”

  Within seconds five blue-clad soldiers rushed through their lines, panting like dogs in the summer heat. They were followed by a hundred more panic-stricken soldiers. They didn’t stop until they reached the bottom of the ravine, where they huddled like sheep.

  Suddenly the panicked troops heard a shout from within the nearby tree line, “Who is in command here?” It was quickly followed by another authoritative voice that shouted, “What regiment are you with, soldier?”

  Then two Union officers on horseback emerged from the woods. Colonel John E. Smith was on his magnificent war-horse, Black Hawk, the pony rescued by Will and Aaron during the Freeport fire, now fully grown at seventeen hands high, his coal-black coat shining. The other rider was General McClernand, commanding officer of the First Division of the Union army of Tennessee.

  “I will say only once more, what regiment are you with?” McClernand shouted angrily.

  “We are with the Fifty-Third Ohio, sir!” responded a soldier nearest to the general.

  “And who is in command here?” he shouted back.

  “He is over there, General, behind that tree!” replied a private who was shaking noticeably.

  McClernand and S
mith turned their horses and looked in the direction the private was pointing. In the shadows forty paces away, a colonel was emerging from behind a large tree.

  “Colonel, step forward!” McClernand demanded.

  The colonel shook visibly as he stepped forward, finally stopping several paces from McClernand and Smith.

  “Where is your sword, Colonel?” McClernand said.

  The colonel looked at the ground and then looked up at McClernand, “Sir, I do not know. I suspect it is in the hands of the rebels now.”

  “Stand tall, sir! Stand at attention! What is your regiment, and what is your name?” McClernand replied forcefully.

  “I am Colonel Jesse Appler of the Fifty-Third Ohio. I am with Sherman’s Fifth Division,” the colonel replied nervously. “We have been routed by the rebels and need your support, sir!”

  “We do not support cowards, Colonel!” McClernand barked back, causing Appler to take two steps backward. “You take your men down the ravine to the right of the Lead Mine Regiment. I want you to order your men to lie down and cover themselves with leaves and branches. Maybe that way you can come out of this scrape with your lives. Go back to your tree, Colonel, and lead your men from there!”

  The disgraced colonel of the Fifty-Third looked stunned.

  Then a private of the Fifty-Third Ohio broke the silence. “General, we are soldiers, not rabbits, and we won’t hide in no rabbit holler! Give us a chance, sir. Let us help the Forty-Fifth and get our gander back. Please, sir.”

  General McClernand looked at Colonel John E. Smith. Black Hawk snorted. Smith nodded to McClernand and then looked down from his mount to those of the Fifty-Third around him and announced in a calm, steady voice, “Soldiers of the Fifty-Third Ohio, we are all men in blue. If you stay…you fight! You may join our lines now!”

  As he gave his orders, Colonel John E. Smith looked like an icon in the saddle. His dark-navy-blue uniform contrasted smartly with Black Hawk’s stunning coat, and his commanding presence set the men at ease now.

  Within moments the soldiers of the Fifty-Third Ohio climbed up the slope of the ravine. The disgraced Colonel Appler watched as his men worked their way into the ranks of the Lead Mine Regiment. He looked back at McClernand and Smith and then quickly vanished into the woods.

  “Let him go to the rear,” McClernand stated matter-of-factly. “He will find his discharge there soon enough.”

  Smith nodded and rode off to give orders to his augmented command. When he reached the center of the line, he reined Black Hawk to a halt. Black Hawk, sensing the tension among the men, briefly pranced before coming to a stop. Smith looked up the slope at his captain.

  “Captain Cowan! Can you see the rebels?” he asked.

  “Sir, they are not on that ridge yet,” Cowan replied, pointing at the field. “If they are there, they are keeping low on the other side of the ridge. It will take the rebs one hundred paces to get to us through that field.”

  A number of soldiers, especially the younger ones, looked at their colonel with anticipation. During the pause, the line kept deathly quiet in hopes of hearing something of the enemy—the clank of a sword, the snap of a bayonet, or the tramping of feet on the Tennessee soil.

  Suddenly they saw flashes of sunlight glimmering off the barrels of a hundred muskets. The gray rebel line surged up over the ridge. As with all great storms, there was a pause, anticipation, and then a momentary crack that broke the silence. A cannon retort rifled across the gray sky and ricocheted through the trees above and behind the blue line. A second round exploded directly above the line, sending limbs and crushing blows to the men below. Alarming cries from the ravine alerted the rebels on the ridge that Yankees were in the woods and awaiting a clash in their front.

  “Captain Cowan!” Colonel Smith commanded, “you will remain with the men under the protection of this ridge. I will advance with Black Hawk onto the field and draw their fire when they are at sixty paces from our line. When I wave my hat, you will emerge from the woods and return fire with a massed volley. We will then push them back to Dixie!” Colonel Smith nodded at Cowan and smiled.

  “Yes, sir, it will be done,” Cowan replied confidently.

  The colonel reined in Black Hawk who felt the zip of a sniper’s shot near his pointed ears. The steed flinched again as Smith rode to the end of the line. Looking up the slope from the bottom of the ravine, Colonel Smith nodded to his youthful comrades giving them the assurance they needed as they waited for the battle to begin. When he reached the end of the formation, he guided Black Hawk to the left until he was front and center of the troops at the bottom of the ravine.

  Spurring Black Hawk gently into a walk, he spoke with a rising tone to the restless troops as he moved down the line. “Boys, we are ready now for another big fight. The rebels are on that ridge, and they know we are here. We will hold our line and push them back. This day will be our day as it was at Fort Henry and Donelson. Keep your cool. Remember your wives and your sweethearts.” The colonel’s voice then rose to a grand pitch. “Boys! We are fighting today for your families, for Congressman Washburne, for Grant, for Lincoln, and for the glory of the Forty-Fifth Illinois and the Fifty-Third Ohio! When Captain Cowan gives the command, we will take the field and get ’em on the run…and send them home to Dixie!”

  As he screamed “Dixie,” he pulled off his kepi with his right hand, circling the hat in the air as he kept Black Hawk tightly reined in with his left. Black Hawk tipped his head as if bowing in thanks.

  The Lead Mine Regiment and the Fifty-Third Ohio boys let out a resounding roar of “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!” that echoed across the field.

  The Confederates remained silent.

  Black Hawk and Smith faced the steep incline of the ravine. Placing his hat back on his crown, he bent forward, placing his charcoal-and-white beard near Black Hawk’s neck. He then spurred his prized war-horse up the slope, high-stepping between the band of soldiers. The veins on Black Hawk’s neck popped out like those on a prizefighter’s biceps. To the soldiers at the top of the ravine, Black Hawk at seventeen hands high appeared like the massive Trojan horse of legend as he ascended up the slope. The way was now clear. Black Hawk and Colonel Smith punched through the woods into the open field.

  The Confederates on the far ridge watched with curiousity as the lone Yankee horse and rider appeared before them.

  Immediately, Black Hawk began prancing to and fro as if daring the rebels to shoot him. Within seconds, like angry buzzing bees, Colonel Smith heard the sound of bullets flying by. He continued a constant zigzag movement as the rebel line rose up from the hill and began their advance.

  The Confederates formed in two parade-like lines at the crest, the columns stretching nearly seventy yards. Seeing the formation and knowing the impending consequences, Captain Cowan rose from his knees and commanded, “Fix bayonets!”

  Immediately, a clanking of metal on metal was heard up and down the line. He then shouted, “You will emerge from this position on my command only. We will fire a volley and then attack on the double-quick with bayonets! Let no man falter in his duty! Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir!” the soldiers replied.

  Black Hawk continued to prance at a rapid pace back and forth and to and fro in front of the tree line. Smith remained calm as sniper bullets continued to zip by. Then Black Hawk reared on his hind legs, whinnying in pain.

  Smith looked down at his left trouser leg. It was spattered with blood. He looked at Black Hawk’s flank and saw blood oozing from a wound. Black Hawk reared up again in pain as Smith pulled on the reins to keep control. Black Hawk’s hooves pounded violently into the razor grass.

  “Woah, boy. Woah,” said Smith soothingly, as he placed his soft beard against Black Hawk’s ear. “You’ll be OK, boy.”

  Sniper rounds continued to zip around them.

  Smith noticed the wound was not spouting. The minié ball had struck his prized war-horse in the shoulder but had not penetrated an artery. Smith knew t
hat Black Hawk, though injured, could stand firm in the conquest at hand. The flow, however, continued to soak Smith’s trousers, staining the light-blue piping.

  The Confederates were getting closer. In another minute the command would be given to charge the Union lines. The boys in butternut and gray moved confidently forward, halting sixty paces from the tree line where the Union troops were. They capped the firing cones on their muskets; pulled the hammers back to full cock; and rested their weapons on their shoulders, pointing the long arms at the woods.

  Colonel Smith then spurred Black Hawk to a run parallel between the Yankee and Confederate lines. Blood streamed down Black Hawk’s flank in pulsing waves of red. The movement of horse and rider caused a moment of confusion in the Confederate ranks, and they hesitated, awaiting the command to fire.

  Finally the rebel colonel raised his sword high, stepped to the front of his command, and shouted, “Fire!” A volley was released in all its explosive fury. The lead balls shattered the deep-green foliage above the Union troops who hugged the sloping ground. Leaves dropped on them like swirling snow in a greenish winter flurry.

  The moment had arrived. Colonel Smith pulled off his hat and waved it furiously so Captain Cowan could give the command.

  Within seconds the entire Yankee line leaped up and emerged from the woods like a mighty blue tidal wave. Stunned by the magnitude of over six hundred men appearing before them like a vision, the rebel line stood mesmerized, and they hesitated again. Captain Cowan shouted, “Fire!” A blinding blast followed from the Yankee volley that hit the stunned Confederates. Clouds of smoke belched forth like incendiary hell. Half of the Confederate line dropped to the field dead or wounded.

  The remaining rebels nervously grabbed at their cartridge boxes in a frantic effort to reload their muskets.

  Black Hawk raced back and forth again, galloping like a demon in the wind, nostrils flared, his mane and tail flowing like black waves as Smith spurred him to the center. Smith reined his mount to face the rebel line and spurred Black Hawk to join in the attack. The black war-horse reared dramatically, forelegs batting at the air like a boxer’s arms, and then rushed headlong toward the rebel line. Smith whirled his sword over his head, beckoning the blue ranks to follow. The Yankees followed in quickstep, screaming “huzzah!” as they charged headlong with Black Hawk into the rebel lines.