Putnam walked over to his beloved war-horse and stroked his mane. Black Hawk lifted his head abruptly. The reins around his black coat clinked as his pointy ears perked up anticipating the fight to come.
“You didn’t like missing out on that action at Vicksburg, did you?” Putnam said, as he ran his hand across the Shiloh scar. Black Hawk snorted and then nodded his head, straining at the reins, as if he understood. “We have to help those boys on the top of the hill.” He then placed his boot in the stirrup, rose up on the saddle, and settled. Turning to his regiment, Putnam spurred on Black Hawk and closed the distance with a steady gait.
The boys saw them coming at full gallop. The white house at the base of the ridge was put to the torch by retreating rebels. Red and yellow flames licked upward and jumped quickly to the upper floors, creating a strange panoramic background. Billowing clouds of black and white smoke rose from the fiery frenzy to the clear blue sky. To the boys it looked like Putnam and Black Hawk were riding straight from hell.
“Looks like Old Put’s got some orders.”
“Happy birthday, Aaron,” Will replied nervously.
Aaron could see he was truly afraid of what was to come. “Thanks, Will. We will get through this together. Let’s stay close.”
Will nodded.
Soon Black Hawk thundered up in front of the boys. “Boys!” shouted Putnam. “There are Pennsylvanians up there that need our help. We will advance at the quick step with the rest of the brigade. Let’s give those rebels the cold steel!”
Captain Taggart stood up and commanded, “Front Forward! To the quick step! Charge!” His commands were shouted by the other captains in the line as the regiment surged forth.
Aaron wondered, How could this be happening on my birthday? Gotta keep moving! Stay close to Will!
Will and Aaron with the entire Ironsides Brigade moved up the hill at almost a sprint. Cannons boomed from the heights in defiance. Let’s stop at the burning white house. Let’s not go up! We’re gonna get killed here! Where’s Will? I don’t see him anymore! Five soldiers from Freeport in one instance dropped dead from an explosion, causing Aaron to stop, stunned in his tracks. They were gone forever. None of them even screamed. Their mangled bodies dropped onto the timber. Gotta keep movin’! Gotta keep movin’! Where’s Will? Where did he go? The deadly lead rained down on the men as they jumped over fallen timber, inching their way to the top. Oh, my God! General Matthies is hit! His head is covered with blood! I hope he’s not dead! The boys kept climbing, making their way to the Pennsylvanians and wrapping their ranks around them.
Aaron looked up. They were only twenty paces from the enemy. He dropped to the ground with the others on the slope. Panting heavily at the point of exhaustion, he looked at Private Trimble from Princeton who he had talked to many times in camp. Suddenly, a large rock thrown from the rebel ramparts crashed into Trimble’s face. His scream was lost in the cacophony of desperate cries, musket fire and clanking metal.
Where’s Will? Where’s Will? Is he wounded? Is he dead? Where is he? Aaron picked up his musket, slipped it down so he could easily place in powder and ball, rammed home the ball, placed a cap on the cone, pulled back the hammer one click, and placed the sight bead on a rebel that was loading the cannon above him. The rebel’s head would appear at every movement. First he saw head and ramrod, and then he saw head and powder, and he knew next the can of canister would come. He saw the rebel’s head and pulled the trigger. It missed.
Suddenly Will appeared and jumped behind the protective log next to Aaron.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Firing through smoke. Don’t know if I’m hittin’ any rebs!” Will rubbed his brow with his sleeve. The hot contest for Tunnel Hill was reaching a crescendo as the deafening roar of musketry continued.
Suddenly, the reflection of steel clanked and shimmered across the ridge.
“They’re gonna charge us, Will!” screamed Aaron in horror.
Down they came, crashing into the Union ranks, yelling like devils. Aaron picked up a large rock and knocked out a rebel who tried to bayonet him. Will grabbed his musket and clubbed an officer who tried to take out Aaron with his sword. The officer dropped the sword as he fell. Still conscious, the rebel was grabbed by a stout soldier in blue and taken quickly to the rear.
The clang of metal continued along the lines. What am I doing here, Lord? Why am I here? Aaron picked up his musket and crashed the butt into a face that suddenly popped up in front of him. The rebel fell back, hitting his head on a stump. Where’s Will? Where’s Will? Aaron turned and saw Will clubbing another soldier. Everything seemed to be in slow motion. Arms and legs flailed. Blue and gray torsos fell in the timber together, lifeless. After what seemed to be an eternity, the desperate hand-to-hand struggle began to fade. There was a pause, then the rebels receded back to the top of the hill.
Aaron wiped his blackened face with his right sleeve then took in several deep breaths. We did it! We did it! We repulsed their charge!
Will soon arrived at his side with a face covered in soot and blood too.
“Do you think they’re retreating?” Aaron asked, as he gasped for breath.
“They will keep their stand,” Will panted.
Suddenly, a cannonball with a lit fuse bounced down the hillside into the ranks about thirty feet away from Will and Aaron. Everyone within sight of it braced themselves. A husky Fifth Iowa private picked up the twelve-pound ball to throw it out of harms way behind a man-made abatis of rock and timber. To no avail. In a split second, a blinding flash shook the ranks. When the smoke cleared away, what was left of the brave Iowan was grotesquely inter-twined with comrades closest to him … mangled, motionless, silent.
“We gotta do something,’” Will interjected in a solemn voice. “We gotta get over that hill!”
Another explosion just to their left caused the earth to shudder again. Aaron grabbed his ears and buried his face deeper into the cool, damp leaves on the hillside. He closed his eyes and thought, Will and I can just stay here behind these logs for a while. We’ve killed enough rebels for today. Besides it’s my birthday. I shouldn’t have to fight.
Boom! Boom! Two more cannonballs did their deadly work. I’m goin’ back. Will, you and I are goin’ back now. We’ve fought enough rebs today!
Aaron lifted his head and turned to Will. He wanted to let Will know what he was thinking. But Will was gone. He must have retreated already. He must be down there talking to Colonel Putnam about reforming back where we were in that nice little forest.
Aaron hugged the ground again, rolled over on his back, and looked down the hill.
Hundreds of boys in blue were behind him now. Looks like two brigades maybe.
But where did Will go? Did he retreat? He kept looking down the hillside and saw soldiers dropping by the minute.
And then he had his answer.
He saw Lance Sergeant Spellman with the national colors raised high. Behind him was Will, and further down the slope was Colonel Putnam on Black Hawk, traveling across the slope in a zigzag fashion through cut timber and fallen soldiers.
The Confederate guns stopped for a moment as the rebels stared at the strange storming party that was approaching with the flag held high. After a pause, a spattering of lead hit the trees again, breaking the silence.
Spellman waved the colors and dodged to and fro as if dancing with the flag. The brass eagle flag tip caught the afternoon sun light that penetrated the green canopy. The wings of the eagle seemed to glow brighter as Spellman approached where Aaron was. He jumped over the log that protected Aaron and continued on. Will dove next to Aaron. They grabbed their muskets and were ready to charge at the command.
Napoleon smoothbore cannons continued to spray canister from the crest of the hill, as more deadly missiles rolled downhill, exploding in the blue ranks. Spellman weaved to within twenty paces of the rebel works, waving the banner furiously so all could see the nearness of his position through the clouds of sm
oke around them.
Aaron twisted his head low and looked back down the slope to see the gathering reinforcements merging for the push up the hill. He hugged the dirt firmly and then pushed up, face forward, to see how Spellman was doing. Flag pieces separated from the staff and fluttered to the ground like leaves. Then the wooden staff splintered from a direct hit from a minié ball and dipped it down sideways. The weight of another barrage of musket fire finally knocked it to the ground. Spellman, stunned and with terror in his eyes, grabbed his shattered elbow and fell backward, stumbling over the timber.
There was a pause on the Union side. No one fired their muskets.
Will then stood up and jumped over the massive log in front of him.
Aaron was speechless. Don’t grab the flag, Will! Please, Will, don’t grab that flag! You’ll get killed! You’ll get killed! Please don’t do it!
Will, in a flash, grabbed the standard and raised the brass eagle tip back up again. Only half the flag remained now, but its folds could still be seen by the regiment through the smoke. He held the banner high and looked back at the others behind him. “Come on, boys! Come on!” he shouted, advancing a few paces up the slope.
To Aaron the scene was unreal, in slow motion again. There was even a strange silence about it. Will shouted again, but Aaron could not hear him this time. Will, get down! Will, get down!
The colors dipped again, this time shattering the eagle tip on the trunk of a fallen tree as Will buckled over. He looked back at Aaron with a hopeless stare. He clutched his breast and fell forward on the slope. The minié balls continued to spatter the trees like a hailstorm around the stalled bluecoats.
Aaron screamed but could not hear himself with the deafening cannon and rally of musket fire. He jumped over the log in front of him and crawled to Will’s side, maneuvering so he could be closer to him. The missiles seemed to fly more furiously now. Will was dead. His eyes were open and fixed in death. Aaron did not have time to weep for he thought the rebels were about to charge again. Why did you have to do it, Will? You can take me, God. You can take me! I don’t care anymore! Why did you let him die? He almost stood up at the moment but caught himself. He decided he had best get Will’s body back home somehow to Allie. Why did you do it, old friend? Why? He took his hand and brushed his palm over Will’s eyes to close them. Then he hugged Will’s lifeless form as the cheers seemed to echo louder on the Union side. Aaron looked down the slope. The cheers were indeed louder.
Through the cloudy smoke, he could see Colonel Putnam and Black Hawk maneuvering with ease up the slope. As they continued coming in closer view of the rebel batteries, about twenty paces, the firing stopped again. The Confederates were in a sense frozen by the sight. They marveled at how a horse and rider could make it through the mass of timber and men to the crest of Tunnel Hill.
Black Hawk snorted. Putnam held his reins tightly, ready to advance with the kick of a spur. Looking to the rebel batteries at the top of the slope, Putnam held his determined gaze. When he reached the spot where Will had fallen, he looked at Aaron with an expression that Aaron had never seen before.
“Aaron, is Will dead?” Putnam asked.
“Yes, Colonel,” Aaron replied as tears welled up in his eyes.
Putnam gazed at the fallen Will and then back at Aaron. He thought about his daughter, Jenny. He thought about Leonora, his wife.
The Confederates kept their pause.
“Give me the flag!” Putnam shouted. Black Hawk held firm. He did not dance.
Adjutant Hicks, who was nearest to the standard, though wounded above his brow, lifted the flag from the ground with a bloody hand.
Black Hawk, in response to the intense tone of his master’s voice, began to prance as the tattered stars and stripes rubbed against his dark mane. Putnam looked down at Aaron and nodded in silence. He pulled out his sword with his right hand and shouted in a clear voice, “Never forsake the colors!”
Hearing his cry to advance, the Confederate musketry answered again in its deafening fury spattering trees and rocks around the determined 93rd Illinois ranks.
“Come on, boys!” he shouted. The line began to advance up the hill again like a wave cresting on the beach. In a flash of fire, the flagstaff fluttered once more. Red and white pieces dropped to the ground. Undaunted by the sting of the barrage, Putnam continued to shout his commands.
Within seconds, the colors dropped. Putnam wavered in the saddle and slipped. Falling backward, he hit the ground hard with a bullet wound gaping from his temple. No one moved behind him. Everyone was stunned. The Confederate fire ceased for a moment and then began again. Those around Putnam did not know what to do. The flag remained on the ground. Nobody advanced to pick it up.
Aaron quickly crawled to the colonel’s side, pressing his gaping wound with his right hand, but there was no flow of blood. Soon Captain Taggart with the solidiers from Freeport boys hovered around the stricken colonel in stunned silence.
“Captain, he breathes. Can we do nothing for him?” implored Major Hicks as he held a bloody kerchief on his own head wound.
Aaron looked on in silence. He thought of Jenny now and could barely stand the thought of all of it.
“Let’s carry him down the slope, boys. We will take him back home to Freeport,” Taggart replied solemnly. “Old Put will fight no more.”
Aaron grabbed one of the four corners of a thick wool blanket that served as a battlefield stretcher for the good colonel. He looked up at the crest of the hill where the rebels were still stubbornly defending their ground. The sound of war rose up again. This is no time to cry. I don’t have anymore tears anyway. He looked at the place on the slope where Will had fallen. I’ll come for him tonight after the fight is over!
Aaron and his party descended slowly down the slope with Putnam’s body. Captain Taggart held Black Hawk’s reigns. The great war-horse from Shiloh and Vicksburg was not prancing anymore. He continued downhill behind his fallen master as if in a silent, respectful reverance. When the Freeport contingent reached the base of the slope, the piercing rebel yell rose up again as it had on every charge. Everyone looked to the crest. A third wave of gray soldiers rolled over the blue ranks, this time decimating them for good.
The Battle for Tunnel Hill was over.
Chapter 55
Vicksburg
Camp of the Ninety-Fifth Illinois
January, 1864
“Mail Call! Allen!”
“Here!”
“Bacon!”
“Over Here!”
“Bell!”
“Yo!”
“Briggs”
“Here!”
“Cashier!”
“Here!”
Allie stepped forward and grabbed the letter. It was from Freeport. Her messmates who were not as lucky this day hovered around her, anxiously waiting to hear news of interest from their neighboring town.
“Looks like a letter from your sweetheart, Jenny Putnam, again!” said the closest soldier to her.
“Whoa! Best not read us too much of the details,” said another.
Allie pored over the letter as best she could. Gramma Lucy had taught her to read and write, but she still had problems. For this reason, Jenny would write to her in the simplest ways and always with short sentences. The message was very clear today.
“Oh, my God,” Allie screeched in a high-pitched voice. “My sweetheart has been killed!” She sunk to her knees around the campfire, almost dropping the letter in the fire. Tears clouded her vision, and she read the letter again in hopes that she had made an error.
“Is Jenny Putnam dead? Your sweetheart?” asked another who was close by.
Allie looked up and wiped her tears with her sleeve. She tried to compose herself. She worried that she was not acting manly enough and that she would be exposed.
She quickly corrected herself. “No! My sweetheart’s father, Colonel Putnam, and a dear friend from Freeport, Will Erwin, were killed at Missionary Ridge! They both were carryin�
�� the colors!” Allie suddenly sat down on a log and was silent. She placed the letter gently on her lap and stared into the fire. Her face was ghostly white. The messmates grew somber. No one spoke.
It was late afternoon now, and the sun was close to setting. She thought about Will, and the tension built up within her like a raging forest fire. Unable to cry, she continued to morosely stare into the smoldering embers.
Suddenly, she rose up and took off at a dead run through camp. The white tents around her stood in perfect rows, and she ran unobstructed for a hundred yards. Captain Bush was at the end of the row by the colonel’s tent and saw her coming. He stopped in front of her.
“Private Cashier! Where are you going?” he demanded.
Allie dodged him and headed for the colonel’s horse, which was tied to a sapling nearby.
“Cashier! Come back here!”
Allie made it to the horse, pulled the reins off the tree branch, placed her left foot in the stirrup, and rose up. She looked back. At least fifty soldiers had crowded around Captain Bush to see what the alarm was all about.
“Private Cashier! Dismount and stand at attention! What the hell is going on?” Bush screamed in an even more commanding tone.
Allie turned the mount around and replied in a quick curt voice, “My best friend was killed, cap’n! They couldn’ send him home, so they buried him in a mass grave! He and Old Put got killed carryin’ the colors at Missionary Ridge. While the Ninety-Fifth was sittin’ around here, my friends in the Ninety-Third got killed!”
“Cashier, get down from that horse, now!”
Allie placed the letter between the buttons of her sack coat, pulled down her kepi, and turned the horse away. She looked back at the captain. “I’ll bring him back!” she said. “I promise!” She then reined the horse’s neck, straightened him, and darted out of camp in a full gallop.
FRIENDS OF THE WIGWAM: A Civil War Story Page 31
