“Well, yes, I did, but you see…”
“Mr. Murdoch, is this the example you would give to your progeny, that to not humbly admit to one’s own shortfalls merely refutes the same message you have most eloquently but ineffectually offered up this same evening?”
“Yes, I see and concede once again that I have no answer worthy of offering to your last statement and cannot refute it without bringing upon myself more condemnation than I already am deserving of in my words of the last few moments.”
“Come now, Mr. Murdoch, for it is not condemnation that I seek, only acknowledgement that the truth of Scripture is unassailable on this point of grace. I take neither praise nor accolades upon myself on this point, although I gladly accept your concession, as it means some small vindication of my own words. But only as they compare to the truth of the Holy Word.”
Stephen looked from Mr. Hastings to his father and back again, studying their features and trying to divine what was going on behind each countenance. It was one of the few times he saw his father admit to a defeat in debate at his own table. A week later, following retribution and tightened discipline, he hoped to never see it again.
*****
Stephen’s thoughts returned to the present, and he noted the similarity to the corpse in front of him to that of Mr. Hastings. He longed for the comforts of that innocent time with his family. He was now a man facing alone the consequences of his decisions. The death and dismemberment around him was one such consequence of the decision to go to war. Amid the continued joking, William stood in silence, unable to find a distraction from the carnage he saw.
“Forward, march!” came the command, and the regiment stepped off. Stephen tried to step over the corpse but kicked its hand heavily. The unwelcome thud against his brogan caused more shivers racing along his spine. The trail the Federals took was littered with weapons and accouterments and more dead. It was a relief to him to be moving again despite the dangers that lurked just over the barely visible, forested horizon.
*****
Stephen couldn’t help but contrast this day’s experiences, and the tension he and every member of his battalion still felt, with the innocent pleasure of just the day before.
The morning before, William had waked him with the toe of his boot. Feeling tight and sore, Stephen reluctantly rolled over and felt the wetness of the dew.
“Up, Stephen. We’re standing to,” William called to him.
“Unh, did you sleep at all?”
“No, we threw out a skirmish line, and I got tagged along with half the company. We went into the wood line and stayed awake the rest of the time,” William rubbed his bloodshot eyes. He was bigger than Stephen and slightly older. Stephen had known him in Carthage, and the two had been fond friends as long as either could remember. “Why didn’t you wake me?” Stephen said and sat up.
“They had plenty of us who were still awake. ‘Sides, it weren’t nothin’ but a different place to lie awake.”
“Any sign of the enemy?”
“Naw, though I did hear the lieutenant sayin’ something about how they’s supposed to be a council of war last night ‘tween the big bugs. Somethin’ ‘bout whether we should all go back to Corinth, seein’ as we was supposed to attack the Feds this mornin’. I suppose they chose to stay, seein’ as we still here.”
Stephen looked toward the road they had marched down the day before. It was still filled with the wagons, cannon, and infantry of Braxton Bragg’s corps.
“I suppose we’re still waitin’ on Bragg to come up?” Stephen asked.
“He’s been comin’ up all night long,” William replied.
“With all the racket they made last night, it’s a wonder the Feds ain’t attacked us by now.”
“Yeah, we’ll stay or go back as long as we do somethin’ here soon. I’m mighty tired of this waitin’,” William said.
Sergeant Thompson strode up to William and asked them, “You two birds got water?”
“No.”
“C’mon. Collect canteens from your squad and go down the pike back to that stream near that farm called Michie’s and hurry back,” Sergeant Thompson ordered.
Loaded down with ten canteens each, they made their way out of the camp.
“I’ll bet this pike has been filled ever since we marched off of it yesterday,” Stephen said.
“My word, you ever see so many men afore?” William wondered.
“No, and this line goes all the way down the pike as far as I can see,” Stephen said as they walked along the edge of the road.
There was a well-worn trail through the grass to the stream bed, blazed by countless other soldiers seeking water. The trail dipped suddenly, and the sounds of the stream competed with the sounds of the marching on the road. A long line of half-wet men met them coming back up from the banks. They had had to wade out into the deep portion to avoid the muddied water caused by too much traffic. Arriving at the water’s edge, Stephen could see hundreds of men moving about the banks and in the water.
“Think it’s cold?” Stephen asked William.
“Cold or not, you want to drink muddy water?”
All in all, it had been a good day.
*****
They were making slow progress through the woods, and he was already panting heavily with exertion. The welcome sight of a lightening in the horizon invigorated their steps. The skirmishers of the 15th Arkansas came to life. The pop, pop, pop of their weapons firing sounded through the trees. The line of regiments came into a long field. The enemy, posted dead center, stood defiantly. Wood’s and Cleburne’s brigades extended down the length of the field. Stephen could see their desperation.
The Rebel yell swept down the battle line as the regiments stepped out of the trees. The solitary Union battle line did not extend much down the length of the field, and only fifty yards separated the two forces. It was an unequal contest, but the Federals stood their ground defiantly. Then, as the 6th Mississippi swept forward, the Federals executed an about face and rapidly quit the field, melting into the tree line. With a yell, the brigades marched forward convinced, now more than ever, of their invincibility.
Soon the signs of a hasty departure marked the location of the vacated Federal picket line. The enemy camps were close. Another tree line and thicket greeted them. Keeping alignment in the confined space was difficult. Ahead, another opening presented itself, and Stephen’s heart leapt.
Their exit from the forest was as welcome as a long draught of water after a long march. He could see another thin line of trees in their front, plus a wide, swampy, lowland patch from which drifted a small stream. The swamp was causing the rest of the divisional battalions to move obliquely farther to the left. Tell-tale puffs of smoke from the thin line of trees appeared at irregular intervals but played upon them without effect. Their own skirmish line entered the swamp, struggling to find good footing. The swamp wasn’t so deep that the skirmishers couldn’t walk forward without sinking. However, the prospect of being caught unable to maneuver or move quickly caused Stephen anxiety. The tree line concealed what was behind it, though the presence of the enemy skirmish line at least revealed that they were close.
From far off to the left, Stephen could hear a low rumbling. Like the sound of a heavy barrel rolling toward them on a wooden floor, the noise grew in intensity until it was clear that the battle had been joined. They stepped off toward the swamp and ignored the cold water up to their shins. The rumbling of battle coursed to their right, and unseen combatants faced off on other parts of the field. Surrounded now by the cacophony of battle, Stephen was swept up in the emotion of attack, thoughts of what might happen forgotten. The exhilaration of being part of a grand host, the largest assembled in the west to date, and the feeling that certain victory was assured propelled Stephen and his comrades through the soggy ground. He forgot his earlier trepidation of the surprise encounter at the farm house, longing to finally close with the enemy and display a feat of honor that only a Mississippian
could possess.
Rising, rising, rising was the terrible sound of death and destruction all about them. Their own skirmishers steadily pushed through the muck and reached the tree line, disappearing into it. In front of Stephen, sitting in the water and nursing a shoulder wound, sat a skirmisher. His face was creased with pain and weariness, his clothes were soaked with brackish water, and his rifle was resting upon his good shoulder. A lone Federal forage cap lay a few feet from him, its crown lying upside down, its owner nowhere to be seen. Further on in the wood line, half submerged in the backwater, lay a Federal skirmisher with only his waist and legs visible. Stephen drew nearer and saw that the man’s arms and head were under water. A pool of red spread upon the surface of the water. Stephen had to step lightly so as not to kick the man as he marched past.
Stephen leaned forward to catch William’s attention. “We’re doin’ it! We’re whoopin’ ‘em!”
The skirmishers made a ragged chorus of hoots and hollers when they finally entered the tree line and found drier ground and surer footing. Ahead, he caught short glimpses of the enemy skirmishers ascending a long steep hill. At its crest stood an enemy camp. The sight of the enemy’s tent line brought another chorus of yips and yells from the whole of the brigade. The moment of truth was near.
After what seemed an intolerable pause and reshuffling of the brigade regiments in line of attack, the moment arrived.
“Forward, march!”
At the command came the emanation meant to strike fear into any Federals for miles, the queer, high-pitched yipping that was the trademark battle cry of the Confederate fighting man. The trees resounded with the yell. The three regiments tapped for the attack stepped off proudly. They cleared the trees that had hitherto shielded not only them but the enemy, as well. Stepping into the open, they beheld a sight that might have dampened the spirits of lesser individuals. Arrayed before them on the top of the steep hill was a long unbroken line of blue.
Shouting and yelling, Stephen girded himself once more for what he hoped would be another short succession of volleys followed by their triumphant entrance into the enemy’s camp. With their color guard stolidly marching ten paces in front and leading them ever upward, all sense of danger and foreboding was drowned out in the rush of movement.
The long blue line erupted in a cloud of rushing smoke. The crack of the report engulfed their yelling and caused Stephen’s heart to skip. The zinging of lead filled the air and stung the ground, sending chips of sod flying into the air and bodies crumbling earthward.
For an almost imperceptible instant, the Rebel yell was hushed, replaced by the gasps and groans of the inflicted. As if the air had been sucked from their lungs, they ceased their cry. Men gasped at the suddenness of the enemy’s destructive fire. The vacuum was soon filled by the guttural and manly huzzah from the Federal line atop the hill. Without order, the movement forward halted. Stephen scarcely perceived that he and his pards were no longer moving at all. He, himself, was riveted by the sight of the man lying at his feet. Known to him only as Ox, the man was hardly to be recognized without the top of his head.
“Forward, forward!” rang the voice of Colonel Thornton from astride his horse at the rear of the regimental line. “Forward, march!”
Reinvigorated, the regiment and cry resumed with a greater intensity. The cry steadied Stephen’s mind, and the fear that had spiked in the instant when Ox fell was forgotten. The hill was steeper than it had appeared from its base. The effort to keep up the pace told upon his legs. They were close enough now to see individual faces in the enemy formation, faces that didn’t look much different from their own, faces with names and histories and families and hopes for survival. In these faces, too, were fear and that particular look of men in a desperate situation.
“At the double quick, march!”
They gave one last shout and jogged forward. Stephen brought his weapon to the position of port arms and braced himself for the clash.
The long line of blue vanished once again in a cloud of sulfur and smoke. In that instant, the words of his father echoed in Stephen’s mind.
“I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him.”
CHAPTER 6
Polk’s Battery
Corinth - Pittsburg Road, 7 AM April 6, 1862
A breathless rider flagged Michael down while he and the battery moved toward the sounds of fighting.
“Captain Grierson?”
“Yes?” Michael said as he pulled Charger to a stop.
“Sir, Captain Polk sends his compliments! He wishes to direct you to place your battery east of the Shiloh Road on that hill there,” the courier shouted above the din, “where that Yankee camp is.”
Giving a hurried salute, the young lieutenant wheeled his steed and raced off toward the fighting.
“Sergeant, head to that hillock to the right of the Shiloh Road and go into battery,” Michael shouted to one of his section sergeants. Charger danced nervously to and fro, forcing Michael to keep turning him in the direction the battery was heading. The divisions belonging to Corps Commander Leonidas Polk, the fighting Episcopal bishop, were arrayed in line of battle and advancing upon the string of enemy camps rumored to be that of William T. Sherman’s division. Motioning to Sergeant Gibson to follow, Michael spurred Charger forward in the direction the courier had taken.
The battery raced by with urgency and a rumble that made him swell with pride. An artillery battery at full gallop is a frightening sight to behold. The seeming ease of the movement, combining alacrity and grace, belied the danger of such recklessness. They followed the sounds of battle unengaged all morning until finally being called upon to practice their deadly art. At the base of their camps to the right, the enemy established an unbroken line of resistance, repulsing the first attempts to push them out. Two Federal batteries played havoc upon the infantry as solid and case shot landed amid General Polk’s advancing lines. Three of their own batteries were trying to support the advance but were taking the worst of the punishment. Wrecked caissons and gun carriages pointed in haphazard directions. A small creek running east separated the two forces, the enemy gathering on the high ground in their front.
Michael watched First Sergeant Mahoney direct the placement of each of his three guns. Even as the first gun swung into position, solid shot rained down about the battery. Leaden balls screeched to earth, many rebounding dangerously into the air. Michael turned in the direction the shot came from. In the distance, far behind the enemy line upon a hill, stood a Federal battery that he missed in his quick survey of the field. This put his battery in a direct line with that of the enemy, but on a lower elevation, making return fire more difficult.
“Tarnation,” Michael muttered and spurred Charger forward. His guns, now in battery and gunners taking positions, had yet to fire when a case shot came hissing and bounding up the hill. Striking sixty feet in front of the battery, it bounded into the rear caisson and horse pickets. Michael watched in horror as the shot came down. It missed a caisson by a few feet but caught one of the men in the back, breaking him in half and slicing into the hind quarters of a horse. The explosion a few seconds later lifted another three horses into the air, causing the rest to stampede.
“Mother Mary!” Michael shouted as he drew up to the rear of the battery and quickly dismounted. He handed Charger’s reins to a private. “Private, see to the horses with every available man!”
Tarnation, he thought again. Even if I wanted to leave now, I couldn’t until those horses are secured. Despite the fire they were taking, the men stood to their posts.
“Mahoney! Direct fire on those sons of Hades there! We have to support the attack and ignore the counter battery fire we’re taking!”
General Cheatham’s brigades moved forward once again toward the enemy’s line; the long lines of butternut and brown uniforms snaked toward their target. Mahoney directed each gun’s target and gave the order to fire. Guns one
and two, St. Peter and St. Paul, spoke in succession, the concussion of their report causing a shockwave to raise a cloud of dust from the ground and Michael’s clothes to vibrate. Down the Shiloh Road, another artillery unit roared up the hill and prepared to go into battery next to them. The gun crews stood to their duty and fired case shot into the Federal defense line, one from St. Paul cutting obliquely felled a whole company of infantry before disappearing into the camp and knocking down several Sibley tents.
Michael’s job was done. He was forced to watch his men take to their work. The battery coming up next to them swung into position but not before a solid shot dismounted a carriage. An entire crew was killed while rolling the piece into position. Body parts and splintered wood lay strewn around the piece. The men of that battery took little notice. Their four remaining guns went into position and started firing.
There was a rhythm to the crews’ work. The six-man crews stood around their pieces and performed a role that kept the gun in play. With each pull of the lanyard, the guns rocked violently backward and were quickly rolled back into position. The barrels needed cooling and were swabbed before powder could be re-introduced, lest a remaining spark ignite and take the gun out. Targets were determined and fuses on case shot timed. Then powder was added, followed by the round rammed down the barrel. Finally, the lanyard with its percussive fuse was placed into the touch hole, and the gun was again ready to fire. The ammo bearers ran back and forth from the line of caissons to the gun after each report. If even one of these men should become incapacitated, the smooth working of the crew would slow and its efficiency would decline.
So far, the crews were full, and the work was heated. Polk’s regiments began to falter in the face of the Federal defense. The additional batteries did not make much of a difference to the infantry struggling to find a weak spot. The regiments in front of their battery regrouped and moved forward once more. They bled a constant stream of dead and wounded behind them.
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 8
