The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3

by Phillip Bryant

  Michael ran over to St. Peter’s crew sergeant. “Fire on that line in front with solid shot!” Moving from gun to gun he repeated the order. Working the guns quickly, the crews sent shell after shell into the Federals. Michael watched as their shots created havoc in the enemy line. His heart leapt as he watched the Federal line begin to disintegrate, as a trickle at first, then as a steady stream. Then, as if on cue, the enemy regiments retreated for the rear.

  The once-solid line of blue stretching across the open valley melted. The enemy moved in a mob, skittering through the camps and away from the advance of General Polk’s victorious legions. The sight brought forth a cheering and jeering from Polk’s infantry as they advanced through the abandoned tents and reaped a crop of wounded and prisoners. Terrified Federals surrendered as fast as they could be caught.

  “Stand down! Stand down!” Michael shouted. He motioned Sergeant Mahoney over to him and shouted in his ear, “Limber up and get ready to move forward.”

  Despite the breaking of the enemy’s lines, the racket of battle did not abate nor did the fire from the enemy batteries. While St. Peter was being swung around and the caisson brought up, a solid shot landed near the gun. It rebounded into the crew’s swabber. The boy’s leg was torn off at the knee. Those standing near were splattered with blood and dirt. The crew stepped over him to finish the work of securing the gun to the caisson.

  Michael studied the boy with pity, knowing he would bleed to death before anything could be done. What was worse than leaving him there, though, was being down half a team of draft horses to pull the guns, which left nothing free to take the wounded to the rear.

  “Lieutenant,” Michael called out, “take the section off this infernal hill and onto the pike. Go through the camp there and unlimber on the elevation to the left of that command tent.” With a quick salute in return, the bookish man trotted off.

  Michael ran over to where Charger was, still held by the private. “Private, find Captain Polk and tell him I have moved my section down the Shiloh Road in support of B. R. Johnson’s brigade.”

  Michael mounted and followed the battery as it descended the hillock to the road below. The sides of the road were rapidly filling with a stream of wounded and prisoners. The prisoners looked beaten and shocked. They slogged by him with downcast faces and vacant eyes. Many were nursing flowing wounds. Though a few of the enemy were lively enough to chatter with one another, overall they did not seem fearsome to Michael. Only minutes before, both captor and captured had cursed and poured fire into one another. Now, the scene was different, and camaraderie existed where none had been before.

  Michael had heard stories of illicit consorting between enemy picket lines where tobacco, newspapers, coffee, and anything of scarce value was to be had. He wondered if he was seeing this first hand as the battery made its way past the throng. Picket duty was performed by the infantry brigades, and his artillerymen had no such experience.

  The approach to the former lines and area of the hardest fighting was littered with corpses and discarded equipment. Far from being peaceful looking, the fields surrounding the enemy’s encampments were literally crawling. Hundreds from both sides were moving along the ground or staggering about as if having imbibed too much drink. Faces blackened with powder and bodies reddened with blood moved to and fro, looking for comfort and water. Comrades, some wounded themselves, moved about with these crawling wretches, giving what aid they could. There were so many lying on the ground that Michael wondered who was still standing and fighting. Friend and foe lay intermixed where the waves of attack had washed into the walls of defense, and, in places, the bodies were stacked several layers thick. He remembered his own men left on the hill, the dead and the wounded; each of these had once been a man who had been known and loved.

  First Sergeant Mahoney’s horse sidled up to Charger, and the two men rode in silence for a moment. “Brisk work,” Mahoney said.

  “Indeed,” Michael muttered.

  “We’re pushin’ ‘em. I heard that we are moving forward all along the line, ‘cept to the right. Cleburne is stuck in front of some swamp.”

  “Shouldn’t matter as we push forward. The enemy’ll have to fall back,” Michael replied.

  “You hungry? Seems to be plenty of vittles in these camps. How ‘bout I send someone to gather some hot food? Probably be last chance fer anythin’ hot,” Mahoney said when they rode into an encampment. Fires still smoldered in company streets, and coffee still steamed. Food, fresh and in various states of preparation, lay scattered about. Stragglers from Polk’s corps rifled the tents for plunder.

  The passage of time struck Michael as oddly motionless. How much time had elapsed since they first limbered up in the darkness of early morning? Save for the passage of the sun in the sky, Michael had little to tell him how much time had passed. Still feeling the energy of excitement, Michael had to think a moment to realize he was famished and that the morning was turning hot.

  Michael shifted in his saddle to look at Mahoney. “Better send Chapman and Scott, but tell ‘em to be quick about it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mahoney said. “The battery’s unlimberin’ over there in that clearing. A few Fed batteries is playing upon the right of Clark’s division, but we got a good enfilade fire on their flank. Them trees in front will mask us from any Fed batteries in front of Polk’s advance.”

  “Good. Get them going as soon as they are able.”

  Mahoney pointed toward a horse and rider advancing in their direction. “Uh oh, looks like a messenger comin’ our way.”

  Michael and Mahoney reined to a stop, and the messenger brought his steed to a quick halt.

  “Sir, General Cheatham’s compliments. He wishes you to position your battery so as to support his advance, and you are to detach from B. R. Johnson’s brigade to support Stephens’s brigade. Follow me. I will direct you to the position chosen by the general.” At that the rider spurred his horse and made his way through the encampment.

  “Forget the food, Mahoney. Get the battery limbered up and ride in that direction.”

  Michael spurred Charger to catch up with the courier. Everywhere was a sea of white and green from the Federal camps sprawled between overlapping tree lines like rough, foam-capped water. All about him was movement, and he had to rein in several times to avoid groups of prisoners and troops moving across his path. Catching up with the courier, he stopped and surveyed the surrounding ground.

  “See there, Captain?” the messenger asked. “General Cheatham wishes for you to engage those enemy batteries on that high ground to the south of the Hamburg-Purdy Road. His direction is to take those positions to the south of that little hill in the center of their lines and continue marching up the Shiloh Road. You will move with his advance.” His instructions delivered, the courier quickly turned and galloped off to the rear.

  Michael pulled his glasses out of their pouch and focused on the enemy artillery. Two batteries of what he could make out as six-pound Napoleons, formed in line of battle off of the Corinth Road, were shelling Cheatham’s brigades. The enemy infantry, positioned upon a slight rise several hundred feet in their front, formed a continuous line that ran down the rise and across both the Hamburg-Purdy and Corinth Roads. Taking cover in the tree line just below the hill upon which he stood, the infantry of B. R. Johnson’s and Stephen’s brigades were showered with explosive charges that burst in the tree tops. Only two hundred yards of open ground separated them from the enemy guns.

  A low rumbling and creaking sound rolled up the hill from teams pounding up the slope and swinging the cannon into play. Mahoney’s horse came trotting up beside Michael and reined to a halt.

  Michael shouted to him, “Silence those guns up there on that hill to the left of the Purdy Road.”

  Mahoney scrambled toward the three remaining guns to pass the orders on to each crew. Working feverishly, the men brought the weapons into ready positions. Michael dismounted and moved to the center of his gun line and studied the
enemy through his glasses again.

  “Five second fuse, ten degree elevation, Sergeant!” Michael shouted to the gun sergeant of St. Paul. “Fire for range!”

  The guns spoke, and Michael waited for the shells to detonate. The gun crews would make adjustments as each shell landed before locking the elevation and firing for all they could humanly manage. Geysers of earth erupted behind and in front of the enemy position.

  “Sir, if General Stephens don’t move soon, we’re gonna be eatin’ lead from those guns up there,” Mahoney shouted to Michael.

  Below, still in the tree line, the Confederate infantry mingled and showed little evidence of moving forward. As Michael watched, four guns of one of the enemy batteries changed position to front him.

  “Quickly, work that range. It’s gonna get hot quick,” Michael shouted.

  As if to punctuate his command, a shell came screeching overhead and hit the earth at the bottom the hill before exploding. More shells came singing over in quick succession, all landing behind them.

  Three quick reports and shells began exploding around the enemy guns. Michael’s guns began to speak as rapidly as the crews could work. The incoming rounds began landing closer; the enemy was finding its range. The hill shook with the concussion of the reports and the landing of shot. Above the din, Col. Stephen’s troops shouted with enthusiasm while marching out of the woods and onto the plain. Michael saw three of the enemy guns change front once again to fire on Stephen’s men. His own guns kept up the fire, and he watched a trio of shells dismount a carriage and silence one of the guns firing on the Confederate infantry. A ragged and short lived cheer arose from St. Peter’s crew before an enemy case shot plowed a furrow into the earth twenty feet from the gun, erupting in a shower of dirt clods. Shielding his eyes, Michael recovered his hand to see Mahoney raging up and down the gun line, hatless and covered in dirt. Suppressing a smile, Michael dusted himself off and motioned to one of his lieutenants.

  “Take the extra caisson to the rear and find the supply trains. Get as much case shot as you can! Take the crew from St. James with you,” Michael shouted in the man’s ear.

  A thunderous volley added to the near constant booming of cannon, signifying that the infantry had engaged. The lines were engulfed in smoke. The crackle of rifles grew as the firing rolled down the opposing lines. Michael felt a tap on his shoulder.

  “Grierson! I’ve brought the other section up on Cheatham’s orders,” shouted Captain Marshall Polk. Four more guns with their crews rolled up the hill and unlimbered alongside their comrades. “Hope your Texans are up to the task, or shall we show ‘em how Tennesseans parley with the enemy?” shouted Polk with a grin.

  “With my compliments, sir, Texas is ready to join Tennessee in sending them a-runnin’,” Michael said and bowed with mock deference. “We’ve been playin’ on those Fed guns up there.” Michael gestured toward the cannon with a sweep of his hand. “We could use more help. They’re sweeping the lines and ignoring us. We did unseat one gun.”

  “All right, we’ll get four guns on the enemy batteries, and the rest will fire on the enemy infantry,” Captain Polk ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” Michael said.

  He turned and ran over to Mahoney. Once Mahoney heard Polk’s orders, he ran from crew chief to crew chief to get each in compliance. Michael regretted his commander’s arrival and the sudden loss of initiative and freedom. Polk, in the West Point graduating class of 1859, ranked and had seniority over Michael. Although Polk never lorded his rank over others, Michael still resented having his command of the battery superseded. He stood behind the guns of his section while the crews worked and occasionally shifted the fire to a different target. For the most part, he felt ancillary to the fighting, particularly when Captain Polk sent him directives for new targets.

  The area separating the two opposing lines of infantry was choked with smoke. Michael could make out little through the swirling haze. The enemy shifted troops from spot to spot. Reinforcements marched down the Hamburg-Purdy Road, and more batteries lumbered into defensive positions. Both infantry lines bled a trail of wounded that led to the rear. Singly or in pairs, the shattered men ambled along as well as they could manage. The wood line where the division had formed filled with the injured and faint of heart.

  Lifting his glasses once more, Michael slowly panned the length of the enemy formation. The ragged line of blue forms stood obstinately in the face of General Cheatham’s advance. To his left, B. R. Johnson’s brigade surged forward, only to halt then rush head-long back from whence they came. He saw little movement from the enemy toward the rear. The crash of musketry bore upon his ears, as did each concussive report of a cannon. From his vantage point, the enemy seemed like faceless forms that gaggled into groups to form a solid light and dark blue mass. Sometimes, this mass would disintegrate into little patches of color, only to re-form into a solid wall. The enemy guns, served by enemy soldiers intent upon visiting death and destruction on him, were but distant objects needing to be silenced in any way possible. Occasionally he would witness the detonation of a shell near a gun crew and watch its men duck or fall to the ground. Though he felt nothing for their plight, he recognized the terror they must feel.

  “Captain, direct all your fire on that battery there.” Captain Polk pointed at the enemy artillery upon the hill to his right. “It’s propping up their line. We silence it, the enemy infantry’ll run.”

  Michael passed the order on and watched as a mass of General Cheatham’s brigades marched toward the enemy-held hill overlooking the Purdy Road. A thin line of enemy infantry arrayed itself below a five-gun battery. The ground leading up to the position was quickly dotted with still forms, and the intervening space was swept with lead. Soon, the hill top was peppered with explosive and solid shot. A large explosion, lit with flame and flying debris, announced the destruction of a caisson. The Confederate infantry surged forward, their colors streaming ahead, then disappearing into the enemy line. A cheer arose from the gun crews as the enemy retreated through their own guns, followed closely by General Cheatham’s men. The enemy’s guns were taken in a wild rush for the summit with Confederates reforming at its top.

  Though the guns now sat silent, Michael hardly noticed. The enemy line began breaking apart. Blue forms marched or ran pell-mell to the rear. The enemy artillery, just as quickly, limbered up and rode off if they could. Everywhere, the Confederate line moved forward to the high ground surrounding the Hamburg-Purdy Road and leaving Michael without targets. Enjoying the respite, his crews sat by their guns in exhaustion. What had been a sea of blue only minutes before now seemed devoid of that formidable wall of defense. Cheatham had taken the Purdy Road defensive line of General Sherman.

  “The boys did fine work,” Polk said. Michael hadn’t noticed his arrival.

  “Yes, Captain, they did,” Michael replied.

  “We’ll wait here for a spell. No sense in moving forward until we’re called for,” Polk said and wiped his brow with his shirt sleeve. “See to your section. Might be the only time to eat and brew coffee today.”

  “Sir,” Michael said with a nod. He walked wearily to where Mahoney was chatting with one of the gun crews. “Mahoney, get the boys on eatin’ and brewin’ coffee as they can after securing the guns.” He turned to Sergeant Pope. “Ol’ St. James did good work today, gave the heathen a taste of the Good Word,” he said and patted the still-hot gun barrel.

  “St. James always giveth the wicked a grounding in the gospel of lead,” Sergeant Pope replied with a grin.

  Michael turned and walked back to the center of the hill, and Mahoney followed at his side.

  Walking with Michael, Mahoney said, “We seem to be pushin’ them everywhere, although I’d say it was hotter on that hill back at the Shiloh Road.” Mahoney scratched his chin and ran his hand over his stubbly cheeks.

  “Yes, we may just do what Johnston hoped to do, drive the Feds into the river,” Michael replied.

  “Cheatham’s divi
sion took a pounding, though. It’ll be awhile afore they move forward again,” Mahoney said, staring out over the hill and into the quickly dissipating smoke.

  “He’ll be moving forward soon. He’ll have to in order to keep the enemy from forming another line.”

  “With what? The division is all in disarray. Most of that movement atop the ridge there is fugitives and wounded. I’ll wager this division ain’t movin’ for another hour.”

  The field that witnessed the contest of arms was now being picked over by souvenir hunters and men looking for friends or relatives among the dead and wounded. The Purdy Roadway filled with the walking wounded, most making their way back toward the camps they had passed through earlier. The less fortunate made themselves as comfortable as they could where they lay, and some were carried to the cover of trees by comrades.

  “Makes you wonder, don’ it?” Mahoney asked after a moment of silence.

  “Wonder what?” Michael asked.

  “Wonder if the good Lord really meant for an end such as this. None of us really thought that we’d come to our end as an old man in bed. Least not me. How many came to their end with the scream of a minié ball in their ears or the screams of the wounded before they died?” They looked over the field of fallen men. “Just makes me think is all.”

  Michael nodded in reply.

  Mahoney continued in a rush. “I don’t believe in premonitions or dreams or such tellin’ me somethin’. I don’t think much on it while we’re workin’ the guns an’ watchin’ the enemy fall. Just lookin’ out afterward causes me to stop and think about what we just done.” Mahoney fidgeted with his hat, rolling it over and over in his fingers. His pale blue eyes studied something out in the distance.

  “I often wonder, Sergeant,” Michael said after a moment, “if any of us will face this ever after and find any favor. Will both sides stand at those gates and find succor? Are any of us really on the side of the God Almighty?”