Striking the road, they saw it was clogged with men and animals. An overturned gun caisson and carriage lay abandoned off to the side. The horses, still in their traces, struggled to free themselves. A supply wagon was also overturned and abandoned by its teamster. Its contents spilled haphazardly along the roadside. They passed several groups of wounded slowly and painfully moving. Robert saw the pain, confusion, and terror in their eyes. He understood that look. He had had the same experiences.
The approach of horses caused both men to stop and turn suddenly. A courier galloped recklessly down the road, ignoring all who were foolish enough to remain in the way. Another courier sped past along with an onrush of frightened men who brushed by with little regard for propriety. Most were weaponless and were shedding equipment as they went. The road soon looked like a quartermaster’s store upset by a tornado.
Both men were carried along with the current and were running with no regard for Huebner’s entreaties to slow down. A regiment coming down the eastern Corinth Road from the landing was disrupted by the riot of fleeing men despite the cursing of the officers trying to slow the panic and stop their own men from joining the rout. Calls of “Save yourselves,” “We’re all whipped,” and “There’s death down that road,” rang out from the panicked men to anyone moving toward the fighting. A mixture of uniforms bespoke the mixing of regiments and the states that produced and clothed them. Frock coats, Ohio Volunteer Militia shell jackets, sack coats, forage caps, and officers’ kepis, with their distinctive gold braids, could all be seen in the crowd of bobbing heads. In the midst of the mob, he lost hold of Huebner’s arm, and they were separated.
Robert was comforted when he realized that the sounds of battle were fading. Soon, the tree-covered road opened to a wide, grassy plain, and the landing came into view. It was awash in soldiers milling about haphazardly. The mass of men surrounding Robert made straight for the level river bank. Robert couldn’t guess at how many men were already there. Along the slope and stretching one hundred yards down the muddy bank, thousands of demoralized Union soldiers gathered. A gun boat lay in anchor mid river and intermittently fired shells inland. Some men flung themselves into the river to swim to the gun boat or to the opposite shore, a distance of roughly one hundred yards, only to be dragged down stream by the current and into oblivion.
A few around him babbled incoherently with wild and dangerous expressions. Robert shoved his way through the bodies to look for Huebner. There were so many men crammed into that small space that Robert had to grab men by the shoulders and forcibly turn them to see their faces. Occasionally, he would encounter annoyance, but mostly he saw fright and fatigue. Most seemed like him, lost and alone and wandering aimlessly about. Fist fights broke out as one man would decide he wanted the muddy spot occupied by another. Because few men knew one another, the fighting would carry on until one of the fighters was senseless or dead. Everyone else just wanted to escape the brawl.
Robert came across many officers who shared the same look of despair. He lost count of how many men he accosted in his quest. How much time had passed or where he was made little impression upon him until the shoulders he grasped revealed familiar features.
“Robert!” Huebner cried and grasped tightly onto Robert’s arms.
“Hube!” Robert replied with equal enthusiasm.
Huebner started laughing for joy, jumping up and down like a little boy. “Robert, mein Kamerad! Robert, du bist hier!” Huebner released Robert’s arms and wrapped him in a bear hug.
“Ja, Hube. I’m here. I’m here,” Robert replied and tried to squirm out of the vise grip Huebner had him in.
“Robert, komme. Komme,” Huebner shouted and grabbed Robert’s arm. He began dragging him through the crowd and up from the river bank about fifty yards to the Pittsburg Road. The grassy expanse was filled with men relaxing, sitting, standing, or lying. The aroma of thousands of pipes filled the air with a panoply of aromatic flavors. There was more room than by the river bank, but they had to step carefully around the seated and standing figures. They had nearly reached the roadside when Robert saw a cluster of familiar forms. “Sehe, unsre Kameraden.”
Seated upon the ground near a copse of trees were twenty men of the 25th whom Robert recognized easily enough. To his surprise, Gustavson was there and two other privates from his company. They celebrated a cheerful reunion, laughing with relief. Robert sat down next to Gustavson, and Huebner sat next to him. The initial excitement of reuniting wore off quickly. They stared into one another’s faces. A pall of depression hung heavily about the group, and the vacant expressions of his pards reflected his own feeling of failure.
Defeat is not easily shaken. It follows an individual and an army the rest of their days. The fear that overtook him and the suddenness of their flight were memories he wished to blot out. He remembered the bravado of taking the oath, the triumphant march out of St. Louis for the grand adventure, and the taste of contributing to the cause of saving the Union. Would they now be unable to march back home when the world heard of their cowardice? More than the shame of faltering, he and his pards, and, from the looks of it, the whole army, had shown the white feather in ignominy.
There was little comfort in the company of cowards. He was not relieved by the knowledge that he wasn’t alone in failure. Gustavson’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“Know what happen to rest of Kompanie?”
“I seen Hammel fall,” Huebner said.
“I don’t remember much, only men turning and running. I didn’t see Hammel after the Rebs charged into us. I didn’t see much of anyone,” Robert said.
“I seen Hammel fall,” Huebner repeated.
“Ja, I just turned und run, too,” Gustavson said. He scratched his head, looking confused. “No care ‘bout Rebs or officers, just run. Dem Rebs no quit now. Dem Rebs kept comin’ up hill, and no matter how many we kill, dem just keep comin’.”
“Hammel fell in front of me. I seen him.”
“I’ve seen other regiments break and run,” Robert said. They turned to focus on him. “I’ve ridiculed them. I’ve scorned them. I’ve felt superior to them. We stood this morning in that field though. I felt the fear for the first time when we seen them just appear out of the darkness all around us.” Robert fiddled absently with the grass blades at his feet.
“Hammel stare at me from the ground the whole time.”
Robert turned toward Huebner. Huebner was looking from man to man, watching for any reaction. “Did you see him fall, Robert? Did you see him?”
“No, Hube, I didn’t,” Robert whispered.
“When Hammel fall, he knock meine Gewehr from me. I stood a long time looking at him. Mit alle herum kämpfen, fighting all around me.” Huebner’s eyes grew wide; his voice cracked. “But I keep looking at him look at me.”
“Not your fault, Hube,” Robert said in even tone. “We all panicked.”
“No panic. Just face staring at me. I couldn’t not stare back,” Huebner pleaded.
“Stop vorryin’ about it, Junge,” Gustavson said to console him. “Ve all seen tings ve’d sooner forget.”
“Nein, no scared, no freeze. Him just starin’ at me whole time we was fighting. I closed my eyes and still saw Hammel stare back. I don’t want to see Hammel no more!” Huebner sat hard on the ground. He dropped his head between his knees. He began to rock and shake. They looked at him, then one another, silently agreeing to let Huebner work it out the best he could. They all had images they would rather forget.
He felt a nudge from Huebner’s foot. Robert looked down into Huebner’s vacant eyes.
“What we do now? What about regiment?” Huebner asked.
The rumbling of battle, continuous and muffled, still echoed about them. “As long as it sounds like this, ve ok. If it gets nearer, ve’ll have to stand or surrender,” Gustavson replied.
“From the sounds of it, there must be some part of the army still under arms,” a voice behind Robert added. It was Private Piper from C
ompany D, someone Robert recognized but didn’t know well.
“What does it matter?” another voice chimed in. “Look around you. We’re licked but good.”
“Must be parts of several divisions here wandering about. The whole left flank of the army is here,” Robert stated.
“Can’t be every division. Dere’s a-fightin’ shtill,” said Piper.
“What does it matter? You saw ‘em comin’ this mornin’. We’ll be prisoners afore the day is done!”
“Auslieferung? Mutter und Vater würden beschämt sein,” Huebner whimpered.
“Halt die Schnauze, Huebner!” Gustavson snapped back.
“Ich bin beschämt. Wir sind alle Fahnenflüchtiger!” Huebner cried.
“Halt dich!” Gustavson shouted.
“Hube! Hube, quiet, pard, quiet down.” Robert grabbed Huebner by the shoulders and stared into his eyes. “You’re alive, you hear me? Du bist lebendig. Wir verließen nicht. We didn’t desert. We were licked. “
“Wir haben verlassen. Verlassen. Ich habe shamed das regiment. Wir haben verlassen. Verlassen.” Huebner began to sob quietly.
“We all shamed the regiment, Hube.” Robert pulled Huebner’s head to his shoulder and held him for a moment until the sobs passed. With his eyes, he dared anyone to say anything. Robert saw the same feelings of shame and defeat upon their begrimed faces. They were simply too proud to get it out of their systems. Pity and understanding echoed from each man in their little circle.
*****
6th Mississippi Line of Battle
Camp of 70th Ohio, 8: 45 AM April 6, 1862
Stephen stood in a company-sized formation with men he hardly knew. The pitiful remnants of the regiment had been gathered together by Captain Harper. They stood within the tree lines from whence they had sallied forth into the enemy guns atop the hill. Formed into companies by such leadership as each boasted, they barely counted the size of one large company. The Tennesseans had also regrouped and were forming in a march column to rejoin the rest of Cleburne’s division, whose advance took them far beyond the obstinate hill and its now-absent defenders.
Stephen held his rifle loosely at his side, its butt resting against his shoe. He felt the sorrow of the losses heavy upon his heart. Fifteen men answered to role for Stephen’s company, which was called by the fourth corporal. The one hundred and twenty-five men who answered to their names looked haggard and dispirited. Early that morning, the regiment had marched to the sound of the drum with four hundred and twenty-five men answering the morning call. Emptiness filled the eyes of the men around him, and the bewilderment of the engagement hung heavily upon his mind. Upon the hillside, medical orderlies picked through the jumble of corpses for those yet alive. William lay somewhere upon the hill or within the enemy camp where they had first penetrated.
Captain Harper took the report from Second Lieutenant Preston and gave the command to stand at ease.
“Men of Mississippi,” Harper shouted, “by virtue of your valor and your steadfastness, you have compelled the enemy to retire from this hill. Our ranks were torn and serried by the enemy’s fire, but you stood to your duty and carried our banner forward and into the enemy ranks. The name of the 6th Mississippi regiment of volunteers has been emblazoned with the glory of our cause and the dedication of your mettle. If it were not for the desperation of our efforts here, I would turn you about and march you back from whence we came this morning. But I fear that every musket will be needed before the day is over, and your valor may yet be needed upon this field.” Harper saluted the men, and they weakly responded with the same. “Company commanders; see to your men’s needs. We will march in ten minutes.”
Stephen’s heart sank. He could hear the sudden release of despair from the rest of the company at the word “march.” No question of valor or bravery would keep these men from standing to their duty, but upon this field and on this day, they were spent. They wanted nothing but to see to their pards and to rest.
The fourth corporal gathered the small group about him, checked their ammunition pouches, and bore the brunt of their collective disgust. Stephen looked back at the forlorn hill and wished to drop his weapon and search for William. The wounded were being carried slowly up the hill and into the enemy camp.
The 23rd Tennessee was right-faced and began marching up the hill behind the 6th. Snaking their way around the hillside to avoid the ground they had charged over, both regiments came up to the top and filed through the camp silently. The Yankee dead were still lying where they had fallen. They filled the tents with their own wounded. A scant hour before, the camp and hill were covered in smoke and filled with the sounds of battle. The eerie peacefulness of it gave Stephen the shivers. Everywhere was movement and carnage. The path of retreat was clearly marked by clothing and equipment.
As they exited the camp, the corpses of the enemy became fewer. He no longer thought anything about them. Seeing one was like seeing a bush or a stump. He didn’t feel hate or curiosity; he felt nothing at all.
They entered another dark wood and slowed to avoid getting tangled in the dead leaves, twigs, and bushes. Stephen soon felt the remaining energy sapped from his legs. The sounds of the crunching feet became lost in the sounds of furious cannonade and volley firing ahead. The men surrounding him were quiet, neither excited nor fearful. The thinning of the trees ahead and the growing brightness of daylight led them out once more into a great grassy plain.
A scattering of their own dead and wounded brought them once again into the battle zone. Ahead of the two regiments stood a long line of butternut separated by another line of blue. The road that twisted beyond the Federal line was the focus. Batteries from both sides belched fire at quick intervals, and the Federal line was engulfed in smoke. Down the road, coming from the enemy’s lines, poured a stream of blue columns to buttress their stand. Stephen shuddered as he envisioned what was to come.
CHAPTER 8
24th Ohio Volunteers
Camp on Savannah Road, 5 AM April 6, 1862
Reveille shook Philip from his slumber in the morning chill. Huddling his arms to his chest, he lay motionless. Grunts, groans, and coughs multiplied as his comrades awoke to the fading darkness of early morning. The crackling of cook fires and smell of char replaced the former quiet of the morning fields. Resigned to being awake, Philip rubbed his eyes and sat up in his bed roll. Pushing his night cap back from his eyes and forehead, he sat for a few moments more as the clouds of sleep slowly lifted. The flickering fires cast momentary flashes of orange and red upon the tree line a few rods away, making the figures in the distance look like demons.
Philip curled his legs Indian style and drew the blanket up to his chest. Next to him, Sammy crawled out of his blanket and stood, his face drawn and eyes mere slivers behind squinted eye lids. To his left, Mule lay motionless and huddled under his blanket.
“Mule, wake up,” Sammy croaked softly.
Philip stared at the heap for a moment and marveled at Mule’s ability to sleep through the growing clamor.
“Mule, get up,” Sammy repeated louder. “Philip, nudge him.”
Philip turned to the Mule’s form and said, “Hey, Mule. Up.”
“You know that never works. Ya’ gotta nudge ‘em,” Johnny said as he sat up in his bed roll next to Mule.
“C’mon, Mule. Reveille, wake up. Time to get up, Mule.” Philip shook what he thought was a shoulder, and a grunt sounded from the lump of blanket.
Mule suddenly swept the blanket off and sat up with a dumbfounded expression painted on his features. “Mornin’ already?”
“Better get moving. We probably got an hour afore we got to form,” Sammy said while he stretched and sat down to pull his brogans on.
“Who’s makin’ Kaffe?” Mule grunted and ran his thick stubby fingers through a matted lump of hair.
“It’s Philip’s turn for mess. Better get him a-goin’,” Johnny said. He brought out his tin cup.
“Ja, Kaffe.” Mule thrust his cup into Phili
p’s face, shaking it.
“Ok, I’m going.” Philip grabbed the cup and let it drop on the ground as he struggled out of the blanket and to his feet. “Give me the cups.”
Johnny’s cup landed by Philip’s foot. Quickly slipping his brogans on, he made his way to the company cook fire and filled the cups with water. Philip dug through his haversack to retrieve a muslin bag and loosed the string enough to form a spout. After sprinkling the crushed coffee beans onto the surface of each cup, he set them in a row around the coals. The fire pit was ringed with cups and soldiers chatting. Philip settled down at the fire’s edge and nibbled on a brick of hardtack. Staring into the fire, he imagined they were Perdition’s flames, and the suddenness of the thought caused him to wonder at the irony of using them to heat the coffee.
On occasion, he had tried to teach a lesson on Hell, of its flames, pain, and thirst. Those were his worst sermons, for he lacked the oratory passion to make Hell seem like Hell and not some fantastic place of the imagination. The dance of the flames also brought to his mind thoughts of war and the fires of passion that had burned in the early days. Each flame flickered for a moment, and then shrank back into the coals, only to birth another.
The parishioners in his circuit had little interest in Hell and Satan or anything else that had to do with the mysteries of the spiritual realms. He couldn’t help but teach on those topics, regardless. He knew that if he did not ponder their effects, he, too, would become complacent in his faith.
The growing sectional conflict brought out questions of war and what was the pious, spiritual response. These were questions that he could not answer even for himself. Instead, he taught respect for authority as given by God and prayed for wisdom. Leaving this all behind was a relief, for he no longer needed wrestle with answers that met ecclesiastical requirements. The flames consumed him as they did the wood that slowly disintegrated into glowing coals of red and white. In the same way, flames consumed the nation and families that composed his circuit. Their hearts burned with indignation at the affronts caused by the Rebel states and against the administration for its excesses in wielding power. Few, if any, that he was specifically aware of, worried about the darkies or even mentioned the issue in conversation. His own thoughts were just as vague, and he had given little thought about it until the regiment encountered the first sad columns of contrabands in Kentucky. Seeing only ignorant and pathetic forms under ill-fitting clothing, Philip tried to move himself to the righteous indignation he thought he should feel.
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 11
