“It seems,” Philip continued, “that one day Robert Harper, the youngest of five, found himself at the business end of a rifle and his hands upon the sullied breasts of ole man Puget’s homely but buxom wife. He was duly shot by Mr. Puget and drug out into the lane to die. Bein’ the notorious scalawag that he was, nary even the most pious Good Samaritan would stoop to dirty their hands upon his dyin’ body. It was I who picked up the sufferin’ soul and took his absolutions and confessions of guilt, and I tried to make his last moments upon this earth comfortable. He remained un-absolved to the end, refusin’ to recognize God or his Savior, and he died in his guilt. Even the family of this upstanding model of humanity refused to give their own aid as he lay dyin’.”
Harper’s face turned bright red, and he shouted in Philip’s face, “What you did at the funeral was not right, you messenger of Satan! You knew mother didn’t know what kind of life he lived, and yet you still stood there like a judge and passed the sentence of Hell upon him for all to hear! You knew what to do, and you didn’t do it!” He shook with rage, and spittle flew from his mouth. “I don’t care what you thought of me or my brother or what you knew to be fact or rumor! You had no right to tell your version of piety before a gathered crowd! My mother’s ill health and death are on your hands, you son of Satan!”
“It was a slip, but no less believed and known to all!” Philip shouted back. “If I erred in anything it was to allow that wretch to be buried in God’s name to begin with. If I would have allowed it, you Harpers would have run your business out of the meeting house in open view of all.”
Harper’s fists came up. “Don’t you say another word, Reverend, unless you…”
“Fall in! Get your traps back on, fall in!” rang the first sergeant’s voice.
*****
Philip’s heart beat in his chest, angered and shamed for his outburst. Falling in line in front of the stacks of muskets, he took his place in the rear rank. An officer gave the command to take arms. In an instant, the orderly rows of stacks disappeared, and the weapons returned to their owners. With the command to right face, the formations moved into march column of fours. In the sudden hush once the men were in place, they could hear the sound of continuing battle ahead.
“Men of Ohio!” shouted Colonel Jones, “a great battle is being fought up this road. General Grant is hard-pressed by an obstinate enemy who believes by pure guile they can defeat the arms of our great cause. We will be force-marched upon this road for the hour is grave. We march to the cause! To the cause!”
A chorus of “To the cause” rang out from the regiment, and Jones gave the command to forward march. Stepping off, the fifers played “John Brown’s Body,” and all voices joined in with hearty accord.
John Brown’s body lies a-moldering in the grave.
John Brown’s body lies a-moldering in the grave.
John Brown’s body lies a-moldering in the grave,
But his soul goes marching on.
Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
His soul goes marching on
CHAPTER 9
Polk’s Battery
Ruggles’ Gun Line, Sunken Road, 3 PM April 6, 1862
Michael lazed upon the pommel of his saddle, watching a long line of Federal prisoners move down the Corinth Road. Dispirited and exhausted, the prisoners trudged along unaware of the beauty of the afternoon. Fires still burned in the underbrush along the road, and smoke billowed from the wood line where the division of Federal General Prentiss made its last stand. Thousands of men in blue streamed out of the trees in silent dejection. The guns were finally stilled, and the men in each battery collapsed at their posts. More guns than Michael had ever seen in battle, of every caliber, were hub to hub as the artillery arm of the army flexed its muscle in one accord.
The nest of Yankee holdouts was vanquished in violence, and other than the noise farther to the right, the stillness on this part of the field was welcome. The battery strained every muscle and collective will since the opening shots. Michael felt the same numbness he saw in the faces of their captives. Victory can be as exhausting as defeat, he thought. The haggard appearance of his own men made him thankful for the respite, though every sudden crash and burst of noisy battle ahead made him wish to be a part of the final victory.
Infantry regiments sorted themselves out and began filing down the Eastern Corinth Road toward a new battle line. They left behind the guns and rear chaos of fugitives, couriers, staff officers, and prisoners. The wounded and winded lay where they fell, making it hard to distinguish who was hurt from who was too enfeebled by the heat and fatigue to move on. Scavengers wandered among the dead, rifling through haversacks and coats and stealing anything of value. Every dead and wounded Federal soldier had been stripped of his shoes.
A lawless element accompanied any command. Generally, it was motivated by the desire to possess a Yankee souvenir or a replacement article of clothing. A watch, smoke pipe, Testament, or gold rings were things that Michael could not countenance. It was desecrating the dead. So far, his men were refraining, or at least the presence of the command structure was keeping them honest. Those robbing the dead were loners, separated from their own units and free to do as they pleased.
“You’d think them stragglers would have some sense of decency, even if they is the enemy they’s robbin’,” Mahoney said.
“I suppose that’s why this army has men like you and I, Mahoney. Someone’s got to keep the men in line,” Michael replied.
“Even when we’s not ‘round to watch ‘em, not very Christian-like to rob the dead.”
“What about war is Christian-like?” Michael pondered aloud.
“Well, them fellers out there strippin’ them Yanks certainly ain’t doin’ it for God or country but out of greed an’ avarice. The act of war may not be Christian-like, but we didn’t ask for war but for independence,” Mahoney replied.
“Never considered this no crusade. Just a fight to survive.” Michael watched a looter dragging something heavy through the brush. “Maybe war jus’ brings out the worst in us.”
“No argument there, but it also brings out the best in a man. What is it the Good Book says? No greater love can a man have than this, that he give up his life for his friends. Love, love of country and one’s pards, that be a good thing,” said Mahoney. He, too, stood silent and watched the spectacle. “Still, someone should put a stop to what they’s doing.”
“Suppose that’s what the provost is for, but it’s a big area,” Michael said and straightened in the saddle, “and these thieves would just go and do it somewheres else. That’s why we need to keep a tight rein on our own men.”
“They’s not all robbin’. They’s some out there bringin’ water to the enemy wounded, see?” Mahoney pointed to a figure in the distance going from spot to spot.
“That man’s got the idea of Christian charity, all right, I suppose.”
“Don’t take church goin’ to have that kind of charity, jus’ a sense of right, wrong, and honor. That be someone who loves what is right.”
“They would seem to be character qualities anyone can have regardless of claiming a faith. There is a sense of honor inherent in the officer corps, for example, though I can’t say who is or isn’t someone I’d call a Christian,” Michael stated.
“They’s a difference between a society of gentlemen an’ Christian charity, though I’d say that the code of conduct for officers wasn’t developed by men of faith.”
“If that be truth, it would seem a disconnect betwixt peace, war, and faith. Ol’ Stonewall Jackson’s reputed to be a man of faith and Christian principles yet be a man of war,” Michael said. “They say Johnston be the same.”
Mahoney thought about that idea for a moment. “No disconnect that I can tell. War be the basest of humankind in response to pressure and strife. It trains a man in killin’ and to do it without remorse or feelin’. A man needs a fa
ith to buttress times of war, and war brings a man closer to his Creator than any other happenstance. War is just as Christian as peace is.”
“I’d much prefer peace. Safer that way,” Michael said with a chuckle. “Although I suppose the good Lord did say sumthin’ ‘bout not bringin’ an olive branch but a sword and dividin’ family from family in the end times.”
“Don’t know that the verse is one of war or not, but of realism in dealin’ with anythin’ contrary to the faith, but I suppose it might also describe a time of strife such as this.”
Michael laughed suddenly. “I’ll bet we sound like a seminary class at the moment. Queer place for holdin’ such a discussion, no?”
“It is on such a field that it is most appropriate, fer many a man has faced his mortality this morn in both honor and dishonor.” Mahoney motioned with a sweep of the gauntlets in his hand at the scavengers in front of them. “Maybe they’s angry at some slight by them Yanks, or maybe they’s jus’ angry and resorted to thievin’ to settle they’s souls. Who knows what evil can come out of a man? You and I, we don’t pull the lanyard in hate or anger. We do it out of honor and dedication to our cause, and we’d punish any of our command for pilfering the dead, even if they were Yanks. ‘Vengeance is mine,’ says the Lord, and we don’t ‘venge. We fight with honor. That’s the difference between a Christian act and a devilish one.”
Michael shook his head and said, “I would surely wish pain and trouble upon any of the enemy what caused me any personal pain or loss, for sure. Only my rank and my own sense of honor would prevent me from such desecration, not God.”
“I think you be closer to God than you think, sir. For it ain’t an absence of hate that makes a man think twice before striking back or planning revenge but the presence of the Almighty in him that restrains the passions of a man.” With that, Mahoney looked at Michael with the fatherly glance Michael had grown to enjoy from his older subordinate.
“You keep that talk up, we gonna have to pitch a tent here and turn our seminary into a meetin’ tent,” Michael laughed.
“I think we got a fight to win firstly,” Mahoney returned the grin. “Sir, if I may, I’m of the mind to scatter that lot of grave robbers and give them the flat of my sword for they’s impudence.” He stood straight and saluted.
“You have my leave, certainly, First Sergeant.” Michael returned the lazy salute tendered by his subordinate and watched Mahoney spur his horse forward to a trot. Was this an act of Christian charity or military honor that drove Mahoney to put the lash to the carrion scavengers? Michael didn’t know which, or if they were even separate, for military honor and guidance seemed to owe much to what he could only label as Christian or gentlemanly honor. Yet the two together upon the field of battle presented him a conflict of their own. Love for his fellow man and death to him who stands in opposition did not mesh with Michael. How could he love and kill in the same spirit of charity? It was not out of any specific deploring that he beheld any man in blue, but for the cause for which he stood.
The sun bore down upon the combatants, and the heat sapped their energy. Like the spring in a watch, the army of men, animals, steel, powder, and lead had sprung and recoiled and sprung again as the fight progressed. At this time of elated victory over the invading foe, Michael sensed the weariness around him in the men’s lethargic lounging upon the grass and search for shade. They gathered as families of gun crews. They were men of different births but bonded by their common brotherhood of membership in the battery. With familiarity not seen even among brothers, they lay upon one another and caught whatever rest they could. Michael saw it in the lines of infantry brigades marching down the road. The army was spent, and yet the fight continued—the enemy fighting for survival and the Confederates for victory.
Michael watched Mahoney herd and scatter the dozen or so thieves in the distance, and he began to get restless, even though he knew every one of the gun crews needed rest. It was inaction in the midst of battle and a straining to be a part of it that tried his patience. The act of limbering, unlimbering, and bringing the guns on line, and the working of each and every load meant constant motion and strain on the nerves. Looking at his men, he knew the battery would be slow in responding should the order come to limber up. There was only so much a man could be asked to do in a single day.
Often the target of both infantry and opposing artillery, the bombardment arm killed from a distance. Yet they were prized possessions from an impetuous charge of the bayonet, or they were jeered by their enemies when disabled by well-aimed salvos. It took a special courage to march forward and face the enemy. It took something else to be the magnet of all of his fury once unlimbered upon the field. For once today, they were not the targets of either artillery or infantry, and the respite was most welcome.
“Splendid work,” came the voice of Captain Polk, causing Michael to startle.
“Yes, it was,” Michael replied.
“Is that your man out there?”
“Yes, that’s Mahoney.”
Polk frowned at the thieves Mahoney was chasing. “Scalawags. I’d turn the battery on them if I could get away with it,” Polk sneered. “Every army has its skulkers.”
“They’ll scatter and come back later once we’re gone,” Michael replied. Without taking his eyes from Mahoney, he asked, “Fight’s still going, but I’ve not seen any movement from any of these batteries since the surrender. We in reserve?”
“Don’t know. Half the corps artillery was gathered to this spot for reducing that nest o’ Yanks an hour ago, but it don’t sound like they’s any less for guns up yonder,” Polk replied.
“They’s gettin’ close to the river,” Michael added. “You can hear them gunboats booming now and again.”
“Yup, mighty close. Heard tell Johnston was wounded a bit ago leadin’ an attack on an orchard down that-away.” Polk pointed across the road. Michael couldn’t see any orchards, only the long tree line formerly occupied by the enemy stretching across the road and on down toward the river.
“Johnston was jus’ wounded?” Michael asked, surprised.
“Don’t know that either. Just heard it is all. We thought we was doing capital work on this day only to hear of that. Dead or not, it don’t spell anything but problems if it be true. Like changin’ yer lead horses mid fording a stream. Can’t be nuthin’ but trouble for our enterprise on this field,” Polk said.
“Good God,” Michael exclaimed.
“Them batteries what took off a bit ago did so on they’s own, but I’m inclined to let the men rest a spell more.” Polk stopped and thought for a second or two. “Still, that would explain the lull we’s havin’ and, unfortunately, that of the enemy beyond them trees, as well. All that noise is comin’ from Bragg’s Corps on the right.”
“If this be true, it does not bode well for the success of our arms today,” Michael said with a frown. The lack of coordinated movement and energy exhibited upon that part of the field indicated that Johnston was no longer driving the attack. The intervening confusion and lack of coordination would soon tell upon their army.
“That will remain to be seen, Captain. If you’re a prayin’ man, you might start, for if we lose this opportunity to destroy this army of invaders, we’ll have lost any prospect of retaining Tennessee for our cause of arms.”
“Can’t say as I am,” Michael replied sheepishly, “but I would agree that some praying couldn’t hurt.”
“We’ve cut the enemy down by a good third at least with that crowd what surrendered awhile ago. If we can’t capitalize on that and seal this victory now, perhaps the Almighty was against us all along,” Polk surmised.
With Polk’s candid summation ringing in his ears he said, “Who can say what the fates will bring? We still have many more hours of daylight to finish this thing.”
“That’s true,” Polk said. “This will be a shame if, after all this effort and loss, we throw it away on the chance that Johnston is un-horsed in the midst of the climax. We’re
in possession of the enemy’s lower camps and pushing him into the river, but for all of this to hinge upon one man and control of the effort, it will be as nothing if not finished before sundown.”
Michael faced Polk directly. “Marshall, if called upon, the men will stand to their pieces as they did this morning under shot and shell.” He was proud of his Texans, and he hid his own doubt to praise them.
“That is a given, Michael. Your Texans are always reliable in a fight and have yet to dishonor their flag. I fear if something is not got up soon, what they will be called upon to do may be in vain.”
With that, Polk turned his steed to the side and spurred it away from Michael, leaving him with the words echoing in his mind.
Mahoney trotted back from his errand with a gaggle of miscreants cajoled at pistol point and divested of their spoils.
When Mahoney reached Michael, he asked, “Sir, if I may take my leave to deliver these rapscallions to the division provost?” The dozen or so fugitives looked downcast and ashamed. Michael doubted they felt any true repentance.
“Carry on, First Sergeant. Hurry back. We may be ordered forward soon,” Michael replied.
“March, you band of fools,” Mahoney ordered, and the men started forward past the line of guns.
The men being herded by Mahoney were a rough-looking lot and from as many different commands. Yet there were healthy-looking men, too, moving about to bring water to the enemy wounded and to give a hand in making for the aid stations. They were not looting but aiding an enemy. How could these two extremes co-exist in such an army? Though some were rogues and others were angels, most men were those who stood to their positions in obedience to the call of arms, not shirking the honor of falling in with their cohorts.
“Section Sergeants,” Michael called out, “get your sections limbered up. I want a column to the right of the road ready to march.”
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 13
