The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3

by Phillip Bryant

  The men had rested for half an hour by his recollection, and the inactivity would not last before some staff officer noted the current state of their unemployment. A battlefield is a site of horrors and depravity, as well as bravery and honor. The dead rent apart by the work of his own guns lay along the sunken road ahead and over the field of retreat. Heads, arms, legs, entrails, and cast-off equipment littered the way. Moments of supreme sacrifice for one’s cause were evidenced by broken bodies of the enemy on the field and by the victors laying on the ground in exhausted revelry.

  Michael hated passing over ground where he knew he’d caused the enemy to leave their dead men, horses, and broken gun carriages. To see up close the damage done with such clarity was often enough to make him sorry for the poor fellows left mangled in the aftermath. And yet, he’d had to do just that several times this day, often occupying the ground that had been held by the enemy batteries he’d shelled or the lines of infantry he’d bombarded. The infantry dead were the most pitiable. In close formation, a bounding shot would bowl through whole ranks and leave human remains scattered in every direction.

  Once this morn, after being ordered forward, the battery unlimbered on a rise formerly occupied by an enemy battery and line of infantry. Michael directed the battery’s fire upon this height for a time to silence the enemy guns whose own work was slowing General Polk’s advance. From the distance, Michael observed the enemy working his guns and receiving fire in return without hesitation. Only upon arriving at that locale did they witness their own destructive efforts. A ruined caisson and broken, twelve-pound, smoothbore cannon shattered by a bounding shot now sat silent and abandoned. He had noted a deep furrow in front of the cannon where the solid shot struck the earth and ricocheted into the gun, knocking it from its axle and splintering its left wheel. The gun’s commander had been eviscerated, a sergeant whose body now lay prostrate at its tail.

  The men cheered when, from the distance of a hundred yards, the shot disabled the gun. Yet the enemy kept up their fire upon the line of Confederate infantry, not slowed by the tragedy. The loader, his station by the right wheel, had been struck full in the chest with the shot passing through his body cavity, severing arms and head from his lower torso. He left only that evidence to remind one that a human once stood on that very spot.

  It was not good to fight upon soiled ground. It affected the men, just as it affected Michael, to bear witness to their own destructive deeds. Michael tried to pull the gun line farther from the slope of the hill, but the ground slid down the opposite side too steeply to work the guns, and they were forced to bear the indecency of fighting upon blood-consecrated ground. Michael had never been so glad to surrender the high ground, even in ignominy, when the converging fire of several enemy batteries caused the death of one of his own and wounded three others. It was not a hard decision to limber up and re-position, even if it meant a tactical retreat to preserve his strength.

  The enemy’s fire upon them was severe from the moment they unlimbered to the time they galloped off the slope. It was Gunner Jones from Michael’s third section who carefully moved the enemy gun sergeant splayed behind the ruined gun and covered the body with his own blanket. There was little time for such activities in the midst of hot action with solid shot bounding around them. Jones casually did his errand, and then returned to his own gun as if he’d been ordered to treat the Yankee corpse with such kindness and humanity. Michael, though preoccupied with the action of the battery, could not help but watch Jones and feel a sense of pride in the honorable act. Even the lower ranks understood and recognized a noble enemy.

  Would the enemy treat one of his own, or even him, in a similar manner? The thought of an honorable enemy seemed like a contradiction to him. An honorable death for the rough-cut Texans was in facing one’s adversary, not found face down in attitude of retreat. The dead men of that opposing battery served their task well and fell victim to the skill of his own gunners by no fault of their own. Jones’s singular act would more than likely be the gentlest treatment the man’s corpse would find. After the field was rightly won by their arms, others would come behind and pitch the remains into a common grave with a marker reading “ten Yankees.” If lucky, the burial parties would get to the job before the dead putrefied

  During the lull, St. Peter’s crew buried Private Nelson, who had been killed by shrapnel during their trying fifteen minutes on that deadly ridge. His body had lain upon the gun’s caisson and was interred at the foot of his gun with the whole battery taking part in the quick but solemn ceremony. Michael stood back so the men could run the particulars out of reverence for the man’s pards. His lieutenant said a few words on behalf of the section crew.

  Soon, the battery was drawn up on marching column, per Michael’s instructions, with the men sitting listlessly upon their stations. They drooped with heat and exhaustion. When and if the call came, they would be ready to move, but Michael hoped it would not come soon. The battery had given yeomen service since first light and deserved a break.

  One by one, the batteries began to limber up and trot off. Michael knew their rest was about to end. Some of them headed toward the rear, and others across the field to the Corinth Road, and then along it toward the fighting. There were three sections of a battery of guns settling ready to march. By whose order would the call come? From Captain Polk? Or from some staff officer hell-bent on solving a problem and grabbing the first guns he saw?

  Captain Polk trotted up, and the battery perked a bit at his approach, knowing that whatever the outcome, they would be moving with a wry eye upon what direction that entailed. After a few hurried words with Michael, and a nod of agreement, Polk galloped off in the direction of the fighting. Michael turned Charger and trotted down the rise to the battery drawn up by the roadside. He motioned Mahoney to come stand by him. It was always better to have one’s first sergeant around to exercise control over the men when delivering bad news.

  He faced the men and shouted, “To the right by sections, march!” For a moment, no one moved. Then, without complaint, the limbered sections filed down the Corinth Road.

  *****

  24th Ohio Volunteers

  Opposite Pittsburg Landing, 3 PM April 6, 1862

  Aboard a paddle steamer anchored past Pittsburg Landing, the 24th Ohio’s companies crowded the upper decks, staring at the pandemonium on the opposite shoreline. Philip and Mule leaned on the railing and watched in awe. Over the trees that lined the shore they could see a cloud of haze marking the place where the fighting was fiercest.

  “We seen some sights in West Virginia in the rear of a battle, but nothin’ like this,” Mule said.

  “If we didn’t hear the firing, it wouldn’t be a stretch to question what was left on the firing line. There’s thousands of men milling about on the shore!” Philip answered.

  Exclamations of surprise and curses were heaped upon the cowards. The boats anchored away from the shoreline to avoid the crazed and fear-stricken mob attempting to board the steamers arriving with Buell’s forces. Life boats and anything that could float were being used to ferry the companies ashore twenty men at a time. Philip and the others waited impatiently for their turn.

  Whenever one of the smaller boats pulled to the landing, the men aboard had to fight their way through panicked men attempting to climb aboard. Philip watched as several men launched themselves into the water to follow an empty life boat. One by one they disappeared below the surface. Those on the shore line waved and screamed at the boats but cared little for anyone drowning in the water. Philip’s pards had no pity either; disdain for the mob ran high.

  Philip, watching the spectacle, said to Mule, “They’re mad with fear. What must be happening over there is unbelievable.”

  “I think I even see officers among that rabble,” Mule said.

  A loud report shook the water’s surface as the gunboat Tyler let loose with its large 32-pound rifled gun. The gunboat shook and swayed slightly as the huge gun recoiled. At long in
tervals, this gun and a 20-pound Parrot rifle fired at the battle lines advancing toward the shoreline. Farther up the river, the gunboat Lexington fired into the Rebel rear areas, hoping to cause havoc.

  Philip shook his head and asked, “What are we rushing into? What is there left to save but that cowardly lot at the landing?”

  “They must be some need for us. The enemy ain’t at the landing yet.”

  “But will there be anything to save once we all get ashore?” Philip asked. He watched the boats slowly make their way back.

  They turned at the sound of a sudden splash and crashing in the trees behind the Lexington. A group of horsemen appeared on the opposite bank, and with them two cannon were sending solid shot at the transports. They didn’t have the range yet but soon would.

  “Jesus Christ!” someone shouted as the shower of water drenched all unlucky enough to be near the geyser. “Oh, sorry, Rev,” the man stammered.

  “My exact thoughts,” Philip said in return. “Jesus Christ, protect your own.”

  The man looked at Philip and smiled.

  The gunboat Tyler turned in the water to bring her port side cannon to play upon the Rebel guns. They were not too far away from the landing, only a few thousand yards by Philip’s guess.

  Mule made a whooshing sound. “Well, we either gonna die over there or get drowned here on this boat.”

  A puff of smoke marked the firing of another shot from the Rebel guns that crashed into the trees behind them. Philip watched the gunners on the Tyler prepare a response from their cannon. The sailors worked mechanically, and every movement was practiced and precise. Soon, the Tyler was exchanging shot for shot with the cannon on the shore line, and the Rebel gunners turned their attention to the Tyler with little effect. The Tyler’s crew peppered the shore with fire until the Rebel guns limbered up and beat a hasty retreat, to wild cheers from the 24th Ohio.

  A sudden increase in noise drew their attention back to the shore line at what all guessed was the active line of defense. Yells and musketry sounds mingled and reminded all that desperate work was being done a short distance away.

  CHAPTER 10

  25th Missouri Volunteers survivors

  Pittsburg Landing, 4:30 PM April 6, 1862

  Back across the river, past throngs of uniformed men drained of courage and cowering beneath the rising river bank, Robert Mitchell sat with his pards of the 25th Missouri Volunteers. With their fight behind them and their regiment scattered to the winds, they whiled away the time in the shade. There was a comfort here—to not be the lone coward but be amid an army of cowards.

  Robert knew it wasn’t mere cowardice that kept these men and him there. It was the lack of the power of one’s pards to keep a man in line. One fought with one’s family at his side; if that family were beaten or scattered, the fortitude to fight was gone, as well.

  “Hube,” Robert said to Huebner, “du bist nicht ein Fahnenflüchtiger. Das Regiment würde beendet. None of us deserted. The regiment was destroyed.”

  Huebner had quieted somewhat but still carried a look of disgrace upon his face. Robert tried to get through to him that he was not the disgrace he felt himself to be. He knew that this boy, barely a man, should not have volunteered. Yet despite his mental deficiencies, he had managed to survive this far.

  “Ja,” replied Huebner.

  Gustavson poked Huebner in the ribs and said to him, “We all kaput. Das Kämpfen get closer, ja?”

  The racket crept closer, and the stream of fugitives increased from a trickle to a flood. Wounded men, some helped by three or four others, were brought to the landing. Regiments from the line came to replenish ammunition, some resting near the sea of fugitives to heap scorn upon them. Occasionally, an officer or two, looking to fill out their regiments, would gather what skulkers with weapons were within reach, but even threats and blows with the flat of their sabers did little good, and the men scattered at first opportunity.

  Robert’s group ignored the attempts and the scorn, but he knew it wasn’t right to sit there while the battle went poorly for their banner. The first transports arrived off of the landing about mid-afternoon, and a stir swept the cowards closest to the water. The first reinforcements began to gather inland from the overcrowded landing area. Others trickled in from smaller boats in a clearing to the left of the landing. Roberts’s group had chosen shade away from the mass but still near enough to have its protection. The trickle marched past them in small squad formations lead by corporals and sergeants. To a man, they were wide eyed and rattled, and they huddled close together.

  Calls of “You’ll be whipped sure” and “the Devil’s down the way awaitin’ fer ya’ “ followed these newcomers. Several fist fights broke out as reinforcements clawed their way to their compatriots forming just beyond the cowards. Robert watched them closely, for aside from the milling masses and the sounds of impending battle drawing nigh, the newcomers were the freshest game to be gawked at.

  Gustavson motioned to the passing group of newcomers. “Lambs to the slaughter, ja?”

  “They doing th’ right thing,” Huebner said.

  “Ach, vas is right? To be alive und breathing or märz zur Schlacht und zum Würfel?” Gustavson replied. “I choose der breathing und alive part.”

  Huebner gave him a sharp look and said, “Rebels still out there. Reason we volunteered still out there. What difference?”

  Robert looked at Huebner in surprise. This lad of barely twenty years was speaking with authority and passion about something. It was odd to see this in him, the boy whom he allowed to constantly follow him around because he felt some small responsibility.

  Gustavson snorted. “Difference be that ve done seen der elephant and give our share.” The men in hearing ranged nodded their agreement.

  “Gus is right,” Robert interrupted. “The regiment did its share this morning and got broke for it. For all we know, we’s the only ones left either alive or captured. It’s time for others to give their share.”

  Before someone could counter that statement, Robert added, “Those still fighting are fighting under control of their officers and men they respect and know. What are we but some twenty-odd survivors of the Hell we witnessed this morning? From the patrol to the camp, we stood and died and were overrun. What more can a man do?”

  The question was barely off his lips when it struck Robert that there was more to be given and that Huebner was driving for that very thing as well.

  “Because der Christ no gives up in his cause, und we no give up on our cause,” Huebner protested. “Vater marschierte mit der Regent of Saxony against der Holy Roman Emperor und did it for same cause of Christ. Vater expect same out of me. Der Krieg of rebellion no different.”

  Robert saw the fire in Huebner’s eyes and wondered what lion had been awoken in him. Robert didn’t know how he felt about it himself. He certainly wasn’t there for any principles of religion. Growing up Lutheran himself, he knew what Huebner was talking about. In the old country, where the German principalities still warred with one another over alliances, both religious and political, men still marched against each other in small wars of conquest. He did his duty and served it well before the regiment broke under the pressure of the enemy.

  “No fight for a Pope or some Lutheran Bishop!” Gustavson told Huebner. “You serve for yourself. Ve volunteered to put down der rebellion, not to die for some lost cause.”

  “Nein, kämpfe Ich für cause, for der country’s call like our Vaters marschiert mit kings against each other. Vater served und märz as we now märz mit der Federal government.” Huebner stared at each man and fidgeted with the blades of grass between his legs.

  Robert put his hand on Huebner’s shoulder and looked in his eyes. With a quiet voice, he said, “Hube, Gus is right. There’s a line between foolhardiness and devotion to duty. We stood the test this morning and suffered for it. Hilde is gone for that duty. You saw him fall. I don’t see what else can be done that hasn’t been paid for.”

&nb
sp; “More, we need to do more. Ich need do more than just sit,” Huebner said. “We could join back into die Schlacht, get back into the fight.”

  “Go back? Sie krank im Kopf? Your head on right? We were there and survived. What more can a Soldat ask for?” Gustavson protested.

  “What is it that would satisfy your desires, Hube?” Robert asked him, still holding the boy by the shoulders. “How long we been comrades in battle? We’ve been comrades in battle since we mustered in St. Louis and I’ve never known you to speak out on anything. Why now?”

  Huebner fidgeted with a stick and looked from man to man. Robert wondered what was going on in that mind, which always seemed to be muddled and unable to cope with the simplest of duties, like falling in for morning roll call. Hube’s just a simpleton, he thought, someone touched by a different spirit needing to be looked after with a gentle but cautious hand.

  “Because, like St. Paul, Christ’s blood compels me. Because Ich feel shamt that I not give my all for the cause for which Ich volunteered. Because bring not shame und disgrace to mein Vater. Meine Bruder, Karl, marz mit der 2nd Missouri und died at Wilson’s Creek. I am only one left to meine Mutter und Vater, und Ich bin kein Fahnenflüchtiger. Ich bin ein Soldat. I am soldier mit Christ und cause and will not be captured or desert.” With that, Huebner, visibly nervous, stood and gathered his traps, donning each item without looking at the men’s surprised expressions.

  Robert was dumbstruck. Cause and Christ? The words were not foreign to any of them, but the voice and the orator were. In spite of the serious turn of their conversation, Robert nearly laughed as Huebner got tangled in his traps. He stood and took Huebner’s canteen from around the boy’s neck.

  “Here, lemme help you, Hube.” He removed Huebner’s haversack. The boy cum patriot and zealous “Soldat” for Christ had forgotten to don his sack coat first before adding his leathers.

  Huebner smiled at Robert and something of the innocent Jonah re-appeared. Robert handed him his sack coat and traps one by one. The awkward child and boy was still there, and Robert was relieved.