All of these things were described in the return. The numbers were necessary, but they did not belie the memory of their consequences. Union men had been maimed and killed by the expenditures. But a report was not time to wax philosophic about war or those enemy soldiers rent by his fire. They would become expenditures upon the enemy battery’s returns and reduced to a solitary column of dead and missing. Later, they would become part of the greater numbers to be calculated at brigade, division, corps, and, finally, army level. In the end, the returns would be someone’s success or failure by ground won or lost by rod.
Fires flickered where the enterprise of men kept them lit in the wetness, and men gathered around them to stare into the flickering dance. Looking up, Michael saw his guns covered in canvas to keep the fittings dry and oiled and the large tampions stuffed into the barrels to keep the moisture out. The men of the battery lolled about aimlessly in the mist, and some few huddled underneath the caissons for shelter and shut-eye.
“Grierson, I see your men made it through the rest of the day,” Captain Polk said as he gingerly sat down next to Michael. His leg was set in a splint and wrapped by a bloody bandage.
“That they did, Polk. That they did. We didn’t see much of the rest of the goings on after that big surrender.” Michael nodded toward Polk’s leg and asked, “Shouldn’t you go to an aid station?”
“I’m putting that off for as long as I can stand it, Grierson. We pressed ‘em to the landing, as far as I could tell, but it was like the wind had been spent in the army, and the men couldn’t press on with vigor as they had previously. We had them against the river but lacked the power to do anything else.” Polk grimaced as he shifted his leg.
Michael stuffed his notebook into his jacket pocket. Polk’s words were not welcome, for they meant what Michael sensed: failure of the whole enterprise to destroy the enemy army in Tennessee.
“Pickets say there’s chopping and lots of traffic noise up ahead, and it’s all local, not headed away. What happened?” asked Michael, motioning to Polk’s bandage.
“Leg’s broke. Spent shell fragment. Got some Yank whiskey fer the pain. Grant got help from Buell toward dusk. That and Johnston’s dead,” Polk said dryly.
“Dead?” Michael turned.
“Happened this afternoon, least that’s what the word is and seems to be truth. Something happened as you sort of get this sense that someone’s changed drivers mid-stream, and the horses ain’t being steered at all. Like the hand that guided and directed this army suddenly fell limp and left it to its own devices.”
Polk paused to stare at the wet grass and dirt at his feet. “I got this feeling somehow after Prentiss’s division surrendered in that wood earlier today. We took an entire division of the enemy, and then some, in that wood. Eight thousand Yankees surrendered, or so I’m told. You know those moments of success where it would seem that one need only reach out and pluck that sweetest of plums from the tree limbs? Where one would swear there was nothing to stop you from those fruits of victory, and then you pause to wait for the other boot to drop?”
“It did seem like we’d slowed down a bit,” Michael conceded. “Though I confess I didn’t look for that other thing to happen to counter our successes, and what was done today was fairly won. You know how a victory can disorganize the victor as much as the defeated.”
“We were there, Grierson.” Polk’s voice quivered in anger and disappointment. “We were there and could see the river bank through the trees teeming with disorganized Yankees and the gunboats and transports on the river, and nothing but a line of guns stood between us and shoving all them Yanks to drown in the water. That plum was never closer to our reach than it was before dusk.”
“You think we’ve lost?” Michael asked, surprised.
“We command the field, but if we couldn’t push a few thousand fugitives into the river because we lacked the energy and drive to do it, then we’ve lost the initiative at the least.” Polk tried to stand, in response to the emotion he felt, but the pain in his leg made him gasp and sit hard. He took a swallow of whisky before he could continue. “Buell is adding his numbers to that of Grant now, and we knew we might be able to defeat Grant if we were bold enough. But we are a day too late to do that, I fear, and tomorrow we will be assailed by fresh battalions.”
“The infantry is exhausted, as is our own battery, but they are flush with victory. Perhaps that will mean the difference on the morrow,” Michael said.
“Indeed, the morale is high, and perhaps that will carry us to the river in the end, despite the reinforcements we’ll face soon. But you should have seen it, Grierson.” He grabbed Michael’s arm and stared into his eyes. “All was confusion in the enemy’s rear, and we were on the brink of it all.”
Polk’s frankness was unnerving, and Michael had never seen him so open and disconcerted. “We’re still on it, Polk. We own his camps, and we need but one more push to own his point of supply at the river. We take the landing, and Grant and Buell will have the swampy lowlands in their rear and our army in their front. They’ll have to surrender.”
“I’m not one for gloom, but I don’t see what good will come of tomorrow,” Polk said.
“You’re not ever wrong. You’ve kept the battery from a world of hurt following that intuition of yours. I just hope you are wrong on this one count,” Michael said.
“Well, Grierson, a commanding officer is never wrong as far as his men are concerned. He’s always right even when he consigns them to their sure death. Only you and I can be wrong to the other. Between you and me, I do hope I’m wrong, or a lot of men were killed today for no result.” Again, Polk struggled to stand, swinging his splinted leg around until he was steadied. Without further word he limped out into the dark.
Michael felt uneasy. Had his own eyes deceived him? He’d seen the columns of enemy prisoners filing to the rear in dejection. He’d seen the infantry of General Polk’s corps advancing and beating the enemy back. Could so much have been changed in so few hours? Johnston’s death was another blow—and one that would not be kept silent for long. If an army did one thing for sure, it took on the imprint of its commander. Whether they loved or hated him, the army rose or fell with its commander. If Johnston was gone, so was his drive and plan.
While the eastern armies had tasted a seemingly endless run of victories over their numerically superior enemies, the western armies had not been so fortunate. Fort Henry was taken with ease, and Fort Donelson was an embarrassment for Western arms. General Pillow surrendered the ten thousand-man garrison after a break-out nearly succeeded. With access to the Tennessee River denied to him, Johnston was forced to abandon Tennessee. Kentucky was also lost. Yet only a few days ago, as they marched out of Corinth to meet Grant at Pittsburg Landing, all seemed to have changed in their fortunes. Michael longed for some great success of arms to justify the expense of men and material. It had seemed within grasp that morning, though Captain Polk wasn’t so optimistic.
Michael got up from his spot under the tree, overtaken by the need to calm his fears. He ventured into the drizzle to see for himself the state of affairs. Despite the rain, many men were going about their business. Michael gathered the gum blanket about his shoulders and walked in the direction he guessed the front lines might be. The battery had drawn up beside a captured enemy camp before dark and settled down, but other than the wounded infantry taking shelter in the tents, he saw nothing of the infantry brigades that were supposed to be in front of them.
The misty rain made the night that much darker and limited visibility to only a few feet. Michael knew he was in danger of blundering into some enemy vedette or picket line and falling into enemy hands. Many a hapless man had wandered blindly into the enemy and was captured, spending months whiling away the time in a prison compound. The danger of being shot at by his own side was also very real. But the enemy line had to be close.
“Where you headed?” a voice called out so close that Michael jumped.
“What?”
Michael asked.
“Nuthin’ but enemy out that way,” the man said. He stepped out from behind a tree. Michael had walked right by the man without seeing him.
Michael looked over the man, trying to recognize him. “Whose picket line is this?”
“No one’s. Provost guard posted me here to keep fellers like you from heading too far up this way.”
“You mean there ain’t no picket line here?” That was a surprise.
“Not that I seen. Could be up ahead, but I hain’t gonna go that far ta find out, neither.”
They both faced ahead into the dark rain, though there was nothing to see. Michael let out a sigh.
“Thank you, then. I suppose I’ll go no farther.”
“Hain’t seed none of the enemy, neither, so they could be nuthin’ up ahead. Prudence seems ta me to be had stayin’ put right here.” The man gave Michael a knowing look. “Although, if ya’ listen real close, ya’ can hear movement up ahead. Enemy’s using axes in the forests. They meanin’ ta stay, I think.”
“Would seem that way,” Michael replied.
“I thinks we might be able to finish it at light. I think we good to finish the job at first light.”
“Let’s hope the enemy don’t know they’s nothing between them and their camp. My guns aren’t even unlimbered. We need to get some infantry to picket this area.”
“That would be mighty prudent and no mind to me. Some Federal cavalry came snoopin’ around here a bit ago, but I suppose ‘cause of the darkness they din’t see me fer they’s enemy. I was able to turn them back by actin’ friendly like.” The man looked down and kicked a toe into the ground. “I’d shore feel better if I had some company.”
“Indeed. I won’t promise nothin’. Things seem pretty confused everywhere, but I’ll see what can be done,” Michael said.
The man nodded and leaned back against the tree. Michael started off a few steps and looked back. Already, the man was invisible to him, the blackness of the trees and the night hiding him completely. Michael quickened his pace, fearing getting lost and wandering into another vedette. When the surroundings began to take on a familiar edge, he relaxed.
“Mahoney, First Sergeant, where are you?” Michael called.
“Sir,” Mahoney called back.
“Form a gun line right here and get the pieces primed. They ain’t nothin’ in front of us but the enemy. They ain’t close that I can tell, but I don’t like being exposed.”
“What? They’s supposed to be a picket line out there,” said the haggard first sergeant.
“Well, they ain’t. It’s just us and one lone soul standing by a tree.”
“Should I take one section as skirmishers?” Mahoney asked.
Michael chewed his bottom lip for a moment, then shrugged. “You kin try. Don’t think the boys would know skirmish drill from Quinine Call, but yer welcome ta give it a go. I’m going to find some infantry to do it for real.”
Michael turned and walked into the blackness. He chuckled to himself as he heard Mahoney get a section roused and armed. It wasn’t for an artilleryman to perform such duties. The boys knew how to load and shoot a two-band musket if they had to, but most of their weapons rarely saw useful employment other than taking pot shots at live game.
Walking through the abandoned camp, Michael heard the normal murmur of quiet conversations within the tents and pitiable moaning. Michael was looking for a fire and any large gathering of men, but the camp was dark. Curious, Michael stepped up to a Sibley tent. He opened the flap, peeked in, and immediately gagged. Excrement, blood, and stale air assaulted his nose. Jerking his head back out, he drew a breath to settle his stomach and to purge his nostrils of the awful stench. Michael poked his head in once more after drawing a deep breath.
It was dark inside, and the walls of the tent had been pierced by minié balls—the canvas was ripped and sagging. A writhing mass of humanity covered the floor. Confederate and Federal wounded occupied this tent, and most still seemed to be alive and delirious.
“Water,” a thick, raspy voice called.
Michael looked into the face of a young boy whose head lay directly below. Michael did not have his canteen.
“Water,” the call was taken up by a few others in the tent.
Michael cursed himself for being curious as he had neither a way to succor these poor souls nor the stomach for such work.
“Hold on. I’ll find a canteen.”
Michael ducked out again and drew in clean air. He looked about for a canteen. Shattered rifles, blankets, caps, hats, coats, belts, cartridge boxes, torn haversacks, and camp equipage lay underfoot, but no canteens. He could outfit several men from the cast-off items lying upon the ground, and yet for the want of a single canteen he would give his rank. He pressed on through the camp and eventually stumbled upon a pile of discarded canteens lying around a corpse propped up against a tree. He was a Confederate colonel by his rank, and a darkened spot in his abdomen showed his death wound. The canteens had no doubt been gathered by someone to give the poor man some comfort before he passed on. Gathering the canteens, Michael hurried back to the tent.
“Water, boys. I got water,” Michael said.
Several shaky hands reached out. Michael handed over several of the canteens.
“They’s more layin’ around if any of you can walk,” Michael said and left them without further ado.
The next tent over was in similar straits, and the men therein also desired water. Former enemies of a few hours before lay side by side and tried to tend to each other’s wounds as they were able. Michael was sure that in the annals of war, nothing quite like this had ever been witnessed by enemies so alike. It did not take long for Michael to distribute the water and move on.
When he reached the edge of the camp, Michael spied a series of fires and lanterns in an adjacent camp and headed for it. Where there’s fire, there’s headquarters, Michael thought. He stepped into a bustle of activity and a general liveliness not seen in the other campsite.
“Private, what HQ is this?” Michael asked a man who appeared to be standing guard.
“Polk’s HQ. Polk’s Corps HQ,” was the disinterested reply.
“May I enter?” asked Michael, expecting the normal guard mount challenge and response.
“I ain’t stoppin’ ya’,” was the reply.
Michael brushed passed the useless sentry and walked up to a tired-looking lieutenant. The man was sitting at a table, scribbling upon sheets of paper by the light of a lantern.
“Is General Polk about?” Michael asked.
The lieutenant didn’t look up from his pages. “No. Bragg’s HQ.” Michael leaned over and saw that the lieutenant was copying orders upon a sheet of paper from another he positioned in front of him. He would write a word, look at the other sheet, then write another word. Either he was not too bright or he was very careful. Michael started to get irritated by the man’s demeanor.
“Who can I speak to about positioning an infantry regiment in our front?”
“Major Pigeon over there, an aid de camp of Polk’s.” The lieutenant pointed over to a man leaning against another table and napping upon one arm.
Michael didn’t bother thanking him. He walked over to the napping officer and cleared his throat. Major Pigeon didn’t stir.
“Sir,” Michael said.
“Yes?” Major Pigeon jerked his head up.
“Sir, Captain Grierson of Polk’s battery,” Michael said.
“Yes, Captain?” the major said, still in the daze of fitful sleep.
“Sir, I know it for certain that there is nothing between my section of Polk’s battery and the enemy beyond but a single vedette, and a mighty lonely one at that.”
“Oh?” the major yawned.
“Yes, he’s already bluffed a Yankee cavalry patrol, and I’d feel a might better if my guns weren’t so exposed. Not to mention the security of the division.”
“Where?” The major blinked and rubbed his eyes.
; “Two camps over to the south,” Michael said curtly. His frustration was beginning to show.
The major eyed him thoughtfully. “If you can find an infantry company, you could have it. We’re still trying to ascertain where the other divisions are, Captain. I’m sure the general would be right pleased you’re so concerned for our front, but the fact is I don’t have anything to order up to you. The brigades are scattered about, and few have sent in their returns or reports. I’d suggest finding your own brigade first since I’m assuming someone placed you where you’re at now.”
“Sir.” Michael saluted and turned on his heel. The reproof had been unnecessary and unwelcome. Captain Polk was nowhere to be found and would be Michael’s first and probably only step into the chain of command. Polk’s battery was attached to B. R. Johnson’s brigade, but Michael hadn’t seen Johnson since mid-afternoon.
Michael began to understand what Polk had tried to explain earlier. Hopelessness was evident in the HQ, and if Captain Polk had been around it for any length of time, it was no wonder he was in a desperate mind. But, like a caisson under the control of a spooked team of horses, the battle was out of the control of any human hand, and the army was trying to cope as best as it could.
Back in familiar territory and the position of the battery, Michael walked up to Mahoney.
“We’re not going to see any infantry tonight. We’ll have to make do with our own preparations and hope the Yankees don’t decide to press us at first light. Corps HQ doesn’t know what’s going on, and I couldn’t find Captain Polk or even the brigade HQ. We’re on our own for the time.” Michael kicked at the dirt and looked back in the direction he had come.
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 18
