The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3

by Phillip Bryant

  The Memphis road takes a general northward track and runs along unremarkable terrain of woods and occasional open patches of ground, mostly used for farmers’ fields. As they neared a crossroads labeled as the Chewallah and Memphis road intersection, the noise off to their left grew in intensity. A hill to the left hid what was happening from view, but in their front and right it was clear what was going on. Columns of marching troops, Union, were headed their way in battle line.

  Captain Wofford halted the company. Finding General Davies was going to be impossible. If this was his division area, from the sounds of it, he would be coming to them. Regiment after regiment was seen moving about, some in line of battle, who would march and then turn and halt. Batteries were taking up positions on any open patch of ground, and officers on horseback crisscrossed to and fro with staffs trailing behind.

  “They retreating,” Philip said to Chapel. “If we don’t find who we’re looking for, someone’s going to gobble us up regardless.”

  “Don’t think it matters now if we find Davies. We might as well stop here and fall in with the first passing brigade,” Chapel replied, scanning the area and shielding his eyes from the sunlight. “I’m not sure this is such a good idea; they have no authority to send us anywhere,” he added. “And by the looks of it, this is about to become a problem for us. These men aren’t even schooled.”

  “It weren’t by our own authority we was sent to Corinth, Chapel. We followed orders, an’ we still followin’ orders,” Wofford griped.

  “So this is what Shiloh was like on the first day,” one of the privates from the ranks was heard to say. The fresh fish were wide-eyed and trying to look stalwart.

  Phillip nodded. He wasn’t seeing panic in the faces of those stricken men who were limping along toward them from the firing lines. This wasn’t a rout, but the brigades they had witnessed maneuvering and marching away were not holding the line, and enemy formations appeared following close on their heels. Philip had to admit he’d not seen the worst of this war yet, but he’d seen enough to know that what was unfolding wasn’t going to end well for their side.

  Two brigades would form line and make a stand of some minutes before reverse-marching and re-forming some distance away as another brigade marched down the road toward them, with artillery batteries unlimbering along the roadside and waiting to have a clear field of fire before loosing a few rounds and limbering up once more. A fighting withdrawal was something new to Philip. It was frightening to behold. The boys in blue were always supposed to advance victorious. Not today, he said to himself. The leapfrogging was covering the distance as the horizon filled with enemy battle lines two deep.

  “Quiet in the ranks!” Sergeant Preston barked.

  The batteries were wheeling again and limbering up as the formations collapsed once more into marching columns upon the road and surrounding fields. Extending across the immediate horizon, the view was breathtaking if one was merely an observer and not in fear of one’s life. The formations were still hundreds of yards away, merely little figures in the distance, but the story was clear that the forces sent to hold or slow the enemy were accomplishing neither.

  The sound of thundering hooves drew their attention from behind as another battery came racing pell-mell toward them.

  “By the right flank, march!” Captain Wofford called out, running to the rightmost file and leading the company off the road—but the battery wasn’t wanting to pass. It peeled off carriage by carriage and gun by gun, three twelve-pounder Napoleons, and went into battery just off the road. The fresh fish let out a cheer, duly impressed with the display, and were ignored by the gunners who set about righting each piece before charging each with solid shot. The cheering did draw the attention of a lieutenant on horseback, who trotted over to Wofford.

  “Sir, are your men deployed here for a reason?”

  “We were sent to report to General Davies.”

  “That is him out there, so you won’t have long to wait, but can I impose upon you, sir, to form next to my battery on our left? I don’t want some cavalry dash to take the battery unprotected.”

  “No more cheering!” Captain Wofford hissed into Sergeant Preston’s ear. He ordered the company to march by the right flank and lead them behind the battery to take station at a right angle to the guns fronting the large hill visible five hundred yards in the distance.

  “Sergeant, take them through the school of the soldier while we’re waiting; I don’t want anyone turning the white feather.” Wofford walked over to the lieutenant of artillery. “What command you attached to?”

  “Battery B, 3rd Michigan, attached to Colonel Fuller’s Ohio brigade, Stanley’s division.”

  “Then we’ll wait until General Davies arrives and report to him then. Twenty-first Ohio, replacement volunteers just sent here but headed to Nashville to report to our regiment.”

  “Replacements?” the lieutenant said incredulously.

  “Yes, fresh fish, an’ not in much position to offer resistance if the battery is charged. I’ll pull them out myself lest we lose the whole lot before we even make it to our regiment.”

  “I see. We will then be obliged if you at least show that the battery has some support.”

  Off to their left, between the rail tracks of the Memphis and Charleston line and the hill in their front, Union troops could be seen maneuvering and marching for the rear. As yet, no Rebel forces had shown themselves. Off to the left of the railroad, another long ridge extended like a finger. Another battery clambered up the ridge and went into battery at its apex, where they started firing for everything they were worth. They were close to a thousand yards away but moved like frenetic machines.

  “Battery F, 2nd US,” the artillery lieutenant said as they all watched the show for some moments. Then came the battle lines moving across the field in steadied cadence before turning about. Three quick concussive reports sounded from the 2nd US as they sprayed the yet-unseen enemy with canister, and the battle line cut loose with a volley.

  “Sergeant, fix bayonets and load times nine,” Wofford ordered.

  Volley fire and the concussive reports of the battery on the hill created in the fresh fish a state of anxiety and fear; though the noise and activity were all new to them, there was little to be done but keep the men under control. The fight was rolling their way. They were still unpracticed in loading, having only gone through the motions hitherto, but now earnest was the need to load and come to the ready. Philip watched from the rear of the line as the men fumbled with their cartridge pouches. A heavy leather flap covered the opening, intended to prevent cartridges from flopping out if a soldier forgot to fix the clasp of the flap to the hook on the bottom of the box. It was intended to be an easy reach with the right hand over the right hip to unclasp the latch and feed the fingers into the top tins, which each hold ten rounds. With practice, it became second nature to do. But these men had not had practice. Cartridges were fluttering to the ground, and men were darting out of formation to chase them down. To a veteran infantryman it wouldn’t matter; there were more cartridges in the tins. These were not veterans. Sergeant Preston was yelling the numbers and berating anyone falling behind. Paul was one of them.

  “Pearson! Stay in formation! Get another goddamn cartridge! No one falls out of formation!”

  Philip winced. His brother, Pine, and Bushy hadn’t made any further attempts to slip away, but this would be when they might, in the confusion that always entails a fight.

  It was painfully slow, the loading times nine. They might get off one volley before being charged if they had to do this for real. Ripping cartridges too low, several men gagged and spit profusely while trying to load what was left of the powder down the barrel.

  “Use your forefinger, the forefinger! You want to lose that thumb? That last round you fired might still be smoldering. You just dumped more powder down the barrel, an’ you might lose that thumb if it goes off while you’re picking at the mouth!” Ramrods came out of the slots th
at ran along the muskets’ wooden grips and clattered to the earth or stayed only halfway pushed down as the men tried to do all of this with one hand, holding on to the weapon with the other with the butt planted firmly between their feet. More ramrods fell to earth as men lost their grip on the return thrusts out of the barrel. Philip sensed a keen embarrassment among the newcomers, as the men of the 3rd Michigan were observing the show.

  It was painful to watch, especially given the raucous noise of battle rolling toward them. The loading complete, Captain Wofford had the men lie down prone. It had a calming effect on the company, giving a sense of protection and being out of the way of random fire. Battery F remained on the ridge, firing into the now-visible enemy battle lines as they marched to confront those making slow headway to get out of the way. The whole of the Federal line was bending backward and converging on the Memphis road. Behind them, several hundred yards away from where they marched, a thunderous report rolled toward them. Phillip turned quickly to see a large puff of smoke from one of the battery positions near the town. The siege guns, twenty-pounder Parrott rifles, were adding their own fire to that of the battery upon the ridge. More infantry were marching up the Memphis road and past the 3rd Michigan, followed by a troop of cavalry.

  The gunners of the 3rd Michigan stood by their pieces as if on inspection, rigid and still, waiting for the next thing to happen. There were no targets in range, and their role was to present a warning to any loitering enemy cavalry. For the 21st Ohio, it was an odd position to maintain. Philip stood with Wofford and Lieutenant Chapel observing. There was much to observe. There were minutes of silence as both sides maneuvered and the Federals retreated and turned to stand for more delivering of volleys before turning once more or being turned. The enemy pushed his forces around the flanks or by force of numbers to get close enough to deliver deadly volleys. The Federal commanders were trying to keep their regiments from standing too long and being punished, and the enemy was endeavoring to close or trap whom they could to cut them to pieces. It was a rolling fight.

  A large group of riders made for the Memphis and Chewallah road junction. A general, by the look of the column, two or three riding behind a single man in the lead and a cloud of others trailing behind, all with shoulder straps of gold.

  “What battery is this?” the general asked.

  “Sir, 3rd Michigan, Stanley’s Division,” the lieutenant answered.

  “And you?” the general motioned to Captain Wofford.

  “Twenty-first Ohio, replacement company, attached to Davies’s division.”

  “Oh? Who sent you?”

  “A Major Garesche in town.”

  “Garesche? You spoke with the commanding general? He tell you to march up this road with only . . . how many muskets?”

  “Yes sir, thirty men, sir. But sir, these fresh fish are just from Ohio and barely schooled. I can’t say that I’m confident of how useful we will be.”

  “Can they hold a musket and fire? If they can, then they are needed. Captain, what you see behind me is the whole Rebel army come crashing down on us. Your men will be of need before the day is out. Hold your position there for the time being until our lines are established, and then I want you to report to me.”

  “Who may I say I’m reporting to?”

  “Thomas Davies, whom you were ordered to report to, Captain.”

  “Sir, we will hold here until your line is set. But sir, I must protest the use of this company for anything but fatigue detail. We have thirty muskets, two officers, and a chaplain, and I can say, sir, if I may, that we are not good for a fight.”

  “Noted, Captain, but you will hold here until I establish my new line and then report to me and I’ll find a place for your company. You should expect to do some fighting, is that clear?”

  General Davies turned his mount and trotted off to where one of his brigades was executing a right flank off of the road and marching into the open field in march column.

  “You bring your carbine?” Wofford asked Philip, glancing down at the puny-looking weapon resting against his right leg. Compared to the musket, the carbine was small. “I know I said I expect you to deal with the wounded, but I didn’t think we’d be stuck here in the line of fire. I’ll ask you to forget you a chaplain for the time being; that is, if your conscience allows for it.”

  Sergeant Pence glanced over at Wofford and then at the carbine and puckered his lips. “You sure ‘bout that? No offense, Chaplain, but we in for a fight.”

  Philip looked down at the weapon and shook his head. “I know we agreed, if you think it best—my conscience is clean. I’ll post on the left of the company. If we start taking casualties I’ll help the wounded off; watch the fresh fish or they’ll go three or four to a man to get out of the fire if it comes to that. Otherwise I’ll fight.”

  “I’ll not command you, but don’t go wandering off either. These men will need to be kept steady or we’re likely to stampede.”

  Philip nodded and took the carbine to the left of the company, where he knelt down. His rate of fire would be two or three times the infantrymen, and especially these fresh fish. Philip agreed with the captain’s estimation of the readiness of these men for anything but wielding a spade, and he himself was less than useful standing around waiting for someone to be shot.

  Paul looked up from where he was propped up on his elbows. He was in the front rank, his musket lying under his right arm, looking worried. No one was joking or talking, the performance of war engrossing every faculty. Another crack of thunder from behind and the screaming of a tumbling shell that slammed into the far hill made them all jump. Soon, too soon, they would start to hear the whiz of minié balls, spent ones at first coming to earth or nicking some piece of clothing. These would produce welts and superficial wounds but be harmless. Once the enemy lines got closer or they found themselves on the line, the danger would become acute.

  The brigades on their left front were moving slowly backward, but those on their right, belonging to General Davies, were making more rapid march, and the enemy was closing just as rapidly. It was nearing noontime.

  The man lying prone next to Philip, the sergeant who’d been attempting to school the new volunteers in the rudiments of the soldier, asked, “You think you gonna make headway against the natural instinct, sir? Drink and gambling is what the army is full of, even the officers. Why fight against that?”

  A succession of loud reports from the 2nd US artillery position drew their attention to the hill. A brigade came across the Memphis road at the double quick, its regiments almost going at a run; they were eight hundred yards ahead but giving it all they were worth. The officers on horseback trotted alongside as the hapless infantry tried to keep in march formation through the uneven fields. Closer at hand, General Davies’s regiments were forming brigade by regiment several rods in front and to Philip’s right, across the Memphis road, with more coming down the road toward them.

  “Can’t say that, Sergeant. Can’t convince a man he’s not just for this life if he don’t see it, but a day like today be enough to convince him that it could end,” Philip replied at length.

  “That indeed, sir. You was at Pittsburg Landing?”

  “Ammen’s Brigade. Colonel Ammen organized the 24th Ohio an’ was promoted to brigade command. We spent a rough night in the rain and rougher day pushing them from the field. This is a minor skirmish compared to that day.”

  “We been in some scrapes, but nothing large. We was marching to Alabama when you was marching to Pittsburg Landing. Garrison duty mostly. Thought the war was going to pass us by.”

  “You enjoy your visit home?” Philip asked.

  “Didn’t make it to Steubenville, but being back in Ohio was a good bit more sightly than Alabama in the summertime, sir. Not many answered the call to volunteer; county’s picked clean of volunteers. They say a bounty can be had from some states for volunteering.”

  “Did you witness the trouble in Huntsville with your Lieutenant Colonel Neibli
ng? Captain Wofford told me about some of the troubles in the regiment.”

  “Yes sir, Captain Canfield is an upright man, as is several of the other officers of the regiment, but some is not worth a damn. And all over some runaway niggers. They was the worst thing we had to worry about while we was there. Never saw any other disruption to the regiment other than what to do with them contrabands.”

  The brigade crossing their path was falling into battle line as fast as the regiments could race into position and form company front. Pushing forward en echelon, they paused—a brigade in front of them was actively engaging the advancing enemy line and masking their front. The 2nd US was still firing for all they were worth.

  “We saw plenty of them in Tennessee and Kentucky,” Philip said.

  “Well sir, it was like someone pitted Democrat and Republican against one another, like the election all over again. Half the regiment wanted to keep every contraband that wandered into camp and half wanted to return them. We done more fighting among ourselves than the enemy thus far.”

  “But was it really mutiny?”

  “Close; Neibling was doing what he thought was best for keeping the peace in Huntsville, but Canfield and the others wanted to show the planters that what they lost was to stay lost if the slave had run away. We didn’t volunteer to help escaped slaves escape. I think the regiment needed right employment.”

  Another crack of volley fire from the 2nd US, and the brigade fronting the enemy turned about and retreated toward the Memphis road on their right while the brigade behind pushed forward with a cheer to replace them. Coming toward the 21st Ohio and the 3rd Michigan was a stream of wounded, gingerly stumbling or being carried along by comrades. Bloodied in every way, the wounded brought a sobering reality to the volunteers who were overawed by the display all around them. Another general and his staff rode up to the battery to confer with the lieutenant. Philip wandered over when he noted that Captain Wofford had also been summoned.