The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3

by Phillip Bryant

  “Mower’s brigade is coming on line over there.” The general pointed toward the brigade making its advance. “Hold this line, Lieutenant. And you, what company is this?” the man asked Wofford.

  “Twenty-first Ohio, detached to General Davies.”

  “McCarther’s been sent to take command of the left; he’ll be falling back shortly to this intersection and relieve your company. The enemy’s pushing all along the Kossuth road and the Chewallah.” The general addressed the lieutenant once more. “Be ready to pull the battery back another two hundred yards to the rear.”

  Ahead, Mower became engaged, and firing all along its line, added to that of the 2nd US battery in its support. The enemy was inching closer, and minié balls began to sing overhead.

  “Once they pull back, we’ll fall onto the road and report to Davies,” Wofford said and walked back to the company. It was a question of timing now: would a regiment arrive to relieve them, or would the enemy on their left push Mower aside and threaten to overrun the 3rd Michigan battery? There was still some distance between them, but anything could change in a moment.

  Philip returned to his spot on the left of the company line. The noise from the firing was louder, and all eyes were on their front. One of the regiments, the leftmost, surged forward at a run. The enemy, stunned by the reversal, retreated—but not very far. What was more telling was the sudden silence of the 2nd US position on the hill behind Mower’s line. Drawn to the hill, Philip saw what appeared to be a relief column of infantry approaching from the far left, just beyond the flank of the battery. With their line lengthened, they might just be able to hold out.

  Mower’s brigade suddenly began a precipitous retreat, regiment by regiment, as well as the 2nd US Artillery, which rushed down the hill toward the Memphis road. Cresting the hill, a long line of infantry presented itself in clear relief, the stars and bars fluttering defiantly. The whole line was being flanked, and the Federal troops were now in a rush to make it to the crossroads held by a lone battery and a pitiful company of raw volunteers.

  Out of an intervening wood came several regiments of infantry bent on making for the crossroads, followed closely by the jubilant Confederates who crested the ridge line and poured down its face. General Stanley raced across the field to direct the retreating columns to another position, but the confusion looked to be a mess of regiments running for the rear while others calmly marched as if on parade. Straddling the Memphis road, another long line of Confederate infantry showed themselves determined to press further, and troops under General Davies started making noise. The 3rd Michigan opened fire for the first time, and the noise was terrific.

  Wild-eyed and panicked, the fresh fish looked about them as some started to rise up to get a better look around. Philip gripped the carbine tightly, the old fear creeping across his chest, a tightness that brought breaths in quick, heavy exhalations. He’d killed countless Rebels before, as part of an anonymous massing of fire at an enemy battle line. That had been his job as an infantryman. It wasn’t his job any longer.

  “Lay down!” commanded Sergeant Preston. “Stay down!”

  Private Pine and the one called Bushy started. First one and then the other got to their knees, but not to fire—to run. Or that was what Philip read in their expressions. Bushy was in the rear rank and more easily gotten to. The movement caught Paul’s attention on the front line as Pine was a few men down from him.

  “Lay down, damn you!” Sergeant Preston bellowed.

  Philip reached Bushy first, merely a step or two from his position, and forcefully pushed him over. “You run, you’ll be shot for sure right here,” Philip shouted into Bushy’s ear.

  At Preston’s barking, Pine went back down again.

  “You’re safest lying down; ignore the singing of the lead above you. Don’t show the white feather,” Philip said in a louder voice to be heard by all. “There’s no better place to be than next to these guns.” As soon as the words were out of his lips, he inwardly cringed. This was the worst place to be. Every Confederate on the field had one thing in mind other than killing Yankees, and that was taking souvenirs. The best one of all was a cannon.

  With whoops and yells, the enemy on their left came with a rush. General Stanley was busily guiding regiments toward the crossroads, but the oncoming Confederates were making better time. The leftmost gun of the 3rd Michigan changed front and began firing over the prone line of the 21st Ohio. Philip had barely time to dig into the ground himself when the gun went off. The noise and the rush was engulfing; fierce heat and ill wind rushed by them with each discharge. The 2nd US pulled up and went into battery nearby, adding to the tumult.

  “Rise up!” shouted Captain Wofford. “Rise up!”

  The noise was sucking all sound save for the thunder of the cannon, and the fresh fish stood up singly or in pairs, looking bewildered and half-mad.

  “Rise up!” Wofford shouted again, his voice drowned out by the 2nd US artillery firing by section. Philip sucked in a breath of acrid air, his legs tingling with energy.

  “Fall in on me!” Wofford called out and waved his sword about. Men began ducking away from the business end of the Napoleon as its crew impatiently waited for them to clear the way.

  There is always a brief moment, when something happens to cause confusion in a formation, when that formation will either come to heel under command or totally break apart in a mass of retreating men. As the fresh fish were moving to the location marked by the captain himself, movement past him caught Philip’s eye. Rattled by the unwelcome experience of having death be dealt mere feet above his head in a stream of fire and smoke, he’d lost sight of the three jackrabbits.

  Spinning around, he saw Bushy running for the road. The man had a head start but was within arm’s reach. Philip snagged his cartridge belt and heaved backward, pulling Bushy off his feet. As if by cue, another figure brushed past. This time it was Pine. Grabbing the boy by the shoulder, Philip spun him around.

  “Get over there! So help me, I’ll shoot you myself!” Philip shouted. Heaving Bushy to his feet and spinning Pine around again, Philip shoved both men toward the gathering company. That Paul hadn’t also bolted gave him some small consolation that his own pride wouldn’t be further wounded. Acting First Sergeant Preston grabbed hold of the two men and manhandled them into their places, giving Philip a wry look.

  Pulling the company into a front between the two batteries, the captain aligned his men, his arms outstretched that they might form the line upon him. Breathing heavily, the men were out of their wits. General Stanley was still getting his brigades into position to resist, but no one was deployed yet around the pieces that continued to shell the oncoming Confederate line. The batteries in town added to the discharge of shot and shell. Philip noted the wild-eyed expressions of the privates as they looked this way and that, waiting for someone to come and get them out of there or to charge forward.

  Philip took his station at the left of the company line and gripped the carbine tightly, watching the gunners of the 2nd US work their pieces. The onslaught peppering the oncoming enemy appeared to phase them but little—the enemy marched through the shot and shell as if on parade. Advancing in two double lines of infantry one behind the other, there was little to oppose them from the scratch line General Davies was putting together.

  The 2nd US fired by section once more and then limbered up, racing across the open field followed by the 3rd Michigan. Everyone was headed south, toward the town.

  Captain Wofford looked about. Anyone with a blue uniform was now either well behind them or running for their lives down the Memphis road.

  “By the left flank, double-quick march!” Wofford shouted, and the company broke into an irregular column of fours and jogged as well as an infantryman can move in formation with a musket and other equipage. The infantry of Stanley and Davies were rushing to form up several hundred yards to the rear as the lone company ran for the road.

  “Don’t fall behind!” Philip called to t
hose in his front as he ran beside the rearmost file of four. Captain Wofford, gripping his sword and carrier on his right shoulder like a musket, ran alongside the left man of the front file, followed by Sergeant Preston. The fresh fish were sucking air and trying to keep up, but it was inevitable that someone should fall and take out half of the men around him. The formation was now in a jumble as those who tripped rose quickly to keep going.

  “Paul!” Philip shouted as he broke from his position. Three men were still tangled up, with Paul in the middle of it. The others were Bushy and Pine.

  “Get moving!” Philip shouted as he lifted each man up with a jerk. The young lad, Thomas Pine, was struggling to stay steady as minié balls whizzed overhead. Philip lifted his brother to his feet and grabbed his musket. Anyone still left on this side of the line was soon going to be a prisoner as the converging lines of enemy reached where they’d once been lying by the crossroads. The enemy were now boldly advancing skirmishers. There was an uneasy hesitation in all three men.

  “You want to surrender? Do it some other time. Get moving!” Philip shouted and gave Bushy a shove forward.

  Individual shots were being fired at those still left on the road between the lines, and Philip grabbed Paul and took off at a run. The company was already yards ahead.

  Paul, his rifle back at right shoulder shift, was outpacing Philip now.

  “You think you’re faster?” Philip called out.

  “I am!” Paul replied over his shoulder.

  “Keep going, move it!” Philip shouted to Bushy, who was falling behind the three. He was a little on the heavy side and had squatty, short legs. His kersey blue trousers were too long for him—he’d cuffed the pant legs, but the mad dash was unraveling the cuffs, adding to his difficulties. What was more, each man was still loaded down by his pack.

  “Gimme your musket!” Philip grabbed for the weapon and hefted it onto his right shoulder. “Here, don’t drop it!” as he handed the man his carbine, lightening Bushy’s load and giving him a better balance.

  It was a dash of a hundred yards, and across the road the 3rd Michigan was swinging into battery along with the 2nd US and any number of exhausted-looking brigades, men who’d been marching or fighting all day with no water and little food. At intervals along the new line, some at right angles to the Chewallah road as it converged with the Memphis road and the Memphis and Charleston railroad tracks, the infantry regiments of the two divisions formed a line that looked impenetrable. Philip and the remaining two of the company cleared their new line and joined their company as Captain Wofford re-formed the panting men into a company line. With the field and road now cleared, the artillery took up the shelling once more, and the infantry lines waited for their enemy to close up.

  Chapter 7

  Someone Has Failed

  Michael Grierson was trying to keep Phifer’s rightmost regiment in his peripheral vision as he led his wing of the 2nd Texas forward, but Phifer was bearing too far to the right, and Michael’s leftmost company was being compressed.

  Moore’s brigade was still intermixed with Cabell’s regiments as they overcame the resistance in the fortifications and pushed beyond the Chewallah road.

  “Major!” shouted Colonel Rogers. “Halt your wing; the general’s calling for a halt!”

  Michael gave the command to halt. The scramble over the works and rally under fire had made a mess of the brigade’s organization, and regiments had overlapped or their men inadvertently attached to other regiments. Phifer’s brigade, on the left of Moore, continued marching forward. Wayward companies hurried back to their regiments. At least we were in the center, Michael reflected as he counted the companies and found each in its place. All except the 15th Arkansas, who continued following Cabell’s brigade on the right of Moore, its colonel not having gotten the order to halt. Michael watched as the regiment marched forward for one hundred yards along with Cabell’s brigade before being halted and coming back.

  “If we this confused, what the Yanks must be experiencing is double that,” Captain Wyrich commented to Michael.

  “About two miles? Couple thousand yards yet?” Michael asked. The tallest buildings and church steeples in the town lay tantalizingly close, and it was easy to envision an easy walk before one entered the outskirts.

  “And a few thousand Yankees,” Wyrich added.

  “Details,” Michael replied.

  “Moore’ll let Phifer clear our front an’ move us forward again,” Wyrich said as the first of several artillery rounds landed nearby.

  At first the shells whistled in and landed harmlessly far to the rear, but the range soon put shells bursting in their midst. Behind the falling shells marched a brigade of the enemy.

  “Here we go,” Michael said as Rogers swept his saber forward and the regiment stepped off at the right oblique, angling toward the right. It was then that Michael noted that the brigade front was just the 2nd Texas and the 35th Arkansas on their right with the other regiments behind them, a double column of regiments. As he walked, keeping his own path to the right, he watched as the other two brigades gained their own space and the confusion of massed men was being straightened out. He saw that the enemy in their front was also trying to spread out so as not to be outflanked.

  “Forward, march!” Michael heard Rogers shout. He echoed it, and the regiment turned slightly and began to march forward once more. With only a single brigade, the enemy posted in front of the battery and railroad station was vastly outnumbered, and Michael anticipated that they would in but a moment turn and move off. He was disappointed.

  The enemy regiments aligned themselves and opened up with volleys that rent the air with loud peals of thunder. The Texans were in high spirits. Now taking part in the front line of the brigade, Michael felt the same elation brought by apparent victory. But the danger was acute, and the fire falling all around them was reminder that the ground was being won at a price. It might have been spectacular to watch from afar, but approaching a Yankee line waiting patiently for the order to fire brought a sense of terror that he’d never felt before. It was true; he’d felt safer with the artillery.

  The 35th Arkansas halted and exchanged volleys with a Yankee regiment before another Yankee unit came into line next to it, extending its right and putting this new regiment in the 2nd Texan front.

  Colonel Rogers retreated to the rear of the line, as did the other officers, and the contest of wills was on. But for the annoyance of the battery on the ridge, still sending case shot into their ranks, the enemy in their front was already wavering after having only fired twice. Michael trooped the rear of the left wing, shouting encouragements as the command to fire by file rippled from left to right, with each two-man file unloading their muskets and loading to fire at will. The Texans were parched and worn out from the early-morning start and the hours-long skirmishing.

  Michael steadied his own nerves by keeping in motion and shouting anything that he could think of to keep the soldiers calm, though they were probably more calm than he. The first volley the enemy regiment directly in front of the 2nd fired livened the air with missiles and set his teeth on edge. Several men went down, mostly wounded, and began to crawl through the ranks to the rear. Those rounds that hadn’t found a home in the two ranks clipped by him uncomfortably close. As the men paused to reload and the continued shouts by the company officers mingled with that noise called battle, Michael clenched and loosened his hands reflexively over and over again.

  The enemy line was three regiments in length, but with one in reserve close up upon the rear of the middle regiment. The far right of his line gave way as Phifer’s brigade lurched forward with a shout.

  Colonel Rogers motioned to Michael from the center of the regiment.

  “Move your wing forward; the right wing will move forward; keep your alignment on me.”

  The 35th Arkansas also marched forward as Rogers ran to the center of the regiment and ordered forward march. Michael moved his wing simultaneously as the Federals
started breaking for the rear from left to right, leaving the lone regiment in front of the 2nd Texas unsupported on either side. Men began falling out of the line dead and wounded until the 2nd was one hundred yards away from brushing aside their opponent. An officer’s place when moving a line forward was in front, ready to lead by example and direct any change in formation or mark the place to halt. Leading now in front of the left wing of the regiment, Michael was exposed and alone, the terror at its most acute. Pointing the way forward with his saber, watching the tip bobble up and down with his nervous energy, Michael eyed the enemy regiment they were approaching, willing them to finally break for the rear.

  But then, instead of turning to retreat, the regiment in their front charged forward! A yell and a sprint brought three hundred bayonets charging straight at them. Michael didn’t wait for orders from Rogers, but halted his wing and ordered a volley. With a crack, his wing cut into their attackers, stunning them but not stopping their forward progress. Rogers had also halted his wing, and they’d had time to loose their own volley when the enemy closed the distance. The Rebels would have slammed into them had Rogers not ordered a retreat of his own. With no time to order a proper evolution of formation, the whole regiment broke and ran some paces back, where they re-formed the line. The tactical retreat was enough to suck the wind out of their attackers and give them time to re-form before delivering another volley.

  “Pour it on, boys! Pour it into them!” Michael shouted as he walked the rear of the line. Company officers leaned into their ranks to steady and control the men; the regimental staff and first sergeants barked commands. Minié balls whizzed through the ranks and overhead. The rear rank, steadied by bodies in front, went through the motions of loading and firing while the front rank did so in mortal fear that any moment the next sound they’d hear would be their own choked screams of pain. Michael was glad to be back in the rear of the line, the sight of the enemy charging directly toward him enough to age him sufficiently to have his fill of command and the responsibility of leading from the front. What he experienced for a brief moment, those in the ranks faced each time they formed in the face of the enemy. Never was he more glad than right now to be a major and not a private.