The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3

by Phillip Bryant

  The enemy charge, now checked, became a reversal as they found themselves all alone. Backpedaling, they began a series of about-face marches before turning to open fire once more. Sufficiently recovered from the shock, the 2nd Texas resumed its forward momentum before it too was cut off from the rest of the brigade, the left of the 15th Arkansas now in the air. Wounded from both sides lay in the way—men with hands mangled, arms lying limp at sides, chests heaving bloody stains, legs shattered. They were stepped over as gingerly as possible.

  With a whoop, the Texans pressed forward, and Rogers slowed the advance to reconnect with the left of the 15th Arkansas. Keeping an alignment was difficult with the ground cut with rolling hills and trees that grew thickly in places; it was easy to pull too far forward and leave someone else hanging in the air. General Moore was ranging back and forth in the rear, directing his front. The enemy was even pulling his battery off of the heights, a puzzle until Michael saw why—a line of Phifer’s brigade came into view, having marched around the enemy flank and forced the retirement. The regiment was no longer the subject of enemy shells.

  As they well knew from their former occupation of this part of the line, the ground between them and the city was hilly and covered in bushes and trees, with only an occasional field cut by a farm. Atop the ridge vacated by the enemy battery sat a tall two-story house owned by one of the founders of Corinth, Hamilton Mask. It was still there. Its location had made it Beauregard’s headquarters, as it was an easy ride to any part of the northern entrenchments, with many an evening spent in the coolness of the spring around its gardens. It would now become the target of every Yankee gun as Phifer’s line moved by it. Guns were training themselves upon the ridge, and eruptions of earth sprang forth in a deadly rain of debris and shrapnel. Those gardens would be trampled by hoof and wheel, feet, and now exploding ordnance.

  The man who owned the house and its gardens was a prominent merchant in Corinth, making his living not on the land but by sending its foodstuffs to all points east, west, and south. Michael had been introduced one fine evening as they entertained the officers of Maury’s division. The garden was modest but comfortable, and the manor was everything that Michael had always envisioned of a stately mansion with its lush greenery and lavish appointments for living the life of a gentleman.

  The social call at the house, with smartly dressed officers chatting amiably and the wives of the prominent citizens of Corinth the center of attention by all, was the closest Michael had ever felt of the life his father had been after. With the enemy not far away, the atmosphere had not been one of total relaxation or gaiety. It had still felt like they were all about to suffocate under the impending doom of the approaching siege lines. The garden parties had been few.

  Now it was in reverse. The enemy wasn’t holding, and the Confederates were the ones approaching from the north and west and breaching the old line easily. Hébert’s division was on their left and was now taking the brunt of the fighting, with the enemy trying to form around a road junction; Hébert was giving them no respite, payback for the humiliation of the retreat after Iuka the week before. They were advancing down the Mobile and Ohio railroad and the Memphis road, just as the Memphis and Charleston line cut across Michael’s front and ran in a southeasterly course before cutting east and through the town. General Moore directed the regiments to angle with the run of the line, straddling it with the 2nd Texas and then the 15th Arkansas and forming the leftmost regiment the 23rd Arkansas in the first line, with the 25th Mississippi forming a second line of regiments behind the 2nd Texas and then the 42nd Alabama. Bledsoe’s battery was unable to deploy immediately due to the ground and trees. They would get their chance to mount the ridge where the Curlee House was and have a clear field of fire on the whole of the Yankee line.

  The Memphis and Charleston line ran between two hills, one forming a long ridge which the Curlee House stood atop. The other, a small, fingerlike set of hills where a branch of Elam Creek ran, was too rough and rocky to mount any guns or be defensible. It now formed a nice avenue of advance, with the enemy battery cleared from the Curlee House grounds. Just beyond, the enemy was trying to throw regiments along this line of march to impede the Confederate progress.

  “Finally!” Michael caught himself saying to no one. The head of Lovell’s division came into view from over the top of the Curlee House ridge, pressing toward the junction of the Chewallah and Memphis roads where the enemy was attempting to re-form. “Where were you an hour ago?”

  Making a march in a grand division with brigades deployed and divisions all converging on a single point was breathtaking. Michael hadn’t seen this vista since Shiloh, especially when shot and shell were falling about and the enemy was falling back. Price’s Army of the West had seen this scene before, the enemy falling back, their own columns converging rapidly. What was missing was their artillery, the enemy’s finding good ground to defend but their own unable to support the infantry advance. The only thing that could mar the scene and the victory was daylight fading. By the sun, it was nearing late midafternoon. Michael saw they had but little time left to clear the enemy formations if Corinth was to fall today.

  The enemy was still in control of the town. What was more, not all of his line was falling back. Some were attacking. As the 2nd Texas came into view of the Chewallah and Memphis road junction and cleared the south end of the hill, the heavy firing of musketry was coming from Cabell’s side of the line. Bledsoe’s battery, now freed from the trees, mounted the ridge where the Curlee House sat, the one decent piece of ground on this side of the field, and went into battery to shell the Yankees still scrambling down the Memphis road toward Corinth. Other batteries were pulling out of the thickets to deploy in support of the brigades of Moore and Phifer. The enemy was establishing a shaky line that bent at right angles to each other, with one almost back-to-back with those trying to slow the 2nd Texas and the 15th Arkansas. With Phifer’s brigade on the heights and Moore’s coming through the narrow defile along the railroad tracks, they were in position to keep pushing the Yankees back. Not all had gone well, however, even though the enemy had been given little respite.

  After clearing the works earlier that afternoon the brigade had drifted, the two wings of the 2nd Texas also drifting to make way around the natural obstacles in their path. Michael saw it happening, but he needed to keep in contact with the 25th Mississippi on his left. Rogers, with the other wing, was doing the same as the 15th Arkansas was drifting too far to the right, opening a gap in the 2nd Texas line. They encountered an armed camp with entrenchments and cannon that barred the way. Michael’s wing, drifting as it was toward the camp already, moved to attack while the other wing drifted the opposite way. The 25th Mississippi was on his left, and together the grand assault was made—and trouble began. The camp was not as lightly defended as it appeared, and Michael soon found both he and the 25th were unable to make any headway. Michael was committed, but his battalion and the 25th weren’t enough rifles to force the enemy out of the position. A regiment from Cabell’s brigade was sent for, as well as Rogers with his wing of the 2nd. The trouble was, Rogers was already fuming that Michael was not keeping contact with his wing of the regiment, and Rogers needed help. It was too late. General Moore, seeing the pickle, sided with Michael. The position had been taken after another assault and a prize hauled in of the captured battery, but the plum was regarded as less of a prize as Rogers came charging up to Michael to let him have it.

  “You keep well up, Major! You keep your battalion well up! I find you doing that again, I’ll arrest you!” Rogers said angrily as he pulled Michael a few paces to the rear.

  “Yes, sir!” Michael saluted, keeping his lips pressed tightly together, the urge to repeat the same accusation dying on his tongue.

  As daylight faded, with it any hope of breaking the unionists and capturing Corinth, a loud and continuous roar of musketry caught Michael’s attention, from a direction that was supposed to be under Confederate control. To th
e northeast, along the rough ground that extended along the tracks of the Ohio and Mobile rail line, cut by creeks and trees that undulated like a snake, a fight was happening—and almost behind their lines!

  With sounds of fighting approaching their rear, Michael jogged the length of the regiment in the rear and reached Colonel Rogers just as a courier from General Moore arrived with orders.

  “Colonel Rogers, General Moore wishes you to change front to the east and advance to the Memphis road. The 25th Mississippi will come and form on your right flank and re-fuse its line to front the enemy, protecting your right. An enemy division is attacking from the east along the M and O rail line and has now crossed it.” The lieutenant handed Rogers his orders, scribbled on a piece of paper.

  Michael listened to the courier rattle off the orders, trying to picture what was happening; deploying two small regiments to confront a whole division! The enemy was supposed to be beaten, not attacking.

  “Major, execute a left half-wheel on your leftmost company, and when you draw even with the left of the regiment, move forward to the road, keeping the color company as guide,” Rogers ordered, emphasizing the latter part brusquely. Rogers regarded Michael intensely, the drifting apart of the regiment earlier still fresh in both their memory.

  “Sir.” Michael saluted and ran back to his wing, trying to ignore the remark.

  As dark descended, each wing of the regiment half-wheeled. They formed two separate lines, separated by several feet. Once each rightmost company reached its guidepost, like swinging a door open on its hinges, the two lines would march by the right oblique until hitting the Memphis road.

  The rattle of musketry was drawing closer, and in the falling darkness a crowd of skirmishers came into view with intent upon gaining the Memphis road. Other Confederate units were shifting position to meet the new threat, some marching north away from the enemy line forming outside of town. Cannon fire from the batteries that had redeployed was directed at the attackers. Whoever was attacking was going to be trapped themselves as the regiments faced east.

  As Michael led his wing in the right oblique, he watched retreating soldiers run over the irregular ground and re-form. Soldiers ran in mobs of dozens, followed by a cloud of men scampering away—like scaring up a warren of rabbits that scatter in every direction at once. Anger flashed in Michael’s eyes as several men bowled through his companies and caused some of his own men to run with them.

  “Rally on your own colors!” Michael shouted at one burly sergeant who tried to bust his way through the company marching directly behind Michael. Grabbing him by the cartridge sling, Michael swung him around and gave him a vicious kick, sending the man sprawling to the earth.

  Several regiments of Hébert’s division, trying to re-form, were scattered again by volleys from the attacking force and ran pell-mell through the ranks of the 2nd Texas. Bledsoe’s battery opened up once the way was cleared of friendlies and fired over the heads of the Texans waiting to receive the charge. On they came, despite the shot and shell landing all about them. The roadway was firmly in Confederate hands, but the enemy was not deterred by the resistance. Colonel Rogers called a halt and ordered the regiment to lie down. The momentum was out, the enemy at the crossroads allowed to withdraw safely, the Confederate left flank crumbling. Michael caught his breath and watched the last act play out, wondering if they had won this day at all.

  Other batteries were pulling up beside Bledsoe’s on Curlee House Ridge, and the reports of their fire added a surreal glow to the fading light of dusk. Moore’s regiments were aligned so as to form an elongated hook around the open field, with Phifer’s brigade forming a second line behind them in reserve. Yet, on the Yankees came.

  “Rise up!” Colonel Rogers commanded, and the regiment sprang up from the earth, an unwelcome crop of death that grew in an instant along the roadway that had looked to be free of obstruction a moment before. At the command of “ready,” the regiment bristled with weaponry, and at “aim” leveled steel-pointed musketry toward the oncoming Federals. At “fire,” the line exploded, as did that of the 15th Arkansas to their left and then the 23rd Arkansas next to the 15th. Silence.

  The enemy line staggered to a halt, surprised at the sudden fire, no longer marching forward with confidence but watching their numbers cut down. The shock was permanent. The single brigade attempting to cut the road was outnumbered and outflanked and halted before withdrawing back into the fading light. The position held, and with no further orders forthcoming, Rogers put the 2nd Texas to parade rest. The line relaxed; pipes and foodstuffs emerged from haversacks, and conversations broke out as the Texans loosed pent-up tension and stress.

  Michael trooped the rear of his line and counted noses. The companies were down some men, lost to wounds or to carrying wounded to the rear. None of the officers had been wounded, and the lieutenants and captains took charge of their companies, quietly visiting their men as they stood in line and leaned on muskets like old men on walking sticks, too tired to stand erect or too worn out to do anything but hug the barrels of muskets in exhaustion.

  Colonel Rogers and a smattering of his command staff were talking in a circle some distance behind the rear line. Major Harden, the surgeon, was there as well, a man Michael liked and who often put forth incredible efforts to see to the men’s health and fitness. Today Harden was looking sweat-soaked and haggard. He was a towering man who stood a good inch above everyone else in the circle.

  As Michael let himself come down, the attack on the camp and the splitting of the regiment came back to him. Less than ideal, it had happened. Yet Rogers had become outraged and let loose his tirade for all to hear, even Moore. Now that there was nothing to do, he couldn’t help but brood. Rogers had been out of line, he was sure. The split had been out of his control.

  “The wounded are being laid out by the old works; ambulances are heading toward Ripley now. We’ve had casualties report to the brigade station, but coming down this way, I happened on several others too wounded to walk far,” Harden was reporting when Michael approached.

  “Sir, left-wing companies report five killed, twenty wounded and missing,” Michael said.

  Rogers gave Michael a quick glance and curt nod in acknowledgment before saying, “General Moore’ll want us to change front soon, but we won’t move for a spell; the enemy’s still retreating to the town, so we’ll wait until we know he’s bottled up.”

  “Can we send details to the Curlee House an’ fill canteens? Men haven’t had water for over a day,” Michael asked.

  The Curlee House was now some hundred yards behind them and hidden by the darkness and trees. It would be home to the only well in the area. The creek running parallel to the Memphis road that cut across the area they’d just crossed had been deemed unhealthy when they occupied the works months before, befouled by an army without adequate sinks and marshy lowlands that prevented good camp discipline with refuse.

  “Go and check the creek first. If it’s good water again, start sending men from each company with canteens. The Curlee House is far to our rear now, but if the creek water is foul, send details to fill canteens from there.” He glanced at Michael. “I don’t want my men getting lost in the dark.”

  Michael waved Lieutenant Hoff over. “Go and see if the Elam is any good for water for canteen details.”

  Michael remembered this part of the countryside from the months the army was entrenched around Corinth. Just walking cross-country was a chore in daylight. The hills and the creeks made the whole area difficult to traverse and more difficult to keep an army healthy. Mosquitoes plagued the region in the summer months and early spring, and the terrain made it difficult to move across country with wagons and artillery. The roads cutting through the earthworks were the only secure way to move back and forth between Corinth and the works. The marshy lands in between meant the army had to dig its sinks near the camps, an unhealthy state of affairs in the rainy season.

  It was utter darkness after 6 p.m., and but for s
ome lights that could be seen in Corinth, half a mile or more away, the whole countryside was pitch black. You could hear them, though—the two armies were moving about. Down the Memphis road heading in the direction of the town, traffic was easily heard; artillery wheels and caissons rolling along the dirt road as well as the noise that teams of horses make as they strain against the traces. Columns of marching feet could also be heard, hundreds of men marching away in the darkness. From the direction of the Confederate lines, wheeled traffic along the Memphis and Chewallah roads was heard bringing rations, ammunition, artillery, and soldiers. Only a portion of Price’s army was engaged this day; the other divisions behind Maury’s and Hébert’s were coming down the Chewallah and Memphis roads to marshal for the coming assault on a beaten enemy. The wildlife were still hushed, cowed by the noise of a fight that had rolled through their habitat. The crickets resumed their chirrup, but the birds had abandoned the area. The light sounds of conversations and laughter were heard in the black.

  As Michael waited for Hoff to return from his errand, the conversation with the command staff was punctuated with minor details about supplies, provost detachments, camp guard, pickets, and getting the companies prepared for an evening in the presence of the enemy. Rogers was keeping it civil for once. If Michael had done anything wrong, it was to outdo Rogers as commander. Michael listened for details as the other officers related what they’d encountered, but his mind was soon drifting back to Rogers making a scene.