The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3

by Phillip Bryant

  On the hilltop, Lieutenant Browning had troubles of his own. His first sergeant returned with the news that Captain Brown had been climbing the hill when a skirmish line materialized like a row of ghosts, making quick time toward them.

  “First squad, drag the piece down the hill; company, form skirmish line!” Browning shouted. There was nothing clear to shoot at, just shapes moving toward them that suddenly went to ground and began firing.

  As the captured piece was manhandled down the slope, Browning ordered his men to reverse march and follow the gun. The rounds were now whizzing over their heads and passing their ears with increasing alarm. Rolling the heavy piece down the hill was slow going, as it wanted to barrel down, taking the squad with it. Their fellows ran over the crest and backed down slowly, firing as they went.

  On the other side of the company line, Will was watching with some amusement as the other company of Yankees tried to figure out who was the more dangerous—the artillery piece rolling toward them or the skirmishers who were inching forward now from two directions. Firing was now happening all down the line as the rifle bursts down the hill revealed enemy skirmishers confronting the other cavalry troop moving on their left.

  “Forward five paces!” Will shouted as the line rose and walked forward in leisurely style as if this were just a drill. Will didn’t know if they were hitting anything, but they were making a racket and acting menacing, which was just as good given the darkness. Will had even gotten off a few rounds, something he’d rarely done during a fight. His role with his own troop would have been to see to his men and alignment and orders, with little time to even think about firing at the enemy.

  Lieutenant Dunkle’s other half of the troop appeared at the edge of the ridge and began descending as well. The enemy company in front of Will was backing away slowly. They had yet to fire, though were formed so as to deliver a wall of lead in any direction they chose. Will could only surmise that they had no idea of what was coming toward them in the black.

  “First Sergeant! Take command of the skirmishers!” Lieutenant Browning shouted and ran down the rest of the hill and over to Captain Brown’s company.

  “Damnit, Lieutenant; you go galloping off like that again . . .”

  “Sir, we’ve about gotten the gun away safely; I’ll keep my company in skirmish formation if you want to keep falling back!” Browning said, ignoring the terse rebuke.

  “We’ve got I don’t know how many enemy coming down on us! Halt your company and re-form in company front!” Captain Brown ordered.

  “Sir, I’ve a skirmish line advancing on me. Who knows if the enemy isn’t moving in force behind them? I re-form, they’ll gobble me up!” Browning replied.

  “Damnit, Lieutenant, if they have a line advancing on us we need to form to meet it!”

  A volley rent the air, with a flash from the crest of the ridge. A barely visible line of infantry stood on the hilltop, with more advancing.

  “Lieutenant, keep your men in skirmish formation and keep falling back; I’ll move my company to the rear at the double quick,” Brown said, changing his tune.

  The volley made Will jump. Suddenly there were infantry crowding the hill, and the two skirmish lines were alive with fire, like fireflies. The Yankees in front of them turned and vanished into the night.

  Lieutenant Dunkle’s skirmishers rolled down the slope and halted at the base of the hill, continuing to fire in the direction the Yankees had taken. Will ran over and slapped Dunkle on the shoulder.

  “Bully; that was some bully of a time, Lieutenant; an opportunity I never get!” Will said enthusiastically.

  “Thank you for taking command of the other element; once they disappeared down the slope, there was nothing I could do to keep both halves moving,” Dunkle replied in earnest.

  The enemy skirmish line was also trailing back, a path traced by their receding fire. In a few minutes all was quiet once more.

  ****

  Back down the Purdy road leading into Corinth, the two chastened companies of the 63rd Ohio were marching with caution as the gun rolled along on human power. Captain Brown called a halt and a brief conference with Browning.

  “They no way we can take and hold this road; enemy as thick as fleas up there on the ridge and in the woods. We just got lucky running up on this gun. We captured the battery commander and his bugler,” reported Browning.

  “Sprague didn’t say anything about returning. We’ll post the companies as planned on either side of the Purdy road and wait for daylight; your detail can continue getting the gun off,” Captain Brown said. “Any casualties?”

  “None.”

  “Every man present in my company as well; just a show of noise. Re-form your company on the right side of the road, and I’ll halt mine right here; keep in sight of my right, Lieutenant,” Brown ordered.

  “Sir.” Lieutenant Browning saluted and walked back to his company, sighing to himself. The captain had almost had his whole company gobbled up; Thanks to me, he didn’t, Browning thought as he moved his company as directed.

  ****

  As soon as it had started, the firing sputtered out, leaving the troopers on the skirmish line watchful but relaxed. Will knelt some paces from the rear of the right wing of Lieutenant Dunkle’s troop and peered into the darkness. He could only guess as to how far away the enemy skirmish line might be. Everyone had gone to ground, but there was little to distinguish man from bush or shrub in the half-moonlight. The fun had been short-lived; now the boring nature of outpost and picket duty returned. Even in the face of the enemy, there was abnormal quiet. It would be light soon. The infantry attack would begin and the troop would be pulled out for flanking operations, Will surmised.

  Even before light, the first boom of cannon behind them rocked the ground, followed quickly by another and another. The batteries upon the ridge were throwing shells blindly into Corinth. The concussions were terrific, and Will swore he could feel the rush of heat blow past his ears and beat upon the back of his neck. Firing began once again from the enemy’s skirmishers as little specks of light flickered down a lazy line that meandered with the topography. It was silly to return the fire—no one could see what they were aiming at—but the troop commenced firing anyway, adding to the sense that something was about to happen.

  Will flattened himself to the ground. The gun crews behind him were working the pieces as fast as they could, but the enemy batteries in the town and arrayed on the outskirts were returning the fire, and by the number of flashes emanating from their line, they had the advantage. Rounds were also falling amidst the skirmish line. As the light of morning crept across the sky, he could see the skirmish line was five hundred yards away from the fortifications that were anchored by a huge battery emplacement with high walls and a row of abatis in front. The enemy positions were closer than he’d thought, and Dunkle’s men would all soon be the targets of enemy return fire if they stayed. With visible targets to shoot at, the troopers were popping up and down to fire and reload under cover of the shrubs.

  Off to his left, nearer where Lieutenant Dunkle was, a volley rang out close at hand. Will popped his head up. Two companies of infantry were clustered near the road leading toward the town, and they were prudently backward-marching as the daylight exposed them to fire from several quarters.

  ****

  Companies G and B of the 62nd Ohio were again in a pickle. Having performed their mission of holding the Purdy road and bringing off that gun, they had overstayed their welcome as the enemy batteries on the ridge opened fire on the town, and soon after the enemy skirmishers began firing at them. It was time to either run or surrender, as far as Lieutenant Browning was concerned.

  Captain Brown ordered the companies to form line as if he’d intended to push on up the road once more.

  “Sir,” Lieutenant Browning protested, “we need to skedaddle; enemy’s up that road, an’ orders said nothing about taking on the whole Rebel army ourselves.”

  “We were ordered to ho
ld this road,” Brown snapped.

  “They turn canister on us, and they won’t need to do nothin’ but sweep us away what left standing! It’s still dark enough to get away!”

  “Form line to the right of the road, Lieutenant!”

  Browning grabbed his first sergeant and yelled into his ear, waving for his company to fall in on him. They were safer strung out in skirmish formation, but the captain had other ideas. Once formed, Browning shouted, “Lay down, lay down.” If they were going to stay, he was going to make as small a target as possible.

  The men obeyed, gladly lying prone with rifles curled up tightly under right arms, ready to fire if ordered. Only Browning himself stayed upright, hurriedly looking to the right and left and to any direction that might prove to be a problem.

  Captain Brown’s position on the left side of the road was drawing the attention of more than just random skirmisher fire as the nearest gun atop the ridge changed its position and showered them with a blast of canister. As daylight revealed the predicament of his own position, the captain ordered his company to about-face and put them at the double quick, leaving Lieutenant Brown in place either by forgetfulness or by neglect. Browning didn’t wait to determine which, putting his own men to the rear in like manner.

  ****

  Again Will was treated with an amusing display as he watched the Yankees turn tail, but it was soon over it as his own position became hot. The bigger guns in the battery positions were starting to fire; huge rounds raced overhead and slammed into the ridgetop. The Yankees had lots of cannon in and around the buildings and outskirts of the town, and battery after battery wheeled into position or opened up from the ridges on the opposite end of town.

  One by one, the fire from the batteries behind him were silenced as the crews dragged the guns back from the top of the hill and vanished from sight. The enemy cannon kept up their fire, and more of it landed amidst their skirmish line. Now was the time to attack—or Will thought it might be, given all that preparation he’d seen earlier—yet no one stepped out, no infantry showed themselves. The rumbling of cannon fire could also be heard to his right, on the other side of the town, as the forts there woke to the possibility of the renewal of battle.

  The now-vacant ridge was swept with the cannonade, and nothing could cross it without danger of being felled by shrapnel. The woods further back from the hill were crowded with infantry; the space now being swept with artillery fire would have to be crossed for the attack. Will was glad he was in the cavalry and not expected to march through that.

  ****

  “General,” Captain Cummins shouted above the din of cannon fire, “our battery positions on the ridge are catching hell; the enemy guns are raking the ridge with solid shot and explosive. The position is untenable.”

  “Has Hébert stepped off?” General Price asked, agitated by what he was observing of the position his artillery had been posted on in the dark.

  “I don’t know, sir, I’ve not seen any movement from the left,” Cummins answered.

  “Send to General Hébert and find out why he’s not started the attack,” Price shouted to Lieutenant Morrison.

  “Sir, the ridge is too close to the enemy line, and the crews are getting pasted with fire from the town and on the hills to the south. Darkness gave us cover for a time, but we were too close to their line and too exposed,” Cummins added.

  “They weren’t supposed to be there for long! Hébert was to step off at first light and hit their center. Tell Maury to hold his line.” Price fumed. All night long the rumble of wagons had been heard entering the town from the north and east as the enemy received reinforcements. Now that it was light enough to see, it was clear the enemy also had plenty of cannon and were not shy about using them.

  “Cummins, pull the batteries off the ridge; they will need to have enough strength to follow the attack forward,” Price ordered his inspector general.

  “Sir.” Cummins saluted and turned on his heel.

  A man on horseback flew past Cummins as he ran down the Purdy road to reach the batteries on the ridge. “General Price, sir, General Hébert wishes to relinquish command. He is unable to take to the field, sir, to order the attack.”

  “What?” Price exploded, startling the man. “Is the general ill?”

  “Sir, I believe so, sir. General Hébert is unable to attend to his duties at the present, sir.”

  “Damn that Creole!” Price snapped. “Who has he placed in command of his division?”

  “General Green, sir.”

  “Tell Green to get his division moving forward, now!”

  “Sir, Green moved his brigade back behind a hill to get his men some food and water and is just now coming under fire from enemy batteries in his front.”

  General Sterling Price was dumbstruck. He’d marched his army around Mississippi the past thirty days with no letup, fought an evening battle only a week before, and reluctantly joined Van Dorn so he could capture Corinth, marching another grueling three days over rough roads with little water and fighting another battle to push the enemy from their old works. He had fought them all day until dark, and now that they were about to launch into the town, his dispositions had gone to hell. This would not have happened had General Little not been killed at Iuka. Hébert had been elevated to command the division and had performed well up to this point, but this sudden lapse was inexcusable.

  “Green took over for Little when he fell injured at Iuka; he should know better than to pull his brigade back right before they were to assault!” Price stormed up and down the hill where they were observing the bombardment of the town. They could see the batteries being wheeled down the hill and out of the way. “Tell Green he is to move to the assault at once; Maury’s brigades will follow once they see him moving.”

  As the cannon fire slackened, another sound replaced it: the rapid firing of skirmishers from the direction of Van Dorn’s divisions. From his perch, Price could make out through his glasses a strong line of Federal skirmishers advancing.

  “Are they attacking?” one of his aides exclaimed.

  “By God, pray not!” Price said. From the sounds of it, the enemy was being aggressive.

  As if they knew something he didn’t.

  ****

  “We’re forming skirmish line,” shouted Lieutenant Chapel into Philip’s ear.

  “Seriously?” Philip asked.

  “The 22nd Ohio is being sent out as skirmish line for the brigade to flush out the Rebels in the wood.”

  Philip ran to the company line as it fell in. The 21st had watched the elephant brush past them and almost over them yesterday, but now they were going to be thrown into its path once more.

  “Say a prayer, Chaplain,” Wofford quipped. “Won’t ask you to go out with the skirmishers, so hang back for the wounded. If we form line, be ready.”

  The morning had started with the abrupt sound of artillery raining shells around them and then the peppering of fire from the enemy festering the woods in front. Philip hung back as the fresh fish executed a halting skirmish formation, with men looking to each other for guidance on how far to go out, how far apart to spread themselves, and what it was they were expected to do once they advanced. Philip followed at a distance, ready to give direction or help the first wounded soldier from the field. The skirmishing was lively, the Confederate skirmishers advancing with intent.

  Colonel Mersy’s 22nd Ohio halted and took a knee, waiting for the enemy to close up before engaging. The full-on battle had not yet commenced, but the noise was terrific, overpowering the ears as the artillery batteries, scattered on any high ground about the town, fired into the woods. Philip kept an eye on Paul, who was nervously looking this way and that as if expecting to have to defend from any quarter. More skirmishers were being rushed further to the front on his left as the ground became choked with woods and outbuildings, obscuring any view of the enemy and offering haven for enemy sharpshooters who had been taking a toll since first light of anyone close at h
and who raised themselves into view.

  “You want to fire first, or should I?” asked Paul. Bushy was on his left and Pine on his right. Both men had started out this morning looking peaked.

  “You go first,” Paul replied. They had been drilled to make sure someone on the line had a loaded weapon in case the enemy should suddenly rush them.

  “When do we fire, Captain?” Pine asked, turning over his shoulder.

  “When you see a target,” Captain Wofford shouted as he slowly walked up and down the company rear, shouting encouragements and instructions to the jittery men. “Don’t wait for a command. You see a target, you shoot at it.”

  The ground they covered was uneven and strewn with brush and bushes, leaving very little to see of the enemy unless he stood or knelt in order to fire. Most vanished soon after firing, to load and keep out of harm’s way. Skirmish detail was the only time it was permissible and even encouraged to kneel or lie down, and if you could fire and load while prone, it was the best of all possible worlds. But the underbrush made it extremely difficult to see anything to fire at, so the men all down the line were given to rising up for brief seconds to scan their front for a target and fire. Casualties were mounting.

  The first was a young man who was barely five foot three, whose thumb and forefinger were carried away by a minié ball as he rose up to fire. Philip ran over to the man as he lay writhing on the ground moaning and cradling the stricken hand to his chest, the thumb still clinging to his left hand by a patch of skin. Several men, his comrades in battle, attempted to help him off, but Philip ordered them back to their positions. It was clear from their eyes that they’d already had enough of war and might not have returned had they the chance to drop their friend off at the hospital and then just disappear into the cloud of shirkers and malcontents who always made up the rear of an army in battle.

  Philip grabbed the wounded man and hoisted him up, throwing his right arm over his left shoulder and walking briskly.

  “You hit anywhere else?”