All he needed to do was walk up the road. He fancied he would do just that, act like he knew where he was going and was on some official errand for his master. But the road was being swept with fire from the cannon in the town. Shells burst above it and rained shrapnel along its course. Stealing himself, Seth crept up to the caisson and peered over it. He wasn’t carrying a weapon, so why would anyone shoot at him? The town lay several thousand yards ahead. An easy run, a short walk, a simple trek. Little puffs of smoke popped up on the outskirts of the town and from within the field. Soldiers were out there taking potshots at one another. Seth jogged forward and took cover behind a tree.
“You mad,” he said to himself. “You mad, Seth. You think you get through dat.”
Ravines and shrubs lay in the way, but little else to provide cover. The road seemed to be the focus of all of the fire coming from the Union lines, and the Confederate soldiers were avoiding it accordingly. Seth took off at a run, skirting the road running parallel to it. Huffing and puffing, he willed his legs to carry him faster and faster. Then he felt it, or heard it. Something whizzed by his ear. It sounded like a hornet, an angry one. It came and went as if sailing past him at frightful speed. Then he heard another, this time above his head, just where his head might have been had he been standing upright. Ahead, the puffs of smoke were coming from Confederate soldiers as they knelt or stood and fired at an enemy he could not see. He was a quarter of the way to the town when he tumbled upon a Confederate soldier lying on his back.
Seth fell face-first, and the man uttered a curse. Seth spun around and beheld a young boy with bloody hands holding in his guts from a creeping hole in his side. He was shaking uncontrollably and trying to keep himself from bleeding to death, but Seth’s blundering into him had set his wound to bleeding now more profusely.
“What . . . watch where you . . . you stupid, damned nigger . . . oh God, oh God, what you doing?”
Seth looked at the boy wide-eyed. There was nothing he could do or say. The blood was leaking out of him quickly, and he was turning pale.
“Oh, oh, oh, oh God, oh God, oh . . . “ The boy laid his head back and convulsed.
Seth felt sorry for disturbing him, but he could not bring himself to feel much else. He may have only been a boy, but he was a boy in service to a country or cause that would have gladly seen him in chains forever.
The boy slowly relaxed. His hands fell from his wound, and he lay still. Seth stared at him some moments, waiting for him to move or breathe or show some other sign of life.
“God forgive me; de Lawd forgive dis boy, “ Seth said and looked to the sky.
****
Will stood up in his stirrups and leaned far forward upon the neck of his mount to get a better view; movement in the grass fifty yards in his front caught his attention. It was a black head that ran parallel to where he sat watching, then disappeared from view. The man was out near where the skirmish line had just passed and another man had gone down. Will had been watching the skirmishers’ progress when one of them suddenly flopped to the ground. Then that black head ran to the same spot and vanished. He didn’t have any glasses, but he was sure it was a black head.
Will smiled to himself. Seth had moved toward the fighting. “Damn rascal!” Will said aloud. At the foot of the hill, the gathered infantry of Moore’s brigade awaited the order to advance. As Will was deciding what to do, the brigades stood up and moved. Then the field erupted with violence.
Will jumped a little as every gun the enemy possessed suddenly seemed to be firing on the same spot. Solid shot and case shot descended in quick concussive blows, and the ground reverberated, several rounds falling atop the hill. More were finding earth along the axis of advance for the hapless infantry having to walk shoulder to shoulder into an inferno. I’ll wait for the attack to finish, Will decided. I’ll collect Seth once the battle is over.
****
A whoop and a sudden crescendo of noise brought Seth ducking close to the earth. Cannon fire intensified from the town’s defenses, and the ground trembled with concussive reports, vibrating with explosions. Another sound—or was it that he could feel it more than hear it? The sense that thousands of footfalls were making their way toward him. The tromping of feet in close order and getting closer to where he lay. The air simply whooshed, filled with projectiles flying over his head, some coming to earth just beyond him, things that brought a rush of hot air that brushed over him like a disagreeably hot wind.
Then he saw them: drawn out and marching in formation were Hunter’s people, these Rebels who formed in neat little lines and marched mechanically toward the belching fire of the Union cannons. Their officers marching in front with swords extended, privates, corporals, and sergeants marching shoulder to shoulder as if they were not the targets of what seemed to be hundreds of cannons that were bent on tearing them apart.
Looming above him, a line of infantry passed over, men with dirty faces, dirty uniforms, and dirty accouterments whose officers looked grim and prepared to die. Like ghosts they crossed his line of vision and were gone. More lines could be seen marching forward, and Seth was taken aback by their willingness to march so resolutely toward death. Death was all around and taking a harvest indiscriminately from both sides. Still crouching, he lifted himself up, unable to resist watching despite the continuous fire that was shifting and falling closer than he liked. The Rebels were still marching forward, and even further down the field they were charging into the Union lines.
There were thousands of them, Rebels with weapons, and all intent on marching into the blazing fire of the town’s defenses; nothing was going to stop them. Seth crept forward, trying to keep low to the ground but intent on watching. If the Rebels took the town, he’d have no place to go at all. If they didn’t, they would come pouring over him once again.
****
Michael watched the progress of Phifer’s and Cabell’s brigades as they advanced. The fire from the enemy batteries was ripping the field apart, sending geysers of dirt and shrubs into the air. Being on the receiving end of that kind of fire brought a lump into his throat. He’d seen it happen, even caused much of the destruction he was witnessing falling all around the other brigades and soon his own. Looking at the faces, the officers and the noncommissioned officers, he saw only weariness. If he could separate from his body and somehow escape the coming fury of the charge, he would do so.
What he wished for right now, more than anything, was a priest and a confession. Not only were he and his men no longer in support, they were going to be in the front. He’d confess every time he’d watched a solid shot tear into an opposing line, rending arms, legs, and heads from torsos. Perhaps this might make his impending death more acceptable. Moore’s brigade was to have stayed behind Phifer’s as support, but last-moment orders came and they found themselves marching and coming on line with the rest of the division. Now they had just to wait for the order to advance—advance across that open space, the one being ripped to shreds.
“Make sure your wing makes for the railroad!” Colonel Rogers was shouting in Michael’s ear. “The general wants us to concentrate on that battery there.” Rogers pointed to the massive earthwork rising like an unwelcome boil, bristling with cannon of heavy caliber.
“You push on through the junction and hit that battery, I’ll bring the right wing through that gap there, and with both we’ll charge into it. Don’t fall behind or get ahead!” Rogers glared at Michael.
Michael nodded, brushing aside the rebuke, his attention on the butchering unfolding before them. “They closing on the left, over there!” Michael broke in and gestured off to their left. The stars and bars were closing with the enemy lines and even going over them.
“That’s Hébert’s brigades! They going to need support if they take that line!” Rogers shouted.
“Hébert’s got them on the run!” Michael said loudly so the men nearest him could hear. “Look!”
A cheer rose from the men, a ragged but relieved shou
ting from men who did not relish a march across the field only to be flanked if they made any dent in the enemy positions.
“God’s speed, Major!” Rogers said and offered his hand. “See you in the enemy works!” Rogers’s face lightened for a moment, his dislike for Michael on a professional level mellowed by the undertaking they were both about to enter.
Michael instinctively offered a salute and stopped short, extending a hand in return, surprised at the gesture. Rogers took it, even warmly. With a nod, Rogers released Michael’s hand and turned about. Michael watched Rogers walk slowly down the rear of the regimental line, wondering at the turn. Perhaps he thought this might be the last time they ever exchanged words.
Michael ran down to the middle of his wing. As the regiment stood in line waiting for the command to go forward, the company commanders were on station at the right of each company front, standing at attention with swords tucked into their shoulders, each company with its first sergeant behind the commander and first corporal to the captain’s left. In this position the company commanders could guide the progress of their company as it marched forward, forming the guide position that each man in turn guided his step and direction from. As Michael jogged down the line, he stopped at each company commander in his wing to impart instructions for the advance.
Coming to Captain Wyrich, he leaned in and grasped his friend’s elbow. “Keep your company in line. Guide on the colors, but make for the railroad crossings to the right of that large battery yonder.”
“Yes sir, Major,” Wyrich replied.
“You watch yourself, Wyrich, this ain’t going to be an easy assault.” Michael squeezed his friend’s forearm before letting go.
“Keep yer head down, Major,” Wyrich replied grimly.
Michael continued down the line, but the crescendo of battle rose, as did his anxiety. There was little to do to protect oneself or keep one’s head down. The fire was going to come zipping by, and one round would find its mark and he would go down, regardless of how he kept his head. His friend could keep his own head down and meet the same fate as any other man who might occasion to creep forward and raise himself to look just in time to catch one between the eyes. Being truly careful meant being a coward, and feigning some illness or excuse to avoid the battle line. Those who were on the line were not going to shirk, so the admonition was a hollow one for those now standing ready to march forward. Harm would come to some, or most. It would all just depend on chance.
What was it his former first sergeant in Polk’s battery, Mahoney, would say? There is no luck, but God’s will. God wills some to die, some to be maimed, some to come out unscathed. Michael took his station in the middle of the left wing. He’d come out of Shiloh unscathed, but Mahoney had not, nor battery commander Marshall T. Polk. Polk had survived but lost a leg; Mahoney hadn’t survived at all. But what cruelness was it that either should suffer some fate that neither deserved and that he himself should come out without a scratch? Mahoney was a pious man, a man of religion, and that had not protected him from being killed by one of the last rounds fired by an enemy cannon on the retreat from Shiloh. Marshall hadn’t gone through the first day before he was wounded in the leg. Marshall wasn’t particularly religious, but wasn’t that the problem? Religion didn’t protect the devout, as it didn’t protect the blasphemer. Michael didn’t consider himself either, and yet God had kept him whole.
Here it was a second day of hard combat ahead. Were these men made of better mettle now? Would their hearts propel them forward despite the falling of comrades to the right and left? Michael watched as geysers of earth rose into the air as their artillery bombarded the enemy fort that stood in their way. Counterfire was falling all over the field in front of them, disrupting the advance of Phifer’s regiments and falling all around Cabell’s brigade.
Colonel Rogers advanced, marching the color guard behind him. The other regiments of Moore’s brigade were trooping their color companies forward as well, the brigade colors forming the apex of the brigade advance line with the 2nd Texas on the far left of the line. It was time to step off into the killing field.
The brigade drum corps, positioned behind the center regiment of the brigade, began beating a cadence as General Moore motioned for the advance to begin, echoed by each regimental commander: “Forward, march!”
Michael raised his sword and echoed the command over his left shoulder, and the 2nd Texas stepped off. The brigade colors in the advance with General Moore and his staff on foot leading the way, the regiments from right to left guiding on the center regiment. It was a given to Michael that no one wanted to be there, wanted to walk across the field in the face of the guns. Those who were still in the ranks, who hadn’t long ago deserted or surrendered or managed to find some way into the rear—they were too ashamed to not step forward. Honor and courage were for the after-action reports; Michael only felt fear and trembling right now.
There was little wind, and the banners were listlessly draped upon their staffs. There was always something grand to behold with a brigade in line of battle marching forward. Each element in its place; color guards forward; regimental commanders leading each regiment; double lines of privates, corporals, and sergeants bringing muskets ready to bear upon an opposing line of the enemy; hundreds of men marching forward with single intent. On parade it was impressive; on the field of battle it was earnest and deadly. Those marching forward knew the advantage lay with the defenders. The outcome was inevitable: some would fall never to rise again.
Square in the path of their advance loomed the redoubt, through whose embrasures poked large-caliber cannon, surrounded by lines of infantry and smaller-caliber field guns, all ready to fire death and destruction upon them. The sight stirred the heart, quickened the step, and brought fear to the gut, and Michael experienced all of these feelings at once. Cannon fire arched overhead as their own guns took last opportunity to rain fire down upon the defense lines before the Confederate infantry closed with the enemy. Enemy fire fell well behind them, but their range was adjusting and would soon begin falling on them. The ground before them was strewn with bushes and trees, standing singly or in groups of two or three, from saplings to medium-sized trees, but then a point was reached where all of the trees had been felled, leaving only stumps to mark the spot—a vast open swath that was being swept with canister fire from the Yankee cannon. The railroad junction was visible, with the large earthwork standing to its right and the tracks leading right into the town.
Banners sweeping forward, Michael’s heart beat in his chest, filled with pride and abject fear at once; with the excitement of watching thousands of his fellows braving the fire blazing in front of them; and with the opportunity to exert supreme control over that fear, to keep his legs moving forward despite the voice of reason telling him to dig himself into a little ball in the earth to escape the lead that filled the air. Spontaneous roars of approval swept down the lines of infantry as they beheld themselves marching toward death.
They met a barrier like a sudden gust of wind that whips through a heretofore calm day and blows down anything not heavy enough to withstand being lifted and tossed: a booming of cannon and a roar of volley fire struck, blowing men down like pins before a ball. It hit Michael’s wing with a suddenness that caused a momentary pause in step.
Michael felt the wind blow over his head and pass the hairs on his neck. Turning as if by instinct, he beheld many in the company directly behind him rolling to the ground. The cheers ceased, replaced by groans and cries of pain. The whirlwind, like a Texas dust storm twirling its way on a course only it knew, rolled down the 2nd Texas and then into Cabell’s brigade marching alongside. Men flung arms into the air as if surprised by a sudden punch in the gut or slap in the face and disappeared from view, moments in time that held Michael’s attention and stayed his feet, their feet, from forward momentum. Another rush of sound, and a solid shot whooshed overhead and came to earth just behind the line of battle, taking the arm off the company first sergeant a
nd leaving him marching forward without his weapon and seemingly none the wiser to what had happened.
Michael turned away and swept his sword forward to keep his wing moving, but the fire was now becoming deadly. A gentle breeze of refreshing wind lifted the limp banners, flourishing the stars and bars for brief moments, stirring the hearts of the infantry for one more step.
The cut in the railroad was Michael’s guide point, but that expanse was now covered in dark blue as a regiment rose up from the earth like apparitions in the haze and let loose with another volley that fortunately went high. They had covered the distance separating the enemy batteries and his infantry sooner than Michael would have thought possible through that field of fire and destruction, and they were still standing. Roars of musketry were pouring from the other regiments of the brigade as they came to abrupt halts and cut loose with volleys that tore into the blue regiments formed to contest their advance.
“Halt!” Michael shouted and drew his sword perpendicular to his chest, quickly evening out the line of the guide company, the one directly behind him on which the other companies of his wing would dress.
“Fire by files!” Michael ordered as he beat a hasty retreat behind the last company of his wing. The fire rippled down the wing as each file of two men each leveled muskets and fired and then quickly reloaded to fire at will. The brigade wasn’t moving forward but trading fire with the Federals all along their line of advance, and the enemy seemed to be taking the worst of it.
Michael ranged up and down his wing, grasping his company commanders by the arm and shouting instructions to them. The file closers and the sergeants kept their men firing, and the casualties started stumbling to the rear.
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 91
