The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3

by Phillip Bryant

  Michael grasped Captain Wyrich by the arm. “Be prepared to step off when you see me move forward. When Rogers’s wing steps off, we step off!”

  “The Yankees, they’re breaking!” Wyrich shouted in return as one by one the enemy regiments confronting Hébert’s brigades on their left began falling back through the town.

  “That battery’s going to give us hell!” Michael replied.

  “The boys’ll give it back!” Wyrich shouted with a grin.

  “You watch yourself,” Michael said earnestly. “It’s going to get rough.”

  “Look, on the left; they driving them in!” Wyrich shouted. “Boys, the enemy’s runnin’!” he called out to his company. The enemy line was in full retreat on their right, but the enemy in their front was not budging. He was intent to stay.

  Chapter 12

  Hold This Line

  The Indian fighting between the skirmish lines was coming to an unpleasant end for the fresh fish of the 21st Ohio, the Rebel no longer content to just pop up and fire at his enemy but to boldly advance, the force of his battalions behind him in battle order and stepping off with purpose.

  Paul was just getting used to the routine, and it seemed that if this was all war was, it was not too bad. It was certainly less dangerous than standing erect and waiting for the enemy to come and bowl one over with well-aimed fire. It had been like this now for over an hour, the enemy making himself as small as possible and firing only when he had to. If this was all the enemy did, they might just all make it out alive.

  “Pearson, we may just make it out of this.” Bushy was in the process of bucking himself up, echoing Paul’s own thoughts, until the rustling noise grew louder and the Rebel skirmishers stood up and crept closer.

  “Ready!” Paul shouted. He looked to Pine, who was trying to roll over onto his back to load.

  Bushy, on Paul’s left, was raising himself up to peer over the bushes in his front.

  “What?” Paul called.

  “You, you better look!” A panic in Bushy’s voice stirred Paul to risk a glance of his own.

  As Paul rose up to take a look, a minié ball sung over his head, rustling his hat as the projectile sailed on. The enemy skirmishers were walking toward him, some firing as they moved—individuals in gray and butternut uniforms, some walking as if nothing was happening, others crouching along, but all moving with intent. Behind them, in close formation and banners waving, came the brigades of Hébert’s division, the battle lines stretching as far as Paul dared to observe with a quick look. It was time to leave, but no order came.

  They were an uncomfortable three hundred yards from the regimental line of Mersy’s 22nd Ohio. The only thing to be said for the enemy advance was that the enemy artillery fire had slacked, freeing the prospect of a hurried retreat from the threat of being cut in two by canister shot.

  “Don’t do it!” Paul shouted as Bushy ducked back down and tensed, assuming a position that would easily spring up in a dead run to the rear.

  “They comin’, you seen it; they comin’!”

  “Wofford shoot you plain you run now!” Paul replied.

  “Ready,” Pine called.

  Paul raised up. The targets were in plain sight, no longer dodging up and down as they had been all morning long in the distance, but easily seen and aimed at if you took the time to aim and ignore the shots being fired at you. He fired, and a man went down. He was there one moment, and after the kick of the musket and billow of smoke, he wasn’t. He’d not seen anyone go down in that whole hour of taking hurried potshots at whatever showed itself. The fire was intensifying as the enemy skirmishers loaded and fired as they walked forward, pausing to take a knee and discharge before coming on again.

  “Skirmishers, up!” Wofford called. “To the rear, quick time, march!”

  The Federal skirmishers were going to do a fighting withdrawal to keep the enemy from being overbold in their advance. If loading while lying prone was difficult, so was loading while trying to keep the feet moving. One was an imperative: get out of the way. The other was an act of defense: keep up a rate of fire. Some of the motions required a steady hand, and stopping to perform them meant falling behind.

  There was no pretense now of watching who was loaded and ready and who wasn’t. Each man fumbled along as best he could, and the crack of discharges rang out as rapidly as the fresh fish managed to perform the steps.

  When the enemy skirmish line was nearing the range of the 22nd Ohio’s muskets, Wofford ordered the men to rally on the regiment, orders that were sweet to Paul’s ears.

  All dignity cast aside, every man turned and ran as fast as he could go, aiming for the far right flank of the 22nd. Bushy and Pine were careening wildly about, trying to outrace everyone, with their equipments flapping in the wind. The other skirmish companies were filing off to the other flank of the 22nd, and the field of fire was clearing. Taking only a few minutes to get out of the way and into the rear of the 22nd Ohio, Paul started to slow down when Bushy and then Pine rushed past him. They were already safe and out of the way, but they were not slowing down.

  “Pine!” Paul shouted after the boy and took off himself, only a step behind him.

  “Pearson! Pine!” Sergeant Preston shouted angrily behind them. “Fall into line!”

  “Fall back, fall back!” someone behind Paul started to shout.

  “Shut up!” Captain Wofford shouted. “Fall in, 21st Ohio; fall in on me!”

  Again, the two were bolting for the rear, and again Paul had a choice: keep going or turn now himself and let them go. The others had talked about turning the white feather and what a disgrace it would be. Disgrace was sounding highly practical right now compared to standing and being shot at more. What would his brother think? At this moment, he didn’t care what anyone thought. His feet and legs couldn’t stop moving toward apparent safety.

  “Halt! Halt! You men, halt!” Lieutenant Chapel’s voice called after them. Out of the corner of Paul’s eye, he caught Chapel breaking into a dead run after them.

  Pine was within arm’s reach, and Paul grabbed his shoulder. “You want to get us all shot?”

  “Lemme go!” Pine protested and tried to take another step forward. The menacing calls of Chapel were coming very close.

  “You’re safe now; time to re-form!” Paul shouted. Pine shrugged Paul’s grip off and lunged forward. Bushy was already a few paces ahead and turning on the steam. The line of the 22nd Ohio was in front of the Purdy road and anchored on Battery Powell, the big earthwork that their adopted brigade deployed around. There was a few hundred feet of open space and a ridge running at right angles to the Purdy road before it entered the town. The ridge line was funneling the wounded and the scared alike into Corinth.

  Paul slowed down, then stopped, the sounds of angry footfalls behind him. A moment later Lieutenant Chapel came abreast of him and stopped. Pine was still running, and Bushy was brushing through a line of reserve regiments stationed several hundred yards behind.

  “Pearson! Were you going to keep going?” Chapel asked, angry and out of breath.

  “No, sir. Trying to catch Pine,” Paul lied. Up until he had reached for the boy, he was himself intent on not stopping. He wasn’t sure why he had changed his mind.

  “Then fall in on the captain!” Chapel commanded and then took off after the other two.

  Paul turned and trotted back, the company just getting back into its double line as the enemy in front was coming up in full battle array. With regimental and national colors proudly coming on, the enemy advanced in a double line of massed regiments. Paul took his place in the line and avoided eye contact. The others knew of the predilections of all three men.

  Now, as the enemy battle line was closing in and the real stand-up fight was about to commence, Paul questioned if he shouldn’t have continued to run.

  “Wait for the order,” Wofford was shouting as the regiment stood at order arms. Men were already going down, reeling from the shock of shrapnel or minié ba
ll strikes, and the enemy was approaching, firing as they came.

  The order to fire by company came, and each company from right to left gave the enemy a volley. Even the 21st was finally able to do something. Several men had already been nicked by fire, causing painful cuts and bloody wounds but nothing serious. The enemy fired a volley that rushed through the ranks. It was deadly earnest, this war, and the men going down were adding to their anxiety. Of the company, all were still standing, but the other companies in line were taking casualties and men were crawling off to die in their rear.

  Paul was fumbling with a cartridge when Lieutenant Chapel returned with Pine and Bushy and shoved the two men to the end of the company line. They looked frightened, and Pine’s reddened cheeks showed he’d been crying. The others were too busy to pay them much mind. The enemy in their front let out a cheer and charged forward.

  It began somewhere down the left, away from Battery Powell and down across the narrow valley between the ridge and the Purdy road. A trickle of fleeing men, quitting the line in pairs and singly. Crowds of soldiers in the tens and twenties next, running from the advancing Confederates before the enemy had come within shouting distance. Panic. Then it was everyone, whole regiments turning about and retreating. Where once a line of regiments stood, now was nothing but abandoned cannon and triumphant graybacks filling the void. Discipline and rote action, obedience to superiors and pluck kept the regiments in line, and as long as one’s pard was at his elbow, he could stand a moment more. Discipline and a close formation keeps the urge to act on self-preservation at bay, but once enough men panic and turn tail, it is a contagion that spreads. Even the most stalwart of veterans can succumb.

  “Twenty-first, follow me!” Wofford shouted as they flew across the Purdy road and past the huge battery position that all thought would provide psychological protection and strength.

  Paul ran because the men next to him ran. If he was a coward, the whole army was a coward. Instinct pulled the men of the company together, and though there was no official formation for running like jackrabbits for dear life, the fresh fish kept together tolerably well.

  “Stay close,” Paul shouted to Pine, who was running next to him. He looked bewildered and lost. Now Chapel, Wofford, and Preston were running along with the rest.

  “Don’t make no sense,” Bushy was shouting behind Paul. “It’s not cowardice if we all do it?” It was undignified flight, but they were all equally undignified.

  Philip was busily walking another wounded man back to the surgeons when a sudden noise drew his attention toward the front. It wasn’t the enemy cheers or yell alone, or the sudden ferocity of musketry, or the sudden silence of artillery fire from the guns around Battery Powell. It wasn’t just the cries of panic-stricken soldiers or solely the sounds of rushing teams of horses straining at their traces. What drew his attention was the sound of a stampede and the tremors from the ground as thousands of men ran, and all of them toward him.

  Beyond the now disintegrating Federal firing lines, the Confederate banners were outrageously close. They weren’t just waving in a stationary position but moving toward him. Then out of Battery Powell streamed a panicked mob of blue, followed by several limbers with cannon racing down the Purdy road. The 21st Ohio company were somewhere ahead or should have been, but Philip had lost track of them after they were thrown out as skirmishers.

  Incredulous, Philip stood transfixed as whole regiments suddenly turned about and fled toward him. Yards and houses stood in the way of the fugitives, as well as reserve artillery parked with limbers waiting to be refilled and wagons trying to get out of the way. The wounded would be overrun, but what was more dangerous were the frightened artillery teams that were beating a hasty getaway through the lines of infantry as they attempted to retreat across the only road that would lead them through to safety, perpendicular to the line of retreat for all of Davies’s division as they fell back.

  Wild, screaming horses tore into regiments as they tried to backpedal in a fighting retreat. Men became crushed beneath the hooves and wheels of caissons and cannon, and officers attempted to keep the regiments from running as they scattered to get out of the way of the artillery. The triumphant enemy stood to, unable to keep advancing due to the bedlam in their front and cheering as if they had planned it.

  Philip deposited his man and then ran toward the chaos, through a sea of frightened faces, in hopes of finding the men of the 21st. He still had the carbine; it was habit now to pick it up after depositing a wounded man with the surgeons and walk back with it clutched like a priceless heirloom. He wasn’t even sure it was loaded; he had thought to check it several times but got distracted. The only man in the army with a weapon he hadn’t even fired yet.

  More artillery was flying down the road, packed with panicked soldiers. No one was willing to stand in the way of several hundred pounds of horseflesh being driven madly by overzealous drivers. Several times a line was formed just to one side of the road, only to be broken when another team would attempt to run the gauntlet and scatter anyone who was in the way. Philip fought his way forward and came to the corner of a house whose yard was strewn with fuses and boxes of ammunition, broken fence rails and evidence that several batteries of artillery had once stood in the yard. Now there were just wounded and dead.

  A sense of panic set in, not for the obvious danger to himself but for the whereabouts of Paul. Even if he knew where Paul was at this very moment, his fate was in another’s hands.

  He must have cut a curious sight: a man in a plain black frock coat, captain’s bars on his shoulders but no sash or sword, carrying a carbine and a pocket full of brass rounds for the rifle, peering around the corner of the house with chips of paint and wood raining down on his head as rounds impacted. It was not for saving souls that he was armed and tensed, but for killing. He was ready to kill anyone who might suddenly appear in front of him intent on causing harm. He could take down several men in the time it might take for a man with a musket to load and fire at him or charge him with a bayonet. A loud report jarred the house and bounced him off the side he was leaning against as a solid shot tore through the structure. His own army was now rushing back across the road with the enemy following close behind, and the fighting preacher was looking for something to test his carbine against.

  Running like wild horses came a sea of blue fugitives who swept past him yelling and shouting. Philip, stunned into reality by the sharp detonation against the house, followed suit as the enemy appeared in a long battle line. As far as Philip could see, regiments and brigades were falling back, and the enemy was turning captured artillery pieces upon their former owners. Adding to the danger, the Federals were taking a heavy fire from their own batteries on the hills south of the town.

  Through town, down streets filled with screeching horses and hollering teamsters, soldiers were staggering along with bloodied arms; wild, riderless horses trampling anyone in the way; grapeshot tearing into buildings and plowing through formations attempting to hold the line; officers cursing and soldiers shouting. Philip ran along with the crowd around him and beheld the very gates of hell. There was nothing to stop the enemy from pouring through the breach and occupying Corinth. The battery on the other side of the town, near the railroad crossing, was still firing, and the battle flags of Fuller’s Ohio brigade were still in front. But that line was now going to be flanked.

  Philip looked for the men of the 21st as he ran through the crowds. The 22nd Ohio regiment was nowhere to be seen. Neither was the brigade they’d been standing with. There was little time to pause; more men were running past him as he ducked onto the porch of a battered house.

  “Fall back, fall back!” shouted a squad of soldiers as they rounded the corner of the porch Philip was crouching on.

  “Sir, what do we do?” someone shouted to Philip.

  “What?”

  “Where are we falling back to?”

  “He ain’t our officer!” another man shouted.

  “Keep r
unning; we fall back further.”

  “Sir, what do we do?” a corporal pleaded with Philip.

  Philip looked at the man. What else, keep running, is what he wanted to say. The enemy is on your heels, man! Save yourselves! The words were on his lips. There was only one thing for men separated from their command to do: find their pards and and re-form on their colors. That is what a soldier does, fights for his pards and under his own colors.

  “Re-form!” Philip heard himself shout. “Re-form!”

  “You mad?” one man replied.

  “Form squad,” shouted the corporal. There were fifteen to twenty men, looking weary and excited and all ready to bolt if so much as an enemy drummer boy should show himself and chase them with his sticks.

  “Form here!” Philip shouted as he bounded over the wood railing of the porch and grabbed hold of the corporal. Around the corner of the building, in the direction of retreat by which the mass of soldiers were coming toward them, all was bedlam. The banners of the enemy could be seen behind them, fluttering in defiance and marching with purpose toward Philip’s little line. “Form on the corporal!”

  Dutifully the men fell in two ranks and formed a minuscule little firing line. Other regiments were forming ahead of them and attempting to make a stand, but the enemy line lapped anything that was barring the way. Behind them were soldiers milling about in twos or threes and wounded men crawling away for a place to die in peace.

  “Hold here, hold here!” Philip shouted. The soldiers were winded and puffing heavily. Fighting was going on all around them, the cannon fire continuous and the shouts of the enemy menacing.

  As more men ran past, Philip grabbed who he could lay his hands on and shoved them into the left of the line, forming a respectable company as Captain Wofford of the 21st tore around the corner, coming face-to-face with a line of infantry.

  “Wofford,” Philip shouted.