The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3

by Phillip Bryant

  “Bring Watson’s forward; Captain Briggs, send to Captain Bursely to bring his guns forward and develop the enemy defenses. Bugler, sound the halt!” Bowen brought his mount to a stop and held his hand up to halt the advance of the brigade color guard.

  Soon the only sound on this part of the field was the rumbling of sixty horses and caissons of Watson’s four six-pounder smoothbores and two heavier twelve-pounder rifled cannon charging to the front of the brigade and going into battery on a rise. The heavier howitzers could engage any target of opportunity all along the enemy line.

  The battery was raised in New Orleans in 1861 by a wealthy planter A.C. Watson from his own pocket. Watson provided four smoothbores and two rifled cannon and the battery had seen good service since joining the theater of operations. At Belmont in November of 1861 they had lost two guns, at Shiloh in April 1862 they had seen light service, and now they were here upon this field. Captain Bursely arranged his guns with the two howitzers on the flanks and the smoothbores in the middle, and within five minutes of rumbling to the rise of ground, the guns were in position and the gunners picking targets to engage. The rifled guns had any target they wished to aim at. Their accuracy was going to mean death and destruction for whatever they chose to fire explosive rounds into. The smoothbores were going to have to lob shells at what was guessed was the main enemy line of infantry and barricades.

  Bursley was also troubled by the enemy silence. They had to know that with his battery in position he was going to be able to do damage to their infantry and whatever cannon could be located once he opened fire. There, from his perch upon his mount, a glinting of morning sun upon the brass barrels of several cannon came into sharp relief upon the otherwise targetless enemy positions. Good. Blowing up barricades was not as satisfying as hitting the enemy’s batteries.

  “Four brass Napoleons, to the right of the earthwork, engage with solid shot. Sergeants Smith and Schexnayder, engage anything that fires from the hills in the distance behind the town,” Bursely ordered his two rifled-gun commanders.

  The gunners finished preparing the smoothbores for their best guess as to how far away the now-visible guns in the line were and prepared to yank the lanyards.

  “Fire by section, by the right of the line, fire!” Bursely called out, and the first gun rocked backward. Its crew rolled it back into place and prepared the next round to be let loose as the second gun was fired. Even before the last gun was fired, the enemy positions came to life.

  The four guns they had spotted also fired as the rounds from the Watson battery landed around them.

  Bursely quickly turned and looked at General Bowen as if to accuse him of drawing his battery into a trap. Bowen himself was too angered to return the glance—had General Lovell been present, Bowen might have given Lovell the same accusatory look himself. Counting the reports issuing from the enemy line and from the hills around it, Bowen could only assume that instead of confronting a small portion of the enemy forces, he was confronting the majority, and all alone. There were too many to count in one glance. Worse still, the rounds were now falling around the Watson battery and his own brigade.

  The rounds missing the battery fell around the Mississippians still standing in line of battle, flinching with each new report from the enemy defenses and waiting for the shell to fall on top of them. Solid shot threw up geysers of dirt and bounded over their heads to fall to earth yards away, and explosive shot rained down shrapnel in a deadly spray. They were safely back from musket range of the enemy’s line, but the cannon fire was well within range of doing destruction if they stayed still.

  “Engage targets at will!” Bursely shouted as he dismounted. He ran from crew to crew, imparting instructions before mounting once more and riding to where General Bowen and his staff were observing.

  “Sir, we can’t stay . . . in that position long!” Captain Bursely sputtered, the excitement taking his breath away as more solid shot fell close enough by to rock the very ground.

  The gunners were racing to do their duty, but the six guns were no match for the twenty or so that were all firing at them and the brigade behind them. The two howitzers were firing into the hills at the puffs of smoke from batteries that were just enough in range to poke at, but the single guns were not doing much good other than attempting to answer in kind. The contest was going to be unequal, and to stay exposed on the little knoll of a hill was to invite eventual destruction.

  The smoothbores kept a pounding response at anything that looked like it might be a gun interspersed amidst the buildings and barricades out in the fields in their front. Eruptions of earth denoted each landfall, but no slackening of the enemy’s fire was discerned. With nothing else to shoot at, the enemy was having a field day bombarding the Watson battery with everything they had on hand. The skirmishers, too, were emboldened by the sudden artillery duel and began to pick their way forward, pressing the Mississippi sharpshooter battalion back.

  General Bowen, annoyed by Bursely’s unbecoming cries and the trap he’d almost marched happily into, was distracted by the halt of Villepigue’s brigade. They had advanced two hundred yards, then halted while Bowen had kept his advance going, leaving a gap of one hundred yards between them and his own flank exposed.

  “Sir, withdraw my battery!” Bursely urged. As if to punctuate his call, a round slammed into the ground behind his middle smoothbore, and the concussion knocked down its crew, barely missing the gun itself. Anxious moments passed as the crew members slowly crawled to a stand and returned to their places.

  “Send to General Lovell, Villepigue halted, my brigade advanced to four hundred yards of enemy line, heavy concentration of artillery confronting me, can’t stay in position but must advance or retreat,” Bowen dictated to a courier. “Captain Parks, send to Villepigue and ask him to forward his Coupee battery and give the Watson battery some support!”

  If the enemy’s strength on his flank was such, what was it on his left and center? General Lovell’s division was not large, Villepigue having command of but two regiments of Mississippi infantry and the Coupee battery. Rust’s brigade was still in reserve. His own brigade was the largest on the field on paper, but the enemy line in his front must be a division’s worth of infantry and artillery with the reception they were giving him.

  “Sir,” Bursely pleaded, “withdraw my battery while I still have one!”

  “Captain Bursely, if we march forward I want your guns to be in place to support my advance!” Bowen replied testily. “Return to your battery, Captain. I will send you your orders if and when I withdraw your battery!”

  Bursely saluted and turned his mount sharply, angrily slapping the reins and galloping back to his guns. There were a few men sporting gashes along arms and legs, but none had been seriously wounded yet, the return fire still landing short or long. Artillery fire was a science with the smoothbores: fire in an arc of the target and adjust once you witness the round land. The rifled guns were another matter, and it was to these that Bursely headed.

  “Adjust your target, engage any battery you see on the enemy’s line!” Bursely commanded his leftmost gun. The two rifled guns could accurately place a solid shot or explosive anywhere on the field without the need to guess at where it might land. The rifling guaranteed that they’d hit on or near enough to their target. They were not making a dent on the batteries ranged about the hills beyond the town, but they might do some good on the shorter-range enemy guns in front of them.

  Within moments, the first rounds were landing right on the enemy line. The crews had fired ten rounds since coming into battery and in the minutes since the enemy guns woke. With his crews working for all they were worth, Bursely turned his attention to his right in the direction of Villepigue’s brigade, waiting for the arrival of the Coupee battery. Nothing was stirring from that front.

  “Sir,” the courier addressed General Bowen, “General Lovell orders you to hold your position but to fall back on Villepigue’s line. Villepigue has been ordered to hol
d his position, and we are to hold our position on his advanced position. We are not to advance any further toward the enemy line.”

  “Damnit, we will still be under their guns if we stay! Did you appraise the general of the enemy strength?” General Bowen pounded the pommel of his mount.

  “Yes, sir. I informed the general of the position and strength of his guns and his infantry that we can see from our position. We are to anchor the right of the line and prevent the enemy from moving troops to the left to support the attack of Price’s divisions,” the courier replied.

  Another rider approached, Captain Parks. “General, Villepigue is not going to advance the Coupee battery and says his orders are to halt on the line he currently occupies. He will not order the battery forward.”

  General Bowen gesticulated angrily, opening his mouth but closing it quickly and letting out a hurried breath, his cheeks flushing red. “Get Bursley out of there. Pull the Watson battery back. Captain Parks, the brigade will march in reverse and come on line with Villepigue. I’m riding to General Lovell and finding out what the hell is going on.” Bowen slapped the reins hard, taking off across the regimental fronts of his brigade followed by his guidon bearer and his staff.

  From the 6th Mississippi line of battle, the men witnessed their brigade commander hightail it away to the rear. As artillery rounds continued to sail overhead and land around the Watson battery, its crews worked to quickly limber the caissons and teams of horses—those horses that survived the pounding—and one by one the guns withdrew from the knoll.

  “What you make of that?” Pops said as General Bowen vanished from their view.

  “We gonna march to the rear,” Stephen said.

  “Better than stayin’ here to be blown to bits,” Earl added.

  There was mixed emotion at the sudden change, followed by questions that no one could answer. “Why we march out? The enemy still in our front!” If there is one thing a soldier hates, it is to be mishandled. March him out and slaughter him in front of a well-prepared position or don’t march him out at all. Either way, he feels he’s done his duty. March him out just to stand in the line of artillery fire and not be able to answer back, that is the waste that rankles.

  With the incoming fire, all were glad they’d not be advancing any further.

  Chapter 16

  Pull Back and Hold Your Line

  Lying prone, hugging the earth, feeling the concussions of the rounds as they landed was trial enough, worse even than a slow and steady advance upon the very guns that now rained down death from afar. Stephen was in his place, in his spot in the line, and pressing himself to the ground every time a new round promised to land too close for comfort. They had retraced their steps and withdrawn from their advanced position, but they halted instead of getting out of the way completely, and the enemy was still bombarding them with iron. Lying prone was one way to stay out of the way of the flying missiles, but not enough.

  Already several rounds had landed on top of them, crushing men where they lay and taking off limbs. Worse, there was no one to take aim at. The Watson battery had gladly gone to the rear, leaving behind a pile of dead and wounded horses but with no serious injury to the gunners. For the last forty-five minutes the 6th Mississippi had lain down and awaited some order to come—to advance or to fall back further and get out of the way of the fire.

  The enemy guns had the range and were not letting up with their fire. Well-placed explosive shot, detonating at the right angle and time, showered the ground with shrapnel and sent more men to the rear with grievous wounds. Everyone was waiting for the next round to come in and end it all.

  “This be insufferable!” Pops was saying. “Let us go forward or go back.”

  Stephen raised his head. Little puffs of smoke were issuing from the enemy line every few moments, and the rounds were almost traceable if he tried to watch. No one in his company had been hit yet, but the company officers were taking long chances as they stood upright and walked the rear of the line. All of the regimental and brigade commanders were also still mounted and moving about, making themselves targets, and their men by proximity.

  “Damn that man, get off yer hoss an’ get down!” Pops was yelling as the screech of a round came down in their front. It bounced high into the air after showering the line with dirt and landed somewhere behind them.

  “Them gunners can see these fellers ridin’ about like they’s in a parade; they aimin’ fer them,” Earl was saying in Stephen’s right ear.

  “They can do that?” Stephen replied.

  “It be a game fer ‘em, see how close they can get.”

  Stephen twisted about so he could see the rear of the line. Sure enough, there was General Bowen and his staff on horseback, being conspicuous. The regimental and company officers were mostly standing and walking about, looking at the field in their glasses or conversing. It did seem that wherever the general went, the artillery rounds concentrated on where he was.

  “Blasted fool!” Pops shouted.

  “Quiet in the ranks!” barked the first sergeant. Kneeling down behind the second rank, the file closers and the company sergeants were not taking any chances themselves, but they were not entirely out of the line of flying missiles either. They had only to show that they had courage enough to stay to their duty, but they were not foolhardy enough to expose themselves as the officers were doing. They themselves had nothing to prove.

  From Stephen’s vantage point, they could see the other forces under Price moving to the attack and even drawing close to the enemy’s line. The banners fluttered tantalizingly close to the coveted aim of entering the town’s streets and sending all of the enemy packing. There was no movement of the enemy forward on their own front, save for the now intensified skirmishing that occasionally sent a Mississippian rearward nursing a wound or being carried off. Those shots that sailed overhead were harmless and few, unlike the artillery rounds.

  “How long they gonna keep us here?” Earl was repeating, in some variation, every few minutes.

  Lying prone was not protecting them from everything, as timed fuses burst in the air and showers of lead penetrated ground and flesh with regularity. They were occupying a position that told the enemy they meant business, but not business enough to sally forth any further. Staying put and under fire seemed to Stephen as just allowing the Union cannoneers to play target practice on the 6th Mississippi.

  “They pull us up when the enemy retreats,” Pops said. From the looks of it as they watched the banners of Hébert’s division rush into the town from the north and Maury’s brigades rush in from the west and surround the battery by the rail road tracks, that was going to be soon.

  “Get us out or get us forward, we laying here fer nuthin’ if we just sit an’ take a beating,” Earl griped. He turned his head and looked at Stephen. “You say you was with Fredrick Lester in prison camp?”

  “Yeah; me an’ Lester was at Camp Chase,” Stephen replied sadly.

  “He din’t escape with you?”

  “He did, but he were killed by one of the men we escaped with,” Stephen said. There was much to tell of that trip, but doing so meant going back there and suffering the loss all over again.

  “Killt? The man go mad?” Pops asked.

  “I dunno; I dunno that anyone made it out but the lieutenant and me. I seen two of our party killed by the man an’ one other give himself up an’ try to turn us in fer his own security.” Of Jackson Kearns Stephen knew very little; he had only been with them for a short time in the escape, and the last Stephen had seen of him, he was standing in the middle of the Middletown pike looking scared as Stephen and Hunter left him to his captors, punishment for working with the enemy to round them up.

  “Anyone else from the 6th with ya?” Earl asked. Though many of the wounded had found their way back to the ranks after Shiloh, many had not. They were just listed as missing, like Stephen and Lester had been. The presumption was they were killed or captured, unless some notice or letter from t
he missing man came back later. There was little organization in how men were interned after surrender. Those captured in a single battle were herded toward the location in the region set up to hold prisoners. Those involved in the campaigns in early spring of 1862 had gone from there to several stockades in the western states, Camp Chase being just one.

  “No, Lester an’ I was the only ones at Chase from the 6th. We fell in with a lot of prisoners from Shiloh and New Madrid when it surrendered. They’s who we escaped with; well, plus Lieutenant Hunter and Captain Kearns.”

  “An’ it were the captain what went mad on you? “ Earl asked.

  “No, that was a private from Tennessee, the one who killed Lester an’ Pritchert an’ tried to kill me too.”

  “That some happenings,” Pops said. “So this lieutenant is the one what brought you here? You was lookin’ for us?”

  “Was on my way back home, back to Carthage, when we fell in with the cavalry an’ stumbled on the army here. I wanted to get home.” Stephen felt the blood rise in his cheeks.

  “Like to get home . . . we’se been close enough several times to jus’ slip away fer a spell. Several has deserted or taken a liberal leave as it were. It been mighty tempting,” Pops said.

  “They’s what get caught almos’ been shot fer it, though,” Earl added. “Gettin’ the Yankees out of Mississippi first priority, then seein’ about gettin’ some home time.”

  “You writ to your folks since escapin’?” Pops asked.

  “No, they still think I’m at Camp Chase.”

  “You write soon as we get a spell. Won’t take long fer a letter to get to Carthage once we take Corinth an’ the rail lines open up. As soon as someone gets of the mind to get us forward, that be,” Pops stated and rose up a little.

  The fire was not slackening from the enemy guns, and the noise of battle sounded loud as ever from the left of their position, where it looked as if their own side was succeeding in overrunning the enemy. For over an hour they had lain under the sun and under the shell bursts, taking casualties. There seemed little point to just staying put, but none of them was in command.