As the sun climbed higher, Caleb looked at the sky again. The clouds had moved away. “Hey,” he said, “I think it’s going to be a beautiful day.”
Rémy snorted. “At least my clothes might dry some.”
A raw-boned graybeard from the nearby camp, one of those boys from the Sixty-First Illinois, wandered into camp. At first, Caleb thought he was coming to borrow grub, but the old man hooked his thumb southward and said: “That’s gunfire, ain’t it?”
Sergeant Masterson nodded. He was about to say something when a volley sounded.
Suddenly the morning stood still. The stoppage of time ended almost immediately. A bugle blared. A horse galloped past.
Folker rose slowly, ignoring the bacon and biscuits.
“You don’t reckon …” somebody said, and Caleb didn’t recognize the voice.
“Hey, Chaplain.” That was Rémy talking.
Caleb turned to see Chaplain Garner walking by.
“You expect to give us a sermon?” Boone said lightly, and jerked a thumb toward the Methodist meeting house in the distance.
“No.” Garner didn’t even stop. He was making a beeline toward Colonel Miller’s tent. “I expect to fight today.”
Gunfire, closer now, became steady. Caleb thought he could see wisps of gray smoke rising above the tents in the early light. He took a step to get a closer look, only to be jerked back by Rémy. A horse galloped past him, leaping over the chickens on the rotisseries, and almost trampling Garner.
“Colonel Miller!” the horseman roared. His tunic wasn’t even buttoned, and he appeared to have his boots on the wrong feet.
Rémy whispered: “That’s General Prentiss.”
“Get out your brigade! They are fighting on the right!” Prentiss did not wait for a response. Slapping the roan with the side of his saber, the general galloped down the muddy, tent-lined path toward the Sixteenth Wisconsin.
Caleb felt his bladder release. He didn’t care. Feeling the blood leave his face, he turned and found Sergeant Masterson. “It’s Sunday,” he said, his voice quaking. Surely, he thought, even a bunch of Secesh wouldn’t attack on a Sunday.
“It sure won’t be like any Sabbath you’ve ever seen, boy,” Sergeant Masterson said as he reached the stack of weapons. He began tossing rifles, muskets, shotguns. “It’ll be wormwood and gall.”
Caleb dropped his rifle in the wet grass.
Chapter Fifteen
April 6, 1862
Near Shiloh Meeting House, Tennessee
Ryan McCalla’s stomach growled, prompting Matt Bryson to stifle a laugh, and whisper: “Careful, Ryan.” He hooked a thumb in the direction of the cornfield. “They might hear you.”
Not a chance, Ryan thought. Apparently all Yankees were deaf. The Second Texas Infantry and who knew how many other Southern outfits were here, less than four hundred yards from the Federal Army, so close, in fact, that last night Ryan had heard the Yankees’ roll call, and yet the enemy hadn’t heard a thing. Certainly the Confederate Army had made enough racket during that miserable, arduous, muddy march from Corinth.
Thanks to rain and muck, they had made only two miles that first day. When the downpour finally had stopped, several soldiers had fired their muskets, shotguns, and rifles.
“What the Sam Hill are you boys doing?” Captain Ashbel Smith had shouted.
“Just making sure our powder ain’t ruint!” somebody had replied, and Captain Smith had let loose with a cannonade of curses. The Yanks hadn’t heard that, either, and the captain’s voice must have carried all the way to Kentucky.
A short while later, Albert Sidney Johnston had ridden over—undoubtedly to see what idiot was firing his weapon—and the entire Second Texas had let loose with a cheer. The general had waved his hand urgently, begging the soldiers to be quiet. Last night, as the regiments began assembling into battle lines, someone had even shot a deer.
Ryan lay in the remnants of a muddy cornfield, thinking how good venison would taste right about now. He hadn’t eaten since the first night out of Corinth. Those two-and-a-half days’ rations had been consumed immediately.
“When you get food,” Sergeant Rutherford had told them, “eat it. Food lasts in your bellies, boys. It won’t last in haversacks. And you never know when you’ll get a chance to eat again.”
Lying here, clothes still soaked, he wished he had picked up one of the knapsacks, coats, belts, hats, canteens—you name it—that the soldiers had shucked on the march. He remembered Gibb Gideon’s comment—“All that trash … those boys are just marking our way back to Corinth in case we have to retreat!”—and Little Sam’s serious reply: “Don’t you dare mention a retreat, Gibb Gideon. No, sir, don’t you even think it!”
Ryan had left his bedroll a few miles back, along with his rotting brogans. Now he wished he had the blanket, though not the shoes. He wished they hadn’t left those cozy Sibley tents back in Corinth. Most of the boys in Company C had spread oil cloths over the ground, paired up with a friend, and shared a blanket. Ryan just lay on the ground. Even before the sun had risen, the sound of musketry woke those who had managed to sleep.
Ryan’s heart pounded against his ribs as horses and mule-drawn wagons raced behind him. He rolled over in the thick goo, and looked across the cornfield—weathered crops from last year, just stubble, standing in the field or toppled over, covered with what resembled a lake. The farmers hadn’t gotten a chance, Ryan guessed, to plow the fields and plant crops this spring. Beyond those bent or fallen brown stalks, men in blue had begun assembling.
Cannon cut loose, and Ryan flinched. His ears rang. Loud primeval screams chilled him as a wave of gray-clad soldiers charged.
The battle was on.
Ryan and the Second Texas began rising, moving back however, instead of forward, falling into place along the road, far from the raging fight somewhere ahead. They stood there, waiting.
“Sergeant, why don’t we join this here fight?” a Texian drawled angrily.
“Shut up, Fletcher!” Rutherford snapped. “We’ll get our share of Yanks soon enough.”
Minié balls whistled overhead. A cannon ball exploded in the center of the cornfield. Bullets and grapeshot thudded against hickory trees, and still the Second remained silent. The sun was well up, Ryan guessed. He couldn’t see the sky because of thick, gray-white smoke.
“Forward, men! Forward!” Captain Smith shouted.
Sergeant Rutherford sprang to his feet. “You heard the captain. Fall in, Company C. Fall in!”
Beside Ryan, Matt Bryson grinned.
Surprisingly Ryan felt relaxed as he marched. Lying on the ground, listening to the sounds of war, then forming into a battle line and just standing around and listening to the screams of horses and men had pricked every nerve in his body. Now, as he was about to join the onslaught, relief swept over him.
“I’ll see you boys at the banks of the Tennessee River!” Captain Smith roared, and the cheer of Texians drowned out the din of musketry and artillery.
“Fill that gap on Lick Creek!” someone shouted, and Ryan’s feet moved.
He didn’t know where Lick Creek was, wasn’t even sure Captain Smith or Colonel Moore knew. They just marched, listening to Sergeant Rutherford’s cadence. Ryan stepped over a dead body. He didn’t even care.
“Company forward. Quick time!”
That soon became double-quick, staying in close-order formation, and Ryan was running, gripping his musket, face grim, grinding his teeth. After all of those drills, those sham battles back in Texas, he moved as if by rote. Double-quick time, one hundred and forty steps, covering one hundred and nine yards.
He saw the line of gray, the San Jacinto Guards and companies from other regiments deployed as skirmishers some four hundred yards ahead. Another regiment angled off to the right, to protect the flank. The skirmishers had stopped. Men were ramming loads
down the barrels of their weapons.
“Second Texas!” Colonel Moore shouted. “Fill that line. Fill that gap!”
Ryan was turning, moving, finding a wall of dead men. Stopping, he capped the nipple on his .69-caliber. Ahead of him, the first line fired, stepped back.
“Captain Brooks is killed!”
The words meant nothing to Ryan.
“Ready!” Sergeant Rutherford yelled.
Bullets whistled. From right and left came the sickening thud of bullets striking flesh. Some men groaned. Others merely fell.
“Aim!”
He could see log cabins behind a mound of bluecoats, tents beyond that, smoke not from long guns and cannon, but fires. The Federals marched forward, deliberately. He saw the Stars and Stripes fluttering in the breeze, spotted a bluecoat tapping out a beat on a drum. Saw another flag, but all he could make out were red bars and gold stars. The blue line in front of him disappeared in a cloud of gray smoke. A ball whistled past his ear, and then he heard more of those thuds, more groans, more men falling.
“Fire!”
The rifle’s stock slammed against Ryan’s shoulder. He stepped back, letting the first line move back into place. He butted the rifle in the mud, felt his hands moving, pulling out a cartridge. His teeth bit into the paper, tore. He poured powder down the barrel, then buck and ball, three buckshot, and a one-ounce ball. Moving, not thinking. In front of him came a deafening roar, echoed by the musketry from the Federal lines. Thuds. Groans. Somebody wailing like a baby.
Ryan shoved the ramrod down the barrel. He blinked. The soldier in front of him, Billy Wells from Houston, was on the ground, eyes staring up, but where his nose should have been, was an ugly, gaping hole.
Ryan stepped over the body into his place, and listened for Sergeant Rutherford’s command.
“Fire!”
His rifle kicked again. The Yankee carrying the other flag—not the American—staggered and fell. Ryan wasn’t sure if his shot had struck him. Another soldier dropped his rifle, lifted the flag, began waving it. Shots down the line boomed, and that flag bearer also fell.
Ryan stepped back, but no one had filled Billy Wells’ place. He wondered if he should, but was too busy reloading with buck and ball. Rebel muskets roared, and the Yankees were turning back, running.
“Where is that Texas regiment!”
Somehow, despite the thunder of muskets, Ryan recognized the voice. He fired, stepped back, began reloading, heard Colonel Moore’s answer.
“Here we are, General!”
Albert Sidney Johnston loped forward on a big bay horse, his face hardened as he pointed toward the Union lines. “Drive those men out of that camp!”
“You heard the general, boys!” Colonel Moore pulled off his hat, stuck it on his saber, which he raised over his head.
A blast deafened Ryan. He couldn’t hear a thing, not Colonel Moore’s order, but he could see Matt Bryson drawing his bayonet, putting it on his Mississippi rifle. Others did the same, so Ryan drew his from the scabbard. He stared ahead, across a field. The Union line looked to be three thousand, maybe more. The Second Texas numbered just more than seven hundred.
“Charge bayonets!” He could hear again, but only briefly. A horrifying yell followed, a mix of coyote and banshee, of every lost soul in hell. Ryan shrieked himself, savagely, and, holding his rifle, he charged across the field.
Ever since Houston, he had this premonition of death. That’s why he had given his parents his violin. He knew he wouldn’t survive the war, and this morning, April 6, he figured it was his time to die. Still, he felt no fear of death, but, rather, acceptance. Last night, he had watched officers and men write out their last wills and testaments. He had seen Sergeant Rutherford scratch his name on a sheet of paper, which he then pinned to the inside of his blouse—so his body could be identified. He had heard of a lad from Company A writing in his diary: April 6, 1862: Today I was killed.
Ryan hadn’t felt the need to do any of that. If he died today, so be it.
A soldier running near him toppled. Ryan leaped over a dead Yankee. Another. The blue line in front of him turned, fleeing. Smoke burned his eyes. He tripped over a dead man’s foot, almost fell into the mud, somehow recovered.
“They’re running, boys!” He did not recognize the voice. “Pour it to them, lads. Give them …”
Ahead, Lieutenant Hawthorne turned, waving his kepi over his head. Then the back of his head seemed to explode. Something splashed into Ryan’s face. It felt like a mixture of mud and pebbles. He kept running, wiping his eyes and forehead with his free hand, carrying his .69 with the other. He didn’t see the lieutenant any more.
An instant later, the Second stopped. It had run into an invisible wall. Five men fell. A bullet tugged at Ryan’s side. Smoke poured from the cracks in one of the log buildings. A muzzle flashed. That terrible thud.
“They’re in that cabin, boys!”
He had dropped to his knee. Aimed. Fired. Dozens of muskets echoed his shot, splintering the log walls. A bluecoat charged out of the doorway, clutched his blouse, pitched to his side. Another ran out. He, too, died.
Ryan rammed another charge down the barrel.
“Come on, Ryan!” Matt Bryson shouted.
He was up, chasing thousands of Federals. The Yanks dropped their weapons. Some shed their coats, bummer caps, cartridge boxes.
Ryan cut loose with another Rebel yell. That premonition of death disappeared. Never had he felt so alive.
“Chase them to Kentucky, lads!” Captain Smith’s voice.
Kentucky? Those Yanks won’t stop until they’re in Canada.
The log cabins lay behind him now. He wove through a township of tents, past camp desks and camp chairs, kettles left on coals. Coffee pots set on tripods. Mess chests, many of them still open. A candle burned atop one table, and Sergeant Jardine sat down in a rocking chair, tucked a napkin inside his blouse, speared a piece of ham with a silver fork.
Someone else had stopped, pulled a chunk of beef out of a kettle, dropped the meat, began shaking his burning hand.
Ryan blinked again as the face registered. He stopped running. “Little Sam?” he asked.
Sam Houston Jr. grinned. “I’m hungry!” He picked up the beef he had dropped. “Beats corn, salt, and apples, don’t it?”
Just like that, Ryan remembered his stomach. He leaned his rifle in a stack of arms—Federal arms, he realized. Some of the Yanks hadn’t even gotten to their guns, or had ducked out at the first sound of battle. He knelt beside Little Sam, found a loaf of fresh bread. His mouth tore off a hunk. He was in heaven.
Sam filled a Union cup full of coffee, passed it to Ryan, then wrapped a bandanna around his scalded hand.
Washing down the bread, Ryan looked around. Gibb Gideon was lugging a dressing case out of a tent. What he planned on doing with it, Ryan couldn’t guess. A bearded corporal from Company D yelled, “Huzzah!” jerked the cork out of a bottle of claret, and started guzzling. Someone held a tin box, and was pulling Yankee script from it, tossing it into the air. Most, however, only stopped for food.
“Criminy,” someone said, “I might join the Yanks if they always eat this good.”
Another one cried: “Fellas, we’re in clover now!”
Matt Bryson exited a nearby tent. Rifle cradled underneath one arm, he held out a blue sheet of paper in his other hand, showing it off for Ryan and Little Sam.
“Boys,” he said, “you’re now looking at a stockholder of the Mound City Manufacturing and Real Estate Company.” He shoved the paper inside a trousers pocket.
“Where’s that?” Little Sam’s mouth was so full of meat, Ryan could barely understand him.
“Mound City. Where else?” Matt’s eyes widened, and his mouth dropped as he stared at Ryan. “Ryan?” he said at last. “Are you all right?”
Ryan eyed his f
riend curiously. He could only nod as he lowered his cup of coffee and reached again for the sourdough bread.
“Your face, man.”
Even Little Sam, noticing Ryan for the first time, studied him with measured concern.
After wiping his face, Ryan looked down at his hands. They were blacked by gunpowder, but wet with blood and bits of something else. His stomach knotted, and he wiped the gore on his pants.
“It’s not me,” he said.
“Likely a bluebelly you killed!” Matt cackled, and wandered to another fire pit to wolf down burned bacon. “I bet I’ve killed a dozen already, and it’s not even noon yet.”
The coffee and bread had lost their appeal, and taste, but Ryan went right on eating and drinking. Let Matt think that. Ryan put the image of Lieutenant Hawthorne behind him.
Shots and cannon roared in the woods and fields. A horse whinnied. Captain Smith screamed a litany of curses. “Don’t stop! We’ve got them running.”
Colonel Moore echoed Captain Smith’s rallies. “Come on, Second Texas, come on! For glory! Kill them all!”
A few soldiers picked up their long guns, and stumbled after the Federals, stuffing their pockets with boiled potatoes and roasting chickens as they ran.
The bulk of the men kept filling their bellies.
“Up, McCalla! Up, Houston! This battle isn’t over.”
Ryan looked up to find Sergeant Rutherford standing over him, brandishing a nickel-plated pistol in his right hand. A gold chain—no three gold chains—hung from one of his pockets. Even Rutherford had taken a few moments to plunder some Yank’s tent.
“Let’s go!”
Ryan gulped down more coffee, tossed the cup aside, found his weapon.
“You, too, Bryson!” Rutherford began trotting. “We can all feast after the enemy is whipped.”
“They’re already whipped, Sarge!” Little Sam spit out chewed beef and saliva, but he, too, began to follow Sergeant Rutherford.
They crossed a road to another camp, moved through the grove of oaks with caution. Something fluttered through the smoky haze, and Ryan stopped, turned.
And There I’ll Be a Soldier Page 13
