The Better Angels of Our Nature (17 page)

“If you sit down, sir, I’ll massage your arm.”

He stared at her a moment longer from out of narrowed eyes and then perched on the edge of his cot. She began by working her fingers over his neck, slowly, soothingly, then moved along to his left shoulder and down his arm, massaging where she knew the pain to be most acute. After a second, his eyes closed and the tension around his mouth and between his constantly frowning brows had all but melted away.

“Damn rain—” he said in a subdued voice.

“The rheumatism has gotten into your shoulder where you dislocated the bone falling from your horse.”

The Ohioan’s eyes opened. “How in God’s name do you know about that?” In January ’45 while deer hunting with Lieutenant, now, General John Reynolds of Pennsylvania, on the plantation of their friend John Poyas, up the Cooper River from Fort Moultrie, Lieutenant Sherman had fallen from his horse and injured his shoulder seriously enough to be sent home on furlough. Jesse went on massaging the arm. “I told you before I don’t believe in ghosts and spirits and things that go bump in the night.” He looked at her sideways, critically. “You should grow a beard. Your face is too smooth. It’s hard to believe it now, looking at our army’s leaders, but there was a time when general officers disapproved of facial hair. I served under Brigadier General Stephen Kearny in California. One day he sent for me and suggested I borrow his razors.” Sherman rubbed his nails over that coarse cinnamon-colored growth, making a scratching sound. “All the Sherman men possess tender skin and a wiry beard that makes shaving painful. But I did as I was told, shaved it off and continued to shave until Kearny was gone. My face became red and raw. Since then I have never shaved my face. It is a mystery to me why soldiers ever shave, for the beard is the best possible protection against cold, heat, and dust. You were right, Corporal, at Louisville I smoked too many segars, wrote too many letters by candlelight, and drank too much whiskey because of a nervous anxiety about matters that seemed then
and
now to be beyond my control. I have a division composed of raw soldiers, most of whom have received their muskets on the way from enlistment station to field. They have as much idea about war as children.” He looked at this child out of the corner of his eye and said, “Less than children, and not a clue how to fire their arms or make sense of their instruction manuals. The officers are hardly better. We are constantly in the presence of enemy pickets and cavalry. I know that. I am neither blind nor stupid. If we don’t get away soon the leaves will be out and the whole country an ambush.”

“Then you
do
believe the Rebels will attack?”

“What
I
believe don’t count. I have nothing to do with the plans and can therefore be at ease and do my best. I want only to acquit myself with courage and have my family remember me with respect. Once, not a lifetime ago, Corporal, I picked up a newspaper to learn that I was ‘insane.’ ‘Gone in the head’ because I tried to warn my superiors that the Union generals in Kentucky did not have sufficient arms or men. People do not easily forgive or forget accusations of insanity in their generals, and should their memories be short the newspapers will quickly refresh them. For myself I do not give a damn, they can accuse me of insanity all they wish, my former associations with the South
had
rendered me almost crazy, as one by one all links of hope were parted, but I have children who must be protected from the vile slanders of the newspapers. When I was relieved in Kentucky my son Tommy came home from school one day in tears—the other children had told him that the newspaper declared his father was
insane.
Do you think their father would willingly put them once more through such torment?
No.
I keep my views to myself. As I said, here at Pittsburg Landing, I am not in command. I play a subordinate role. I prefer to shrink from the responsibilities others seem to court. I have stopped looking into the future and no longer wish to guide events. They are too momentous to be a subject of personal ambition.” In early January that year, he had written his brother,

I am so sensible now of my disgrace from having exaggerated the force of our enemy in Kentucky that I do think I should have committed suicide were it not for my children. I do not think that I can again be entrusted with a command.

However, he did have a command; one he had raised himself for duty in the field. Despite what their commander might say, he was as eager as they were to find out if he could be entrusted with their lives.

He looked at her closely. “Do you understand
anything
of what I am saying?”

“I understand
all
of what you are saying, sir,” the girl said.

“Yes.” His voice was a harsh, hoarse whisper. “I believe you do.”

“I’ll massage your shoulder again tomorrow. Let me help you with your boots.”

“No, no, I’m going out for a stroll around my camps. I can’t sleep. Did you read those books I loaned you?”

“Oh yes, I particularly enjoyed Mr. Dickens’s
Tale of Two Cities.
I shall read that again if I may keep it a little longer?”

“Fiction is fine, but you should be reading books of geography, history, science—it is most important that young boys and men keep well up in the scientific developments of our own and other lands. That’s what I used to tell my students in Louisiana. Also you should study your fellowman, to know men, their nature, strength, powers of endurance, the influences which impel them to action, is even a higher branch of knowledge.” He went to his footlocker and as he rummaged around inside, he said, “Here, take these. Mrs. Sherman’s mother sent them to me but I already have far too many. The lady wouldn’t object since you are a most deserving case.” He thrust a brown paper package at her chest. Inside were two pairs of drawers and a calico shirt. “The shirt will be too large for you but you’ll grow into it. Like you, I have always loved books. I paid my debts, sent money to my mother, but I always kept money enough to purchase books. Scott, Dickens, and Washington Irving are as necessary to fix the tastes of the young as is the Bible and Shakespeare, and you will remember that no home is complete without them. I abhor what they call dime novels, newspaper comics, and trashy literature. You may help yourself to the books you find in my trunk, provided you treat them with respect and return them in due course and, most important, do not neglect your duties.” He blew out the candle. “And grow a beard!”

In the darkness she saw the glow of his cigar, heard the sound of the tent flap, and then there was silence. He had gone for his nightly stroll. Jesse took the lantern and followed.

Someone close by was coaxing the melancholic strains of “Tenting Tonight” from a harmonica. The fires were softly dying. The camps had never seemed so peaceful, perhaps in anticipation of the morrow. The
Lord’s Day
—the officers and men would stir at sunrise. There would be roll call as usual, then they would prepare a nice, leisurely breakfast and sit down to contemplate the pleasant, lazy day ahead. For the gratification of those with a religious bent, there would be energetic hymn singing and pious sermonizing, and for others a game of chuck-a-luck or letter writing. Five-day-old Northern newspapers would be passed around, together with the inevitable dime novels. Some men would even crawl back inside their blankets and contemplate a world where drill sergeants, army beans, picket duty, and loneliness did not exist. Some enlisted men might already have been anticipating their diary entries for the next day:

S
UNDAY
A
PRIL
6, 1862—

Did nothing today. No drilling. No reviewing.

No musket practice. Perfect day. Just a day of peace and quiet beside a log church called Shiloh.

8

“…Our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor”

Sherman reined in his small, swift mount and brought her to a halt under a tree, speaking softly to her as he patted her neck. He waited for his staff to catch up, as usual, and then demanded to know of Major Sanger, “What do you make of that, Dan?”

“Picket firing,” replied the inspector general unhesitatingly, his black mustaches twitching. He pointed in the direction of the camps of the Fifty-third, whose commander had evidently not taken Sherman’s order seriously, and
not
taken his regiment back to Ohio. “From the direction of Colonel Appler’s camps, sir.” His expression turned dubious, for he knew that Sherman was at the very end of his rope with the nervous officer.

“I’ll ride over and find out what’s going on, sir,” volunteered Captain Van Allen.

Before Sherman could reply they heard the sound of a hard-driven horse and into the clearing rode one of Appler’s staff officers. While he was still ten yards away he started to shout on top of his lungs, “The Rebels are coming—the Rebels are crossing the field in front of our camp! We’re being attacked by the Rebels—the Rebels are upon us!”

“Get a grip on yourself, sir!” Sherman bellowed as the captain reined in his sweating mount, the poor done-in animal panting as hard as his rider, who had torn the hat from his head and was wringing it with despair.

“But, sir—we’re finished—the Rebels—are pouring out of the woods—thousands of them—all heading this way—what must we do?
What must we do?
”

“Right now, do nothing but get a goddamn grip on yourself!” Sherman ordered.

“What do you think, sir?” Sanger calmly asked his commander.

This lack of urgency on the part of general and staff was due in no small part to Appler himself. He had cried wolf so often in the past few days, he was now in danger of being completely ignored.

“I
think
that Appler is a chronic worrier, but still he must be badly scared over there.” Sherman turned to the courier. “Tell the colonel I will be over to see for myself.”

The courier jerked his animal’s head to the right and galloped off, whether to carry the commander’s message to Colonel Appler or to the safety of the rear no one could have said for certain.

About four hundred yards in front of Appler’s camps, Sherman held tight to the reins of his excited mare and raised his glasses onto a part of the field that appeared at first glance to be free from any gray-clad sightings. Behind him a small but courageous number of Appler’s men were ready to do their duty, but they were very much in a minority, and without officers were firing erratically at the unseen enemy in their front.

Many more were in a state of outright panic, running between the tents, banging into each other, some in their underclothes, some half-shaved, others with their breakfast still in their hands.

The majority of the regiment were simply staring at their equally stunned officers, their pathetic expressions begging mutely for instructions, pleading to know what to do to prevent being taken prisoner or shot, despite the past weeks of preparing for just such an attack.

They would get no sense from Appler himself, who was shouting orders in every direction, immediately countermanding one order to issue another, as he stood helplessly beside the unattended breakfast fire, trembling with fear.

“Can’t see any Rebels,” Hammond announced from his place at the back of the headquarters party. Since he was using only his naked eye to survey Rhea Field he was not in the best place to judge.

“There’s sumpthin’ glintin’ offa those bushes,” said Captain Jackson to Marcus Van Allen as the latter raised his own fine pair of field glasses to survey the scene. “Over there, Marcus, to the right.” The Hoosier pointed and spoke to Sherman at the same time. “Gen’al, over there, just about two hundred yards.”

As Sherman adjusted his glasses to follow Andy’s directions, the ever-vigilant Private Holliday shouted, “General, look to your right, sir! To your right!”

Sherman turned and stared in amazement. A line of gray uniforms had risen up from the swaying corn, the early-morning sun glinting on their rifle barrels as they aimed and fired once before moving forward.

“My
God,
we’re
attacked
!” he cried as they came sweeping across the field, their muskets held at shoulder height, yelling at the tops of their lungs, a yell that would have turned to ice water even the blood of the most courageous veterans.

As Sherman spoke, enemy pickets concealed in the bushes opened fire. Instinctively, the Ohioan threw up a hand as though to protect himself. Beside him, Private Holliday uttered a tiny, surprised cry, before he fell from his horse and lay motionless on the ground, shot through the head. With barely a moment taken to register the loss of his favorite riding companion, Sherman spoke urgently to Captain Jackson.

“Ride to General McClernand, tell him the Rebels have attacked, ask him to send me three regiments to protect Waterhouse’s battery and the left flank of my line.”

Andy’s hand was still raised in salute as he spurred Sally away in the direction of First Division headquarters. In swift succession, Sherman had sent Captain Van Allen to warn General Prentiss and Lieutenant Taylor to alert General Hurlbut. Next, the Ohioan turned his attention to the commander of the Fifty-third Ohio, still muttering orders that no one was obeying, least of all himself.

Sherman had now accepted that the unexpected was happening. This was
not
a sharp skirmish but an all-out Rebel attack.

“Hold your ground,” he ordered Appler, who was the color of cold ashes. “You are the left flank of the first line of defense, sir, our first line of battle. You have a good battery on your right, and strong support to your rear. Your regiment is protecting one of our two batteries. I’ll send you reinforcements, but you must hold your ground at all hazards!” As he spoke, he drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it carelessly around his bleeding hand. In the initial onslaught that had felled poor Holliday, buckshot had struck the third finger of his right hand and had burrowed under the skin, but the seriousness of the injury was of no interest to him at that moment. He rode away, followed by his staff, less one officer, whose body was being removed by men of Appler’s brigade.

Around the camps of Sherman’s division close to Shiloh Church chaos reigned.

Half-dressed, wild-eyed soldiers, who only moments before had been contemplating the joys of a lazy Sunday, were now running up and down the tent streets yelling incoherently at each other and praying for deliverance through clenched teeth. Those who still had their wits had grabbed a musket from the stand as they ran, they knew not where, uttering a different shade of prayer under their labored breath. They asked God for a steady hand, a clear eye, a shot of iron in their soul.

Others, more intent on escaping the battle rather than joining it, simply ran.

In the frantic struggle to shoot fast and reload, to shoot and reload, boys who had never before been under fire wept with fear and excitement, tore cartridges with their teeth and then forgot completely the sequence of loading and firing. Faces changed as they leveled their muskets and fired. The innocent youth became an animal with the taste of blood in his mouth, his fury unrestrained. “
Kill Rebels! Kill Rebels!
” they screamed, and others took up the bloodthirsty cry, while the bodies of their companions piled up around them. Oh, they had not guessed, these boys and men, that Death in person would visit them this quiet Sabbath morning, causing them to perish on a battlefield far from home and loved ones.

As the rattle of musketry increased and the enemy batteries in the woods threw shells into the camps, steadfast officers of lower rank shouted orders, desperately trying to rally these frightened, excited men into a command that would meet the opposing skirmishers in the warm spring air.

There were cheers amidst the rattling fusillade and monstrous cries of “
Forward!
” or “
Stand fast! Don’t run away and hide! Meet the enemy onslaught, men of the—!”

Then the firing slowed down, dropped away, and soon it became merely spasmodic. Gripped with fear and the excitement of sudden battle, the men could not get their minié balls down and they rammed them hard and harder and then—
Oh dear Lord, here they come—the enemy—the Rebels—run for your lives!

The panicked wailing of fleeing men was drowned out only by the deafening sounds of canister exploding against trees and flesh. They ran unheeding, among bursting shell and whistling bullets through breakfast fires, sending coffeepots flying, scrambling over tin plates, scattering books, letters, magazines, billowing canvas, shot torn colors, splintered flagpoles.

They fell, boys not yet old enough to shave, men with gray beards, blood and flesh exploding in thick clots, a head flies, a hand disintegrates, a leg is severed, a face loses its humanity, destroyed by grapeshot. That way, that way, run, flee for your lives.

Over fences, they leapt, pushing against each other, elbowing and kicking; it was a stampede. Men were trampled as they ran for the open fields, where the golden corn looked so peaceful swaying in the light breeze.
Is this Sunday morning?
What a beautiful place for a battle.

Meanwhile, those who remain load and fire, load and fire, load and fire, mechanically, with a kind of maniacal rage.

One hour into the fighting and it still required a moment of intense realization to absorb the fact that a full-scale battle was underway.

The Rebel army that was supposed to be at Corinth, that everyone said was at Corinth, was clearly not in Corinth, but here. Johnston and Beauregard had not waited for Buell to arrive. They had attacked first.

While many officers and men of the Federal army had panicked, William Tecumseh Sherman was behaving exactly as expected, cool and intense, a picture of concentrated courage and determined leadership that inspired all those around him. In a single hour, he had placed his entire division in line to meet the Rebel advance. He seemed to be everywhere. He seemed to anticipate everything.

As for Jesse Davis, after the first few moments of pandemonium around her, she had become oblivious to the danger, swept up in the excitement of living, moment to moment. She rode unnoticed with Sherman and his officers, as the general, heedless of his own safety, his injured hand tucked inside the breast of his frock coat, dashed about the field, reforming regiments, instructing artillery crews, and plugging up lines which had broken.

It was at Shiloh Church itself that Jesse witnessed the demise of Sherman’s first horse. As Sherman rode between the ranks of frightened infantrymen, trying to rally the spirits of these green recruits who had received their muskets only days before, the poor sorrel mare she had so lovingly groomed was struck by solid shot, and bleeding profusely from the chest, sunk to the ground with a terrified whinny. She would race no more. Jesse watched in envy as Lieutenant Taylor promptly dismounted and handed Sherman his reins. As he swung into the saddle, she heard the commander tell the younger man, “Well, my boy, didn’t I promise you all the fighting you could do!”

Appler got his reinforcements, even though he personally was not there to receive them. After venturing out from behind his tree, the brave colonel had broken for the rear, shouting, “
Save yourselves! We are whipped for sure!
” taking with him his own boys and those of Colonel Mungen, along with the colonel himself, leaving Waterhouse’s battery exposed and the remainder of the ranks to fight and save the reputation of their regiments. The reinforcements came from McClernand who, responding with surprising speed to Sherman’s request, sent three regiments from his own division to protect Captain Waterhouse’s battery and the left flank of Sherman’s line.

Albert Sidney Johnston, commander of the Rebel army of the Mississippi, had lined up his force and was sending his troops obliquely from Sherman’s right to his left in attacking waves, trying to overwhelm Sherman, and pass on toward Prentiss’s Sixth and McClernand’s First Divisions, whose line of camps was almost parallel with the Tennessee River, two miles back. Sherman saw this at once, and while the enemy’s forces were still passing across the field to their left, the intensified sound of artillery and musket fire told all who had ears to listen that Prentiss’s brigades were already drawn into battle.