They Met at Shiloh (13 page)

Colonel Thornton appeared in front of their thinned ranks. His left arm hung limply and dripped blood down his trouser leg. A bandage rested cockeyed upon his crown; a splotch of red marked where the minié ball had relieved him of his hat and part of his scalp.

“Mississippians!” Thornton shouted. “This hill will be taken!” Ragged and hoarse shouts of agreement sprang from the parched throats of those still able to stand. “Men of the 6th, you are alone, and the enemy is above you. Show these Tennesseans of the 23rd Regiment what mettle Mississippi is made of!”

The effort of exhorting the men was too much for him. Thornton doubled over and wobbled painfully to the ground. The survivors of the 6th Mississippi would go it alone. The 23rd Tennessee was still trying to sort themselves out after suffering numerous casualties, and they showed little sign of rallying.

With that, Captain Harper of Stephen’s company sprang forward with drawn sword. “Battalion, forward march!”

Back through the trees and into the sunlight Stephen marched. They stepped over the fallen as if they were mere rocks in the way. His heart leapt once they emerged from the trees. The crest looked devoid of the enemy. Keeping a steady pace, they strained once more up the steep slope. At every step, they encountered a body. Staring eyes looked up into the blue sky of morning. Others grasped at invisible objects in front of them with a frozen attitude of desperation, and still others quivered uncontrollably, clutching at gushing wounds that colored the once-green hill with a reddish hue.

Up and up they marched with only the distant sounds of battle and their own foot falls to greet their ears. The artillery that had swept that slope was also silent. Stephen hoped the enemy had retired and that it would soon be done.

Encouraged by the silence and seeing their objective so near to being taken, the men of the regiment gave a prolonged yell. Movement above the crest caught Stephen’s attention first, and then, suddenly, the enemy ranks sprang up from the ground as solid as before. For what appeared to be a slow movement of time, the combatants eyed one another in surprise.

“Halt!” shouted Captain Harper. “Ready! Aim! Fire!”

Stephen pulled the trigger, and the weapon leapt from his shoulder, the smoke of the discharge clouding everything. He could hear the calls of the enemy officers and the shrieks of their wounded. Another sudden concussion rang in his ears when the enemy poured a volley into the 6th.

“Load and come to the ready! Load and come to the ready!” The commands from both sides were audible to all as both regiments hurried to load and be ready. A distant yelling behind Stephen told him the Tennesseans behind the tree line were rallying and ascending the hill.

“Fire!” rang the command, and another burst of thunder issued from their weapons, followed by another reply from the enemy. In that moment, the ground around him was littered with wounded.

“Load and fire at will! Load and fire at will!” rang the call.

Stephen dropped his musket and hurriedly fumbled for a cartridge. Both lines came to life with the popping of musketry in an ever-increasing crescendo. Another thunderous volley added to the staccato. The Tennesseans halted next to the remnants of the 6th. They readied their weapons and poured fire into the enemy. The assault visibly staggering them, another chorus of the shrill yipping and yelling from the Rebel line added to the tumult.

“Load and come to the ready! Load and come to the ready!” the command was given again and passed down the line. “Forward march! Forward march!”

Lurching forward, the two regiments stepped off while the enemy hurried to load and fire as fast as they could. Every foot fall brought another body tumbling to the earth.

Men to either side of Stephen went down. He felt exposed and alone before others covered down to close the holes in the line. The space separating the foes seemed to be an interminable distance that would never be closed. Stephen kept his pace and watched the enemy fill the space separating them with lead.

“At the double quick, march!” Their cries and yells increased, and the regiments broke into a trot. Stephen joined the yelling and forgot for the moment that life and death were determined by the random shot of a musket; he was caught up in the thrill of shared heroism and devotion.

“The bayonet, give them the bayonet, the bayonet, boys, the bayonet!” Captain Harper’s exhortation rang over the tumult, and the 6th Mississippi lurched up to the crest of the hill and sprang upon the waiting enemy. The clash of opposing sides produced the ring of metal upon metal and the thud of wood meeting flesh. Hurrahs, yells, screams, and curses sprang from hundreds of throats. Stephen only saw the flash of colors around him. Friend and foe intermixed and fought with their hands. Thrust met parry, club met block, steel met soft, yielding flesh, and fist met face. Each man fought whoever was within arm’s reach and with whatever he had at his disposal.

At Stephen’s feet lay the broken and stumbling of both sides. The urge to run overtook him. He shoved a man in blue aside with his rifle and made his way through the melee to the edge of the hill. As if by queer instinct, the remnants of both the 6th Mississippi and the 23rd Tennessee were making their way back down the hill. Stephen broke free of the throng and raced down the hill, leaping over the prostrate, not stopping until he was safely within the shade of the trees. He found a dry spot by a thin tree and sat wearily. Familiar faces were missing, the faces that told him he was in the company of friends and comrades. The faces he did see were scarred by fatigue and horror.

The long hillside before him was covered with so many bodies that little of the grass was visible. Breathing heavily, he rested his head upon the smooth bark of the tree and closed his eyes. Images of the charge and fighting were etched upon his vision. Exhausted, Stephen wept.

*****

25th Missouri Line of Battle

Camp of 25th Missouri, 8: 30 AM April 6, 1862

“Run! Run for it! Save yourselves! Run for God’s sake, run!”

Through the camp, Robert dragged Huebner along with him. Everywhere men in blue could be seen running wildly to the rear through the camp and beyond it. Robert didn’t know where he was heading. He only knew that the enemy was already breaking through. Regiment upon regiment broke and ran. Bursting out of their own camp, he saw thousands of men in blue running. The men of his own regiment streamed past him. Huebner was standing stock still in the tide of men.

“Run, Hube! C’mon,” he shouted into Huebner’s frightened face.

“I tired, Robert!” Huebner complained.

“C’mon, Hube, you want to get captured?” Robert yelled. He grabbed Huebner’s arm and started to run once again. He was astounded at the number of men he could see running for the rear. “We’re whipped, Hube. God, we’re whipped!” Huebner tripped, but Robert pulled him up without slowing.

“Where we goin’?” Huebner asked.

“Anywhere but here!” Robert snapped and kept hold of Huebner’s coat sleeve.

Since the fight earlier in the morning and the retreat through the trees, his company had been either in motion or fighting continuously for the last five hours. By the time they arrived back at their camp on the hill, the company was exhausted and begrimed with powder. Only a short respite was enjoyed before they were formed upon the crest of the hill to face the oncoming enemy once more. Shock of the sudden reversal after what felt like a successful stand was only now becoming clear to him.

Word spread quickly through the ranks that the enemy had broken through the other regiments of Peabody’s brigade. Those camps were a mere tens of yards to the right of the 25th Missouri’s. The thought of being caught in a vise and captured was more compelling than all of the officers’ threats, insults, and cajoling. The regiment dissolved into a fleeing mass. Indeed, as Robert and Huebner made their way through the trees and beyond, Robert turned and saw the irregular colors of the enemy making their way through the camps of the 21st Missouri and the 16th Wisconsin. Those two regiments were running ahead of him. Their colors stopped for moments at a time as an officer rallied the fugitives surging past, attempting to make a stand, only to have the panicked men peel off moments later.

“Where we goin’?” Huebner whined.

“Just run!” Sternness and aggravation tinged Robert’s voice, but Huebner began to run again.

The woods soon gave way. Fugitives ahead of them made their way in the open in small groups or singly.

“I need stop, Robert,” Huebner pleaded and slowed down his pace.

“Hube, c’mon. If we walk, we’ll get caught,” Robert reasoned in return.

“Ich bin fertig ausgeführt. I finished running,” Huebner snapped. Pulling his arm from Robert’s grasp, he collapsed upon the ground, heaving.

“Nein, Komm schön, Hube. Komm schön! I don’t care if you’re finished running!” Robert stopped, grabbed Huebner’s collar, and heaved. Huebner didn’t budge. He sat breathing heavily and refused to be hoisted. “Aw, c’mon, Hube! We can’t stay here. We’ll walk for a while, all right? C’mon, Hube.” Robert tried to coax him into forward movement.

“Kein Betrieb,” Huebner said, panting defiantly, but he slowly stood.

“No running, Hube, not for a while. But we gotta walk.” Robert took a tentative step forward and looked back at Huebner to see if he was going to comply.

Red-faced, Huebner started forward. Both men walked in silence toward the road that bisected the open space and led toward Pittsburg Landing. They had marched down that road after disembarking from the steamers that carried the brigade. The throngs of men in blue were making for the same road, as if drawn by the force of gravity. Robert set a brisk pace. He kept a vigilant eye behind them lest a line of butternut burst into view. Huebner matched his pace in silence.

Striking the road, they saw it was clogged with men and animals. An overturned gun caisson and carriage lay abandoned off to the side. The horses, still in their traces, struggled to free themselves. A supply wagon was also overturned and abandoned by its teamster. Its contents spilled haphazardly along the roadside. They passed several groups of wounded slowly and painfully moving. Robert saw the pain, confusion, and terror in their eyes. He understood that look. He had had the same experiences.

The approach of horses caused both men to stop and turn suddenly. A courier galloped recklessly down the road, ignoring all who were foolish enough to remain in the way. Another courier sped past along with an onrush of frightened men who brushed by with little regard for propriety. Most were weaponless and were shedding equipment as they went. The road soon looked like a quartermaster’s store upset by a tornado.

Both men were carried along with the current and were running with no regard for Huebner’s entreaties to slow down. A regiment coming down the eastern Corinth Road from the landing was disrupted by the riot of fleeing men despite the cursing of the officers trying to slow the panic and stop their own men from joining the rout. Calls of “Save yourselves,” “We’re all whipped,” and “There’s death down that road,” rang out from the panicked men to anyone moving toward the fighting. A mixture of uniforms bespoke the mixing of regiments and the states that produced and clothed them. Frock coats, Ohio Volunteer Militia shell jackets, sack coats, forage caps, and officers’ kepis, with their distinctive gold braids, could all be seen in the crowd of bobbing heads. In the midst of the mob, he lost hold of Huebner’s arm, and they were separated.

Robert was comforted when he realized that the sounds of battle were fading. Soon, the tree-covered road opened to a wide, grassy plain, and the landing came into view. It was awash in soldiers milling about haphazardly. The mass of men surrounding Robert made straight for the level river bank. Robert couldn’t guess at how many men were already there. Along the slope and stretching one hundred yards down the muddy bank, thousands of demoralized Union soldiers gathered. A gun boat lay in anchor mid river and intermittently fired shells inland. Some men flung themselves into the river to swim to the gun boat or to the opposite shore, a distance of roughly one hundred yards, only to be dragged down stream by the current and into oblivion.

A few around him babbled incoherently with wild and dangerous expressions. Robert shoved his way through the bodies to look for Huebner. There were so many men crammed into that small space that Robert had to grab men by the shoulders and forcibly turn them to see their faces. Occasionally, he would encounter annoyance, but mostly he saw fright and fatigue. Most seemed like him, lost and alone and wandering aimlessly about. Fist fights broke out as one man would decide he wanted the muddy spot occupied by another. Because few men knew one another, the fighting would carry on until one of the fighters was senseless or dead. Everyone else just wanted to escape the brawl.

Robert came across many officers who shared the same look of despair. He lost count of how many men he accosted in his quest. How much time had passed or where he was made little impression upon him until the shoulders he grasped revealed familiar features.

“Robert!” Huebner cried and grasped tightly onto Robert’s arms.

“Hube!” Robert replied with equal enthusiasm.

Huebner started laughing for joy, jumping up and down like a little boy. “Robert, mein Kamerad! Robert, du bist hier!” Huebner released Robert’s arms and wrapped him in a bear hug.

“Ja, Hube. I’m here. I’m here,” Robert replied and tried to squirm out of the vise grip Huebner had him in.

“Robert, komme. Komme,” Huebner shouted and grabbed Robert’s arm. He began dragging him through the crowd and up from the river bank about fifty yards to the Pittsburg Road. The grassy expanse was filled with men relaxing, sitting, standing, or lying. The aroma of thousands of pipes filled the air with a panoply of aromatic flavors. There was more room than by the river bank, but they had to step carefully around the seated and standing figures. They had nearly reached the roadside when Robert saw a cluster of familiar forms. “Sehe, unsre Kameraden.”

Seated upon the ground near a copse of trees were twenty men of the 25th whom Robert recognized easily enough. To his surprise, Gustavson was there and two other privates from his company. They celebrated a cheerful reunion, laughing with relief. Robert sat down next to Gustavson, and Huebner sat next to him. The initial excitement of reuniting wore off quickly. They stared into one another’s faces. A pall of depression hung heavily about the group, and the vacant expressions of his pards reflected his own feeling of failure.