They Met at Shiloh (15 page)

The eastern horizon brightened slowly and cast its lightening shades of blue westward. Slowly the surface of the cups stirred with bubbles rising to the surface. Soon, they were ready to drink. Deftly pulling each one from the coals, he set them down on the fire’s edge and doused the surface with cold water to settle the coffee grounds to the bottom.

“Ah, coffee,” Sammy walked to the fire and said. He bent down to grasp his cup.

“Are we ready?” Philip asked.

“Yeah, I rolled your blanket and put it on your straps. You just need to pack your things into the sack. Your traps are set by the pack.”

Johnny grunted as he set himself next to Philip and grabbed his cup. “You got any more apricots?”

Philip dug into his haversack and tossed Johnny the bag. Mule was the last to join them, and soon each was cooling the surface of his cup and chewing hardtack. Philip handed around a bag of cooked salt pork he had prepared the evening before. The strips were greasy and chewy but would suffice for a little intake of meat until they could cook again that evening.

His mess duties finished, Philip grabbed his cup and went back to his pack. Sammy had rolled his blanket up, and it fit onto the top of his pack properly. He always had trouble getting it rolled right himself. After exchanging his night cap for his forage cap, he grabbed his Testament and quickly thumbed the pages to the book of Isaiah. He hadn’t read much in that book before the war, nor had he taught on it. Reading it now gave him comfort as he compared Judah and her call to repentance with the rebellion. Who was the guilty party? Who was the faithless? He had no idea, only a faint hope that the North was not.

*****

Daybreak revealed the weary regiments gathered once again upon the road to Savannah where they waited impatiently for the commencement of the march. Some commotion was occurring at the head of the column after a halt was ordered twenty minutes earlier. Philip rested his hands on the barrel of his musket and leaned forward to release the pressure on his shoulders from the pack. He had barely gotten his marching legs when the halt came.

“D’you hear that?” Mule asked.

“What?” Philip answered.

Mule stood straight and motionless as if all of his faculties were bent upon hearing something of great distance. “That.”

“Don’t know what you’re hearin’, Mule. I don’t hear nuthin’,” Johnny muttered from the rank behind.

“No, I can hear a rumble,” Mule said.

“I wasn’t aware mules had good hearin’,” Johnny teased him.

“No! There’s somethin’ happ’n’ down this road. I hear booming!”

“Could explain why we stopped,” Philip said.

“Not s’posed to be any Secesh where we’s headed,” said Johnny.

“Secesh or no,” Mule said, “I hear a battle where we’s headed.”

Philip stood up straight to adjust the weight of his knapsack. “We’re supposed to meet up with Grant. Maybe he’s been attacked.” He listened for a moment, but didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary. “Can you see anything happenin’ up there, Mule?”

“Naw, I just see heads. I don’t see any of the big bugs.”

A soft breeze blew through the ranks of the dusty blue column of men who stood four abreast. Philip strained to hear anything that would indicate something amiss but could only hear whispered conversations and coughs.

“Mebbe we’re bein’ countermarched. Think the Rebs got in behind us somewheres?” Philip asked his pards.

“Secesh in Corinth,” Johnny said. “Unless Forrest’s troopers are on a raid, there ain’t a Reb in Tennessee or Kentucky. Don’t see where we’d be marched back to.”

“They must be ahead of us,” Mule reasoned. He craned his neck to look down the length of the lane.

“They ain’t ahead of us. They ain’t even in Tennessee!” protested Johnny.

“You kin thinks what you want, Johnny. I know what I heard.” Mule huffed and glared straight ahead.

They heard the sound of approaching hooves, and all eyes strained to see a group of horsemen riding down the length of the column and past them. Another group of riders appeared and halted at the head of the brigade column. Urgency animated the riders’ movements, and the looks of worry and stress creased the faces of the officers returning to their commands.

Philip watched the officers and said, “We gonna know soon enough, I reckon.” He dug the straps of the knapsack off his shoulders, realizing that its weight felt more cumbersome this morning than usual.

Colonel Jones dismounted and ordered the bugler to sound Officers Call. Soon a gaggle of gold braids and shoulder straps were gathered around the colonel at the head of the regiment. Distant bugle calls and a rise of dust ahead signaled the resumption of the march. The officers’ meeting broke quickly. Whispers and comments rose from the men speculating on the purpose of the meeting. The regiment’s adjutant scurried along the road, and company commanders began shouting orders to the company sergeants.

Without word, news, or explanation, the regiment was ordered forward, and the march resumed with a quickened step. What had promised to be another day of marching had become a movement of urgent anticipation and mystery. That something was up was clear to all. Grim-faced officers marched or rode silently. Along the road, orderlies and messengers galloped to and fro between clusters of officers poring over maps. The ranks marched ahead silently.

An hour passed without a halt, and Philip began to look for indications that one would soon be called. Sweat trickled down his temples. With each step, the shock ran up his heels to his ankles. Each jolt rattled the weight of the knapsack, causing it to dig deeply into his shoulders.

A moist wind blew in their faces and rustled the trees along the roadside, carrying with it a sound of dread. Like a distant storm upon the horizon whose darkened clouds foretell a tempest’s approach, the bursts of breeze brought the rumbling of cannon for the briefest instant. Philip glanced at Mule occasionally to confirm or deny what his own ears heard. Mule appeared lost in his own concerns and trudged step by step without expression. The couriers continued their frantic movements, tracing the sides of the dirt track in frightening succession with communications and counter-replies between unseen commanders.

Philip watched them ride with interest. Each coming and going seemed to represent a staccato conversation of some import. He could not divine their content or intent, but he imagined the seriousness of the communiqué. Such activity was normal along a march as brigades and divisions kept tabs upon one another, but the frequency and urgency was something he had not seen before. Nor had he found himself marching into the unknown with the intervening distance carrying with it a portent of battle upon a fickle wind. He tried to count the suddenness of each echo to discern its distance or its origin, to no avail.

The march had carried them eight miles closer to their end goal of Savannah, and yet the pace had not slackened. A sudden gust of warm wind accosted his face and with it another sound of rumbling and something else. Philip glanced about and noted the interest and concern; even Mule had taken note and snapped out of his torpor. The sound in that gust wasn’t just the low rumbling of a far off cannonade. It was something less mechanical, more human. It came and went with the gust. Philip couldn’t characterize it easily. It was death and life; it was war.

It was becoming clear that Mule had heard something long before anyone, and that something terrible was occurring down this road. Grant was attacking or being attacked. The distance was still great that separated the combatants and the marchers upon the Savannah Road. Philip felt himself lean in to each step. Each one brought help and aid to Grant in whatever fashion it was needed that much sooner. He could sense the same from the ranks of his company, an energy that propelled them beyond the distraction of fatigue. Something was happening up the road, and each man wanted to know what it was. They were no longer propelled by green ambition for glory. Nor were they veteran enough to shy from closing the gap between themselves and battle. All knew intuitively that their rifles were in need or that the tide could turn with their presence upon the field. Stepping lively, the regiments forced their march to hasten.

“It has to be,” Philip gasped.

“What?” Johnny called from behind.

“Mule heard it a few hours ago. You can hear it now on the wind.” Sweat streaked down Philip’s temples and ran down his cheeks. He could feel the sweat running down his legs and soaking through his shirt.

“You can see it in their eyes.” Mule added, as another courier sped past.

“How many miles?” Philip asked and sucked in a breath of air to fight being winded.

“Don’ know,” Mule replied. “Ten?”

Philip looked up into the muggy haze to espy the sun. It was riding high but not yet at its apex.

“Should almost be to Savannah,” Johnny said between gulps of air.

“You been watchin’ the messages back and forth?” Philip asked.

“Yeah, never seen that much traffic afore. A battle to be sure up the river,” Johnny said.

“How’d you hear that, Mule? Back there, how’d you hear it?” Philip asked.

“Don’ know. Just did.”

“You ever hear stuff like that before?” Johnny broke in and asked.

“No.”

“Why now?”

“Don’ know. I jes’ heard it. Like a low rumble of cannon way far off.”

“You heard it way before I did,” Philip said. “Did you hear the other thing in that last gust?”

“What other thing?” Johnny asked.

“Yeah,” Mule replied.

“I don’ know, like screeching or screaming or shouting,” Philip said.

“Yeah, shouting’s what it sounded like,” Mule agreed.

“All I heard was the rumble,” said Johnny.

“It was human, but not. Like it was haunting the rumbling.” Philip wiped his brow with his neckerchief.

“You ain’t talkin’ about ghosts, is ya’?” asked Johnny.

“No, nothin’ like that. It was like the noise of the elephant or battle, but not just the firing and all. It was human, but inhuman.”

“You aren’t makin’ sense,” Johnny scolded him.

“He’s right,” said Mule. “That’s what it sounded like.”

“It’s what I always imagined the furies sounded like from Greek myths. That sort of hollow tumult.” Philip conjured his image of the mythical creatures that could flit about like humming birds and peck their prey mercilessly. What he heard, though, sounded like a host of furies all screeching at once.

“More like the roar of the fires of hell,” added Mule.

“That sounds more reasonable,” Johnny said.

“That may be closer to the truth than we want to know,” Philip said with unease.

*****

“Stack arms!”

Philip “threaded the needle” by sliding his bayonet through the interlocking ones of the men in front of him. Then the number two man swung Philip’s musket around to form the sturdy teepee-shaped rifle stack. Once the weapons were stacked, a long bristling line of gleaming metal stood in front of the formation. The command for rest was given, and Philip trudged over to the shady side of the farm’s outbuildings and collapsed upon the ground. A provost guard stood by the farm’s well and ordered the clamor for refreshment by turns. Tearing at his sack coat, he unbuttoned it to allow his soaked undershirt to breathe. The straps of his knapsack no longer hung heavily upon his shoulders, and the other straps could be loosened. Lifting off his forage cap, he felt the cool rush of air relieve his sweaty scalp.

The shady spot soon teemed with sprawling figures until a man couldn’t shift position without disturbing the one next to him.

“Can we brew?” Johnny asked his pards.

“Don’t know. I think we only have time to fill canteens before we resume,” Mule answered.

“Mule’s turn for that,” Philip said. He struggled to get the sling of his canteen over his neck and passed it to Mule. “Sorry, Mule. You’ll be standing awhile.” The line at the well was long and full of tired soldiers. Mule hoisted himself off the ground with a groan and collected the canteens. The afternoon sun bore down upon the men hapless enough to be stuck standing or lying underneath its merciless rays.

They reached the town of Savannah after another five hours of march. On the way, they had passed Grant’s headquarters, a stately manor with the typical southern penchant for Greek columns and wide porticos. Another gaggle of gold braids and shoulder straps was gathered about the steps, and a picket line of horses stood off to the side in wait for the next rider to mount. A troop of cavalry had made its camp on the other side of the houses. They could see its men scurrying about their own horses and tending to their equipment. They looked dusty but otherwise well-rested and fit.

Philip looked at his own begrimed and haggard comrades and marveled at the difference. He had chortled as they passed, “Hey, mister, where’s your mule?” to the wearied chuckles of those near him. Nobody really knew what it meant or exactly where the phrase originated, only that it was a popular rib against the cavalry.

One of the troopers retorted, “We ride our dumb animals. Looks like they’s ridden you pretty good.”

Enlivened a touch by the prospect of a brief respite, Johnny added, “Ever hear tell why you never did seed a dead cavalryman? It’s ‘cause they always beat ya’ to the rear!”

“Ever know why you always see dead infantrymen?” came the reply, “Because they too dumb to get out of the way!”

Cheered by the brief repartee, they marched a little easier until the near constant rumbling in the distance, clearly audible now, reminded them of the danger ahead.

Philip listened to the rumble. They had seen the paddlewheel gun boat, Tyler, at the loading docks as they passed through town and now could clearly hear its fire amid the other sounds. It was firing every fifteen minutes by his count and must have been lobbing huge shells. Each report was loud and drawn as if thunder suddenly cracked. They also saw several other boats of low draft docked and taking on supplies or soldiers. The town thronged with men in blue, and the procession along the road was as continuous as the roar in the distance.

“We gonna get to ride the steamers?” Sammy asked.