They Met at Shiloh (18 page)

Philip shook his head and asked, “What are we rushing into? What is there left to save but that cowardly lot at the landing?”

“They must be some need for us. The enemy ain’t at the landing yet.”

“But will there be anything to save once we all get ashore?” Philip asked. He watched the boats slowly make their way back.

They turned at the sound of a sudden splash and crashing in the trees behind the Lexington. A group of horsemen appeared on the opposite bank, and with them two cannon were sending solid shot at the transports. They didn’t have the range yet but soon would.

“Jesus Christ!” someone shouted as the shower of water drenched all unlucky enough to be near the geyser. “Oh, sorry, Rev,” the man stammered.

“My exact thoughts,” Philip said in return. “Jesus Christ, protect your own.”

The man looked at Philip and smiled.

The gunboat Tyler turned in the water to bring her port side cannon to play upon the Rebel guns. They were not too far away from the landing, only a few thousand yards by Philip’s guess.

Mule made a whooshing sound. “Well, we either gonna die over there or get drowned here on this boat.”

A puff of smoke marked the firing of another shot from the Rebel guns that crashed into the trees behind them. Philip watched the gunners on the Tyler prepare a response from their cannon. The sailors worked mechanically, and every movement was practiced and precise. Soon, the Tyler was exchanging shot for shot with the cannon on the shore line, and the Rebel gunners turned their attention to the Tyler with little effect. The Tyler’s crew peppered the shore with fire until the Rebel guns limbered up and beat a hasty retreat, to wild cheers from the 24th Ohio.

A sudden increase in noise drew their attention back to the shore line at what all guessed was the active line of defense. Yells and musketry sounds mingled and reminded all that desperate work was being done a short distance away.

25th Missouri Volunteers survivors

Pittsburg Landing, 4:30 PM April 6, 1862

B
ack across the river, past throngs of uniformed men drained of courage and cowering beneath the rising river bank, Robert Mitchell sat with his pards of the 25th Missouri Volunteers. With their fight behind them and their regiment scattered to the winds, they whiled away the time in the shade. There was a comfort here—to not be the lone coward but be amid an army of cowards.

Robert knew it wasn’t mere cowardice that kept these men and him there. It was the lack of the power of one’s pards to keep a man in line. One fought with one’s family at his side; if that family were beaten or scattered, the fortitude to fight was gone, as well.

“Hube,” Robert said to Huebner, “du bist nicht ein Fahnenflüchtiger. Das Regiment würde beendet. None of us deserted. The regiment was destroyed.”

Huebner had quieted somewhat but still carried a look of disgrace upon his face. Robert tried to get through to him that he was not the disgrace he felt himself to be. He knew that this boy, barely a man, should not have volunteered. Yet despite his mental deficiencies, he had managed to survive this far.

“Ja,” replied Huebner.

Gustavson poked Huebner in the ribs and said to him, “We all kaput. Das Kämpfen get closer, ja?”

The racket crept closer, and the stream of fugitives increased from a trickle to a flood. Wounded men, some helped by three or four others, were brought to the landing. Regiments from the line came to replenish ammunition, some resting near the sea of fugitives to heap scorn upon them. Occasionally, an officer or two, looking to fill out their regiments, would gather what skulkers with weapons were within reach, but even threats and blows with the flat of their sabers did little good, and the men scattered at first opportunity.

Robert’s group ignored the attempts and the scorn, but he knew it wasn’t right to sit there while the battle went poorly for their banner. The first transports arrived off of the landing about mid-afternoon, and a stir swept the cowards closest to the water. The first reinforcements began to gather inland from the overcrowded landing area. Others trickled in from smaller boats in a clearing to the left of the landing. Roberts’s group had chosen shade away from the mass but still near enough to have its protection. The trickle marched past them in small squad formations lead by corporals and sergeants. To a man, they were wide eyed and rattled, and they huddled close together.

Calls of “You’ll be whipped sure” and “the Devil’s down the way awaitin’ fer ya’ “ followed these newcomers. Several fist fights broke out as reinforcements clawed their way to their compatriots forming just beyond the cowards. Robert watched them closely, for aside from the milling masses and the sounds of impending battle drawing nigh, the newcomers were the freshest game to be gawked at.

Gustavson motioned to the passing group of newcomers. “Lambs to the slaughter, ja?”

“They doing th’ right thing,” Huebner said.

“Ach, vas is right? To be alive und breathing or märz zur Schlacht und zum Würfel?” Gustavson replied. “I choose der breathing und alive part.”

Huebner gave him a sharp look and said, “Rebels still out there. Reason we volunteered still out there. What difference?”

Robert looked at Huebner in surprise. This lad of barely twenty years was speaking with authority and passion about something. It was odd to see this in him, the boy whom he allowed to constantly follow him around because he felt some small responsibility.

Gustavson snorted. “Difference be that ve done seen der elephant and give our share.” The men in hearing ranged nodded their agreement.

“Gus is right,” Robert interrupted. “The regiment did its share this morning and got broke for it. For all we know, we’s the only ones left either alive or captured. It’s time for others to give their share.”

Before someone could counter that statement, Robert added, “Those still fighting are fighting under control of their officers and men they respect and know. What are we but some twenty-odd survivors of the Hell we witnessed this morning? From the patrol to the camp, we stood and died and were overrun. What more can a man do?”

The question was barely off his lips when it struck Robert that there was more to be given and that Huebner was driving for that very thing as well.

“Because der Christ no gives up in his cause, und we no give up on our cause,” Huebner protested. “Vater marschierte mit der Regent of Saxony against der Holy Roman Emperor und did it for same cause of Christ. Vater expect same out of me. Der Krieg of rebellion no different.”

Robert saw the fire in Huebner’s eyes and wondered what lion had been awoken in him. Robert didn’t know how he felt about it himself. He certainly wasn’t there for any principles of religion. Growing up Lutheran himself, he knew what Huebner was talking about. In the old country, where the German principalities still warred with one another over alliances, both religious and political, men still marched against each other in small wars of conquest. He did his duty and served it well before the regiment broke under the pressure of the enemy.

“No fight for a Pope or some Lutheran Bishop!” Gustavson told Huebner. “You serve for yourself. Ve volunteered to put down der rebellion, not to die for some lost cause.”

“Nein, kämpfe Ich für cause, for der country’s call like our Vaters marschiert mit kings against each other. Vater served und märz as we now märz mit der Federal government.” Huebner stared at each man and fidgeted with the blades of grass between his legs.

Robert put his hand on Huebner’s shoulder and looked in his eyes. With a quiet voice, he said, “Hube, Gus is right. There’s a line between foolhardiness and devotion to duty. We stood the test this morning and suffered for it. Hilde is gone for that duty. You saw him fall. I don’t see what else can be done that hasn’t been paid for.”

“More, we need to do more. Ich need do more than just sit,” Huebner said. “We could join back into die Schlacht, get back into the fight.”

“Go back? Sie krank im Kopf? Your head on right? We were there and survived. What more can a Soldat ask for?” Gustavson protested.

“What is it that would satisfy your desires, Hube?” Robert asked him, still holding the boy by the shoulders. “How long we been comrades in battle? We’ve been comrades in battle since we mustered in St. Louis and I’ve never known you to speak out on anything. Why now?”

Huebner fidgeted with a stick and looked from man to man. Robert wondered what was going on in that mind, which always seemed to be muddled and unable to cope with the simplest of duties, like falling in for morning roll call. Hube’s just a simpleton, he thought, someone touched by a different spirit needing to be looked after with a gentle but cautious hand.

“Because, like St. Paul, Christ’s blood compels me. Because Ich feel shamt that I not give my all for the cause for which Ich volunteered. Because bring not shame und disgrace to mein Vater. Meine Bruder, Karl, marz mit der 2nd Missouri und died at Wilson’s Creek. I am only one left to meine Mutter und Vater, und Ich bin kein Fahnenflüchtiger. Ich bin ein Soldat. I am soldier mit Christ und cause and will not be captured or desert.” With that, Huebner, visibly nervous, stood and gathered his traps, donning each item without looking at the men’s surprised expressions.

Robert was dumbstruck. Cause and Christ? The words were not foreign to any of them, but the voice and the orator were. In spite of the serious turn of their conversation, Robert nearly laughed as Huebner got tangled in his traps. He stood and took Huebner’s canteen from around the boy’s neck.

“Here, lemme help you, Hube.” He removed Huebner’s haversack. The boy cum patriot and zealous “Soldat” for Christ had forgotten to don his sack coat first before adding his leathers.

Huebner smiled at Robert and something of the innocent Jonah re-appeared. Robert handed him his sack coat and traps one by one. The awkward child and boy was still there, and Robert was relieved.

Once his traps were straight, Huebner picked up his musket and stood in front of the group.

“Ich join those men there. I not sit moment longer knowing I could add musket to the defense,” Huebner told them. Without further demonstration, he turned on his heels and made his way to the regiment gathering in the distance.

*****

Robert watched Huebner go, undecided what he should do but feeling the need not to let Huebner go the distance alone. Without a word, and to his own surprise, he gathered his traps and followed Huebner’s trail. It didn’t make sense, but he couldn’t leave his young charge to do it alone.

“Hube, wait!” Robert shouted while holding the various straps and his weapon in both hands.

Huebner stopped and looked back. When he saw what Robert was doing, he smiled broadly. “Robert! You come with me?”

“I can’t let anything happen to our company Jonah. Where else would we find one?” Robert made an unconvincing titter that grated on his own ears.

Huebner closed the distance to Robert in two strides and engulfed him in a bear hug.

“Hey, lemme get these things on first,” Robert said with a grunt in Huebner’s embrace.

“Robert, you not going to let me go alone!” Huebner beamed.

“No, pard, I couldn’t let you go alone. Now, help me get these things on,” Robert said. He tried to move his arms from Hube’s hug, which was holding them firmly to his sides.

Huebner released Robert, grabbed the traps from Robert’s hands, and let his own musket clatter to the ground.

Robert gave Huebner a slight push backward. “Hube, letting go of me was help enough,” Robert said and laid his equipment upon the ground.

“Need some help?” a voice behind Robert asked.

Robert turned to find Gustavson standing behind him. Other men of their company began to trickle into line until the whole crowd was standing around Robert and Huebner. Startled by their sudden appearance, Huebner danced with delight.

“You come, too?” Huebner said.

“Not let our pards go off alone,” Gustavson said with the agreement of the rest.

Robert hung his last trap over his shoulder and looked about him. “Well,” he said, “we’d better go find some officer to offer our services to.” The men around him gave a hearty, though nervous, cheer.

Despite the teeming humanity all about, it was easy to be ignored, especially if someone looked like a cowardly skulker in the sea of skulkers. But they all still had their essentials for fighting. As they meandered up to the gathering regiment, they were eyed closely by those lounging by their stacks of arms. The men lying on the ground were fresh and much animated in conversation, looking quite different than the small group standing now in front of them.

Robert found the company first sergeant and asked him where his commander was. The sergeant, eyeing him closely, pointed to a group of officers gathered in the distance with an unconcerned nod of his head and turned his back on the group. There was distrust in his eyes.

“We’ve got to go over there,” Robert said to his pards.

The men of this regiment didn’t look any different from Robert’s save for their choice of headgear. They wore army hats, with several already slouching well from service. They stood out with their forage caps, and that alone was enough to draw more attention to them. A captain stopped their progress with a wave of his hand.

“What business do you have?” he asked. The man was sweating profusely in the heat, but his uniform was clean. Following the familiar officers’ prerogative of adding flair to their uniforms, his high-cut shell jacket and rows of brass buttons were decorated with a red sash and saber. As in most western commands, the dainty officer’s dress often found in the eastern armies was dispensed with as immaterial. Though plain in dress, the officer stood out in his attire.

Robert stood straight and formal and looked the captain in the eye. “Sir, my pards and I wish to offer our services. Our regiment met the enemy in force this morning out on a reconnaissance and fought them up to our encampment where the rest of the 25th Missouri Volunteers is either now dead on the field or captured. We who are left wish to give our aid.”