They Met at Shiloh (20 page)

The distant battle line of the enemy lurched forward, unevenly interspersed with seven stands of colors. The line was clearly wider than the 36th’s. If not checked, the enemy would pour flank fire into the exposed right and left of the regiment. Robert’s feeling of nakedness intensified.

With flapping red and white banners and a chorus of Rebel yells, the enemy legion stepped toward the piteous few that stood for Grant’s last bastion of defense. The Rebels would certainly take advantage of the 36th’s unsupported stance in the field, bereft of supporting regiments on its right and left and with the prized guns at its back.

“K Company, right backward half wheel, march!” Captain Armstrong commanded. The company pivoted on the last man of Company K that connected it with Company B, like a door upon a hinge, in a maneuver called “refusing the line.”

The Rebel line halted a scant few rods from the 36th Indiana and dressed its lines in a formality that sent chills down Robert’s back. The crowd of butternut and gray did not appear any less tired than when they had assailed the 25th Missouri’s camp earlier in the morning.

“Ready! Aim!” came the staccato call of the company commanders as the regiment readied itself to deliver a wall of lead into the enemy and receive same. Eight hundred hammers clicked from half cock to full, and eight hundred muskets leveled upon the enemy. The gentlemanly silence preceding unrestrained violence descended upon the field.

The Rebel line stood as if in mirror image to them, both sides with leveled rifles awaiting the command to fire. Holding his rifle level, Robert felt a quivering in his arms and the fatigue from the morning’s exertions. The wait seemed to be hours.

“Fire!”

Robert’s regiment loosed a ragged volley on the enemy, who immediately replied in turn. Men dropped. A contest of wills ensued with the opposing sides loading, firing, and waiting for the other to flinch. The Rebels on the flank advanced a few paces then halted, closing the distance. Another volley, and a few more rifles clattered to earth. The ground at Robert’s feet was littered with the paper remnants of cartridges he fed into his barrel. A few of the cannon turned to meet the challenge posed by the Rebels. They arched solid shot over the heads of the company, but each shot went long, falling harmlessly behind the Rebel line. Robert felt the panic growing in the men around him. They fumbled with their weapons with panic-stricken fingers and eyed each other in despair.

“Load and fire, load and fire!” Robert yelled.

The man to his left crumpled to the ground, holding his bowels and screaming. Robert looked quickly for his other pards and spied Huebner loading but standing by himself, the men having been hit or gone to the rear with no one covering down to fill the holes.

“Hube, cover down! Hube!” Robert called out.

Alerted to Huebner’s plight by Robert’s shout, Gustavson grabbed Huebner by the shoulder and dragged him down to the next man in line. Huebner gave him a toothy grin in response.

In spite of their thinning ranks, the enemy advanced again upon them, defying Company K’s return fire and the oblique fire from Company B that cut across Company K’s front. The Rebels sensed victory within grasp. Robert wondered if they would attempt to rush his line.

More men were going down with each passing moment, and those left standing were bleeding from flesh wounds. Few men stood unscratched. Minié balls whizzed and zipped like hornets. Many a hat or piece of equipment was clipped off.

The other enemy regiments fronting the 36th were holding steady and delivering steady blows as if planted solidly in the ground. In the face of the advancing enemy, the Indiana men began to shrink backward. No order to move was given save for the natural instinct to avoid something terrible. Robert realized he was standing alone, the men to either side having moved backward a few feet. In a moment, though, Gustavson, Huebner, and the other men of the 25th Missouri were around him, pouring their fire into the advancing enemy. The haze of gun powder was so thick they could barely make out individual faces.

“Get back into line! Form on me, on me!” yelled Captain Armstrong as he rushed up to the front of the line waving his sword. The enemy halted once more. Their chance had come to roll up the 36th from the flank. The first sergeant struggled to move the panicky men of Company K back into their spots.

“Ve kaput!” Gustavson shouted in Robert’s ear over Captain Armstrong’s bellows to “Make your stand!”

The holes were plugged in time for another volley to pour into the company from the enemy. Gustavson pitched forward, as if diving to the ground, and shrieks of surprise emanated from those struck. The Rebels let out another cry of their own and surged forward with bayonets charged.

Some Indiana men either stood with their Missouri comrades or scampered off. Those who remained either were too stupid with fear or were dead.

The Rebel line crashed into Company K—it was every man for himself. The eyes of the attackers, now clearly seen, met with those of the defenders, and in the close quarters, they fought with rifle butts, bayonets, and fists.

Robert hadn’t the time to see if Gustavson was injured or dead, or time to look upon any of his pards. His attention was upon fending off the large Rebel thrusting his bayonet at him. The man was clothed in a mish-mash of colors: gray pants, butternut coat, brown derby style hat, and mud. A fierce fire burned in his eyes, along with fear, both emotions Robert knew his own eyes revealed. The man screamed obscenities at him as the two tried to relieve the other of life. Without warning, the Rebel charge melted away as the enemy retreated to a safer distance.

Those few moments of contact had been enough to leave many wounded. Captain Armstrong lay upon the ground, shot in the shoulder. A few Confederates surrendered and were lead to the rear, as well as a few Indiana and Missouri men, hauled off with the retreating Rebels. The number of Robert’s pards was cut down to fifteen, not including two others no longer moving. The Rebels as a whole withdrew, leaving the 36th Indiana scarred but not licked.

Another regiment appeared and moved down to support their right flank, and a ragged cheer rose from the 36th. With the fight now ended, the men relaxed and tried to reform their scattered ranks. The edginess of the company was settled by the first sergeant taking the men through the manual of arms several times. The piles of humanity were left where they lay, as were a scattering of wounded enemy. The 36th had met the elephant and was still standing in its wake.

The regiment made a collective sigh of relief. The Indiana men seemed to stand a little taller, carrying themselves like veterans, and they exchanged sheepish grins. They were quietly and simply elated to be alive. Their numbers swelled as those who had left the field in fear or to help a wounded comrade rejoined their companies. Everyone looked nicked in some fashion, and those who lay upon the ground behind them managed to crawl away or stand, leaving only Gustavson’s body where it fell. The other four of Robert’s pards regained their feet and rejoined the ranks, completing their group once again.

Just out of artillery range, the enemy reformed lines to make another go of it. But for all of the madness, danger, and the sudden rush of the enemy upon them, Gustavson died alone. The presence of the enemy in their front prohibited them from doing anything for the body, despite their wish to take care of his remains.

The Rebels let out another yell and advanced back across the field already dotted with their dead, drawing the attention of all back to the business at hand. As the sun’s last rays lit the scene on the day’s grotesque play, the actors went about the business of destruction.

24th Ohio Line of Battle

Pittsburg Landing, 6:30 PM April 6, 1862

“B
y company into line,” Colonel Jones shouted hoarsely, “double quick, march!”

“It looks bad, real bad,” Johnny said with a huff, and they scrambled out of column formation to form company front.

Sergeant Harper nodded to Philip. “You’ll meet yer God now, Rev!”

“And you’ll meet your god,” Philip replied, “pitch fork, fire, and all!” He gasped for air through the smoke hovering on the field.

Dusk was settling upon the fields, but the battle did not abate. The trip across the river and through the throngs of men crowding the bank had been enough trial without having to face the enemy. A breathless courier directed the 24th Ohio away from the landing and off to the right toward a wood where they were informed the enemy was thick as fleas. Fires burned in the pale of evening. The smell of gunpowder and the smoke created a frightening pallor.

Mule stared wide eyed. “They gonna march us into that? If the enemy’s in there, we ain’t gonna see ‘em.”

The wood line was dark and appeared to be solid, perhaps hiding the enemy they sought.

Colonel Jones shouted again. “Forward, march!”

“That answer your question?” Sammy said with a bitter laugh.

“Well, if we’re lucky, we’ll have missed most of this, though I suspect we’ll be in the thick of it on the morrow,” Philip said. The men around him looked toward the woods blankly.

A few forlorn, supine forms lay in the field spread out before the wood line. Other than the noise of battle to the left, there was little else to foretell of any danger. The regiment entered the wood and into a claustrophobic, eerie silence. They could hear many staccato footfalls crashing through dead twigs and leaves, but they saw nothing. It was almost pitch black, and but for a pale blue hue that shone through the wood’s canopy, no other light existed. The men made enough noise of their own that they soon gave up listening for the enemy.

“You get the feeling we could just be walkin’ into the muzzles of an enemy line and wouldn’t know it till they fired?” Mule asked Philip.

Curses rang out as men tripped in the undergrowth and were in turn cursed by company officers for clumsiness. Trying to keep in formation was impossible. Men found themselves far behind or ahead of their fellows, despite company officers screaming themselves hoarse.

If not for the deadly seriousness of the task, the scene might have been comical. Philip’s company was splintered into several groups who groped around in the near darkness looking for the others. The full strength of the company line was hidden. The men wished only to be out of the evil place.

“Pearson!” shouted Mule.

“Push on, cover to the right, keep your intervals!”

“I can’t see a blasted thing. Why’re we here?”

“Cursed stump. Ow!”

“Over here!”

The voice of an invisible officer called out, “Quiet in the ranks!”

Mule took Philip by the arm and whispered, “I think the rest of the company is over this way.”

“Which way? I can’t see them.”

“To the left.”

Sammy caught up with Mule and Philip and asked, “Whose bad idea was this?”

The scramble continued for interminable minutes as the scattered elements and squads pushed on. Philip and his fellows saw a break in the gloom to the right and angled toward it. Eventually exiting the wood, they found themselves in another field, whose crop of death begged for a shroud such as they just left. As men stumbled into the field, the regiment gathered its lost sheep. They found no enemy standing, only his dead and dying. Forms were discernible in the clouded evening, and equipment was strewn about.

There was much covering down and pushing as newcomers regained their places. Finally out of the Hell of the wood, everyone strained to see into the darkness for the next hellish encounter.

“Fall in at attention,” barked Sergeant Harper from behind the formation.

The push to get onto the field in the long march, then the excitement as they came ashore, made the end anti-climactic. Though no man yearned for the thunder of the guns, the hurried formation and chaotic tramp through the darkness only to arrive at this battle-scarred field was a disappointment.

“Why we always rushed to some place just ta stand around?” Sammy asked in a quiet voice.

“Just lucky, I guess,” Philip replied.

“At ease,” Colonel Jones commanded.

The men relaxed and could move about more freely as long as they kept their right foot in place so that they wouldn’t break the formation. Many men leaned upon their muskets, and a hundred hushed conversations began.

Mule crouched down in his position and looked up at his pards. “I take it we here for a while.”

“Seems that way,” Johnny answered.

“Rebs musta’ retired. The skirmishers is all quiet up front,” Sammy said and shifted uneasily.

“What you think, Rev? God’s work tomorrow?” Johnny asked.

“Wouldn’t hardly call it God’s work. I suppose if God should bless this Union, though, bringing the rebellion to an end would be His work. One might suppose its execution be more devilish than holy.”

For several minutes, they were quiet, each lost in his own thoughts, and for some, in his own doubts.

Mule finally broke the reverie. “The enemy who opposes us might be thinking the same thing about now, flushed with today’s successes and all.” He looked sideways at Philip, and Philip returned his glance.

“I know of some good Methodist preachers down south who would say they’s rebellion has God’s blessin’.”

Sammy leaned over his musket and asked, “Them Rebs we took in Nashville said some strange things about this war, didn’t they?”

“They seemed to not understand what they was fighting for, like the question of slavery was some foreign concept to them,” Johnny replied.

“The secession was about their rights to leave the Union, not about slavery,” Philip explained.

“Maybe so,” Johnny said with emphasis, “but slavery was behind it.”

“They didn’t think they were fightin’ fer their darkies,” Philip answered him. “It don’t have anything to do with the darkies. It has all to do with the Union.”

“It’s what we volunteered for, preservin’ the Union, that is,” Sammy said, a little louder than expected.

Johnny straightened abruptly, hands on hips. “And put an end to slavery. You have to see that slavery will end if we are victorious.”