They Met at Shiloh (21 page)

Though his sympathies lay with the righteousness of the spiritual cause they all had answered, Philip could not but wonder about his pard’s comments and insistence on the slavery issue. It had always been an issue for as long as he could remember in his life. His spiritual duty as a minister of God’s grace and John Wesley’s tradition of Methodism taught him to oppose slavery as a mockery of what God intended for His creation. Slavery was something that happened out of reach and always down south. Now the war brought them deeper south than he had ever cared to go. The ragged appearance of the Negroes he had seen through Kentucky and Tennessee did not increase his compassion toward their plight or passion against slavery.

But Johnny’s parents, and even he himself, adhered to abolitionist beliefs that ran deep in the New England states. Johnny saw the conflict differently than others. His family had immigrated to Ohio’s open land from hardy New England stock and brought with them New England attitudes about life and social justice, though many of his neighbors were of southern stock. Even so, few refused to volunteer for cause and country when war came.

In this dark night, under the gathering clouds, the rapt debate over cause and reason flourished from these ordinary soldiers with no stake but their lives.

Sammy turned to face Johnny. “You seen ‘em. You seen them Secesh banners gather for the attack and the way they fight. Tell me they doin’ it ta keep the darkies in chains.” More than a few men turned to face him. “That lot what charged us at Nashville and into our volleys weren’t doin’ it fer darkies. They did it fer the right to sever the Union because of they’s darkies.”

“Sure,” Johnny replied, “for their right to keep ‘em.”

Sammy’s face reddened, and his hands clenched. “It ain’t the same at all. Not a man here would go and kill or be killed fer that race of slaves. I’m no lover of them slavers, but I’m not of the mind ta go and get myself rent apart by no grape and canister just to loose upon our land a greater evil. Them people will have ta be educated and eased into polite society afore they be any good.”

“You ain’t concerned none about them slaves?” Johnny asked. “They gotta be freed!”

“I ain’t saying that at all,” Sammy snapped back. “I jus’ don’t see makin’ the entire war out of them slaves. You’ve seen them poor wretches along our march. I ain’t arguin’ that they shouldn’t be free or shoulda not been slaves ta begin with. But them rabid abolitionists would have us doin’ more if they had they’s way.”

“It be the slaves what brought us to this,” Johnny argued, his voice rising. “and led to rebellion fer the right to keep ‘em. That can’t be covered over. Round about, we’s fighting for their freedom and the reunification of the Union.” The two men stared at each other, both ready to fight.

Seeing the potential confrontation, Philip interrupted the two men. “Both a’ you, simmer down. Whatever it is, we can agree that it is a great evil, this war. The times of greatest strife in the lives of God’s chosen race were in times of disobedience and war, and would not be much of a stretch to imagine this war bein’ punishment fer the evil of slavery upon this otherwise blessed land.”

“You preachin’ again, Rev?” The voice of Sergeant Harper disturbed their discussion.

Philip glared at the sergeant. “Yes, was just getting to the part about who will inherit the kingdom of Heaven. Neither liars, murderers, fornicators or their fornicating, lying, cheating, good-for-nothing brothers shall inherit the kingdom of God.”

“You jus’ don’t know when to quit, you self-righteous filth! Yer daddy would at least had the good graces ta not disparage the dead nor deny them proper ceremony. But you ain’t your daddy, is you?”

“No, I ain’t,” Philip shot back. “The good Reverend might have conducted your wretched kin to the ground with a mighty fine speech, quelling even the most righteous breast of tribulation, but I wouldn’t and still won’t. If you fall on this field, I will personally send your soul to the waiting arms of Beelzebub himself and your kin.”

“And if you should fall, I will see to it your bones be picked clean by these southern hogs what roam about in the dark woods.”

Philip crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head. “And what if both of us should tumble? Do we continue this feud in the afterlife, hurling barbs at one another from the separating space of Heaven and Hell? If both of us should fall, then perhaps that is the only respite from this desecration. Do we have a pact, Harper? We both should fall?”

“I ain’t makin’ no pact with you or your God fer my life. I’ll let the gods of war pick and choose the time of my passing, but I’m waiting to see the wild pigs tearing at your carcass!” Harper turned on his heels and marched away.

“Rev?” Sammy asked Philip. “How long you gonna keep this up with him?”

Watching Harper stride away, Philip answered, “As long as he does. I know I fall far short of that Christian charity that I am supposed to show even my enemy, but I won’t be faulted for not burying that cheat’s brother.”

“Whatever happened to forgive and forget?” Johnny asked.

Philip exhaled slowly. “It died along with any shred of decency a body might hold onto in the face of reprisal years ago with the shedding of my collar.”

“I can see why Harper has something against you, but what is your issue with him?” Sammy asked.

“He and his family forced me out of the pulpit, pretending to be pious and God fearing. They took their case to the bishop, and I was given a choice of resign or be stripped of my collar for refusing to bury the worst man in the valley.” Philip sighed loudly. “I suppose I should be grateful to them as I was never cut of the same cloth and collar as my father in respects to piety and preaching ability.”

“I can see as where that might make a man kinda’ mad.”

“I suppose I never forgave them for the personal insult.” Philip grew silent and stared into the dark ground.

“I dun’ have much in the way of thoughts fer them neither,” Johnny said, “but seems that carrying on like this after this long can’t be good, given circumstances.”

“Ain’t there somethin’ in the Lord’s Prayer ‘bout that?” Mule chimed in.

“What that?” Sammy asked.

“Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them what trespasses against us,” Mule responded.

“Yeah, it do say that, Mule,” Philip answered. “But sometimes it’s another thing puttin’ it into practice.”

“How hard can it be?” Mule asked him.

“Hard enough, Mule. Hard enough.”

*****

Stephen Murdoch

Shiloh Church Yard 10 PM April 6, 1862

Across the way, far into the rear of the Confederate army, Stephen Murdoch looked across the wounded laid out around the Shiloh Church, searching for Willy Hawkins. Willy hadn’t responded to roll after the Federal camp was taken, and the regiment had moved off before Stephen could pick through the dead and dying on the hill slope. The 6th Mississippi was but a shell of its former glory. Fortunately, they had not been called upon to give more blood this day and had spent several uncomfortable hours resting just behind the firing line. As the fight kept getting farther from them, every face mirrored the relief. They lazed about in formation in the boiling sun until an officer on General Cleburne’s staff rode up and directed the regiment to counter-march back down the Shiloh road.

The 6th marched not only to the rear of the fighting but also to the very rear echelons of the army, back to their starting point. They passed the evidence of a great host having trod through the woods for the attack. They saw the acres of wagons and supply trains gathered around Michie’s Crossroads and the bustle of hundreds of uniformed men. There, dispirited and exhausted, the survivors attempted to find rest in the growing heat of the forenoon.

Stephen collapsed after shedding his traps. He lay motionless for a time, too morose and spent to engage in chat. Few in the 6th felt like talking. Three hundred names were absent from the roll, including the commanding officer and second in command. Few were left even to make a respectable company. Fewer still were the messmates and pards whom Stephen had grown to know as his family.

Their brief moment of heroism and fury were followed by a calming of emotions and time for introspection. Four hundred men answered the call that morning to march forward, only to leave the greater portion dead and maimed upon the slopes of that rise. For some few hours, Stephen knew not how many, he drifted in and out of a fitful sleep upon the grass. The 6th Mississippi was on its own recognizance, and not even a fatigue detail was demanded of it. Having borne the battle, and bravely so, the regiment was left alone.

Near evening, weary of the idleness, he sought permission to search for Willie. Stephen shouldered his water bottle, and started out on his solitary mission. What had the sacrifice wrought? Had it brought victory? What of the rest of the divisions and corps?

All about him was confusion. The injured lay wherever a building and water was to be had. The field hospitals were easy to spot. He only had to spot the wounded gathered for the surgeon’s saws, but no one knew where Hardee’s dressing stations were located. Pitiful-looking men sprawled about any shack that would house the quick, painful surgery. Rows of blanket-covered forms attested to those who were now beyond care. Stephen’s eyes fell upon gruesome wounds oozing blood and staining the once-green grass.

Others, like him, milled about free from wound or disability. Some sat by comrades; others moved from form to form, offering water or encouragement. Regimental chaplains administered last rites or absolutions, depending on the faith of the stricken, and surgeons’ assistants hurried to and fro dressing wounds. Stephen steeled himself, retraced their steps of that morning and spied familiar landmarks. The farmstead where they first met the enemy was silent now. The wood line where the enemy broke and fled was peaceful. In the wood lay yet the still forms of what used to be men. Stephen took in these fell scenes in silence.

The light was fading as he crossed the marsh and the late scene of their desperate charges up the hill. Enemy dead still dotted the hilltop, but the Confederate dead and maimed had already been taken away. Stephen stood alone amid the dead. To the left, right, and ahead, he looked into the cold, open eyes of the fallen enemy, and some small pity heaved in his heart. They had been stripped clean of anything of value. None wore shoes. Some had been relieved of their trousers and lay in shameful exposure in their under drawers. It was too much to understand. Stephen turned and quickly strode back to, and through, the camp. He was reliably informed by a wounded corporal where Hardee had his field hospital, and he caught a rumor that a church lay ahead.

The darkness helped cover the day’s sinful work. The Federal camps were occupied now by the victorious conquerors and appeared as if they had never been abandoned. Fires flickered everywhere, and the sounds of murmuring mingled with the rustling of leaves. Only the solitary booming of several large caliber guns broke what might have been a normal night in the vicinity of a large, armed host. The calm betrayed any tenseness, any grief, as if the battle of the morning had been imagined. Those soldiers yet unscathed walked to and fro, riders trotted upon the roads, and the army did what it always did at nighttime.

Stephen’s feet hurt. Despite a long rest, his limbs still felt heavy. The light of several fires drew his attention away from his aches to an illuminated building. It was the church. Surrounding it was a mass of humanity prostrated by battle. In the dark, only forms could be discerned moving about the flickering shadows among the crop of furrowed wounded. The fields surrounding the church were filled with wounded, and the task of finding one specific face struck Stephen as ludicrous. Each face would have to be gazed upon to find the one he sought.

Stephen sniffed the air. Dampness mixed with blood and decay offended his senses. As if it wasn’t enough to endure shot, shell, and maiming in battle, the heavens added their own form of misery: rain. His heart felt for those sufferers upon the ground, but he had seen enough suffering to build up a callous. He had seen men withered away by disease, and still others die outright before him from sudden and violent deaths. A soldier could surrender to the agony of such sights and desert, he could be discharged for wounds, or he could divorce himself of compassion altogether. Stephen had grown an age since the morning, and his heart felt nothing for the suffering of those hundreds. He only had one objective at the moment and a hope against hope of finding Willie in the dark, rainy night.

*****

25th Missouri survivors

Last Battle Line, 9 PM April 6, 1862

The Indiana regiment, after making its stand by the guns as twilight descended upon the field, stood for a time in battle line before moving off farther to the right to be joined by the rest of their brigade. Not far from the Shiloh churchyard where Stephen started his search for his pard, Robert, Hube, and a few of the other survivors from the 25th Missouri walked through the trees on an errand of their own. The group hurried through the darkness to find their late battle line.

“Thish vay,” Piper said and gestured.

“It’s too dark, and I’m cold,” Huebner whimpered.

“We don’t have much time before they miss us,” Robert said tersely.

The group, five of them, each shouldering a shovel borrowed from the entrenching supplies of their adopted company, wandered about the large field where they thought Gustavson had fallen.

“You sure it was here?” another of the group asked.

“I think so,” Robert called back.

“I think ve vere closher to die trees,” Piper said.

The enemy had retreated from the field, leaving their dead and wounded behind, and the field was dotted with still forms. The darkness made it impossible to see in any direction without a lamp, and they had no other illumination. One merely stumbled over something and inspected it for Union blue.

The ground was littered with equipment and soggy paper from the thousands of paper cartridges opened and discarded where the combatants stood, but that was of little help when the clutter that usually discerned a battle line was just a mix of random garbage upon the ground.