They Met at Shiloh (23 page)

Michael got up from his spot under the tree, overtaken by the need to calm his fears. He ventured into the drizzle to see for himself the state of affairs. Despite the rain, many men were going about their business. Michael gathered the gum blanket about his shoulders and walked in the direction he guessed the front lines might be. The battery had drawn up beside a captured enemy camp before dark and settled down, but other than the wounded infantry taking shelter in the tents, he saw nothing of the infantry brigades that were supposed to be in front of them.

The misty rain made the night that much darker and limited visibility to only a few feet. Michael knew he was in danger of blundering into some enemy vedette or picket line and falling into enemy hands. Many a hapless man had wandered blindly into the enemy and was captured, spending months whiling away the time in a prison compound. The danger of being shot at by his own side was also very real. But the enemy line had to be close.

“Where you headed?” a voice called out so close that Michael jumped.

“What?” Michael asked.

“Nuthin’ but enemy out that way,” the man said. He stepped out from behind a tree. Michael had walked right by the man without seeing him.

Michael looked over the man, trying to recognize him. “Whose picket line is this?”

“No one’s. Provost guard posted me here to keep fellers like you from heading too far up this way.”

“You mean there ain’t no picket line here?” That was a surprise.

“Not that I seen. Could be up ahead, but I hain’t gonna go that far ta find out, neither.”

They both faced ahead into the dark rain, though there was nothing to see. Michael let out a sigh.

“Thank you, then. I suppose I’ll go no farther.”

“Hain’t seed none of the enemy, neither, so they could be nuthin’ up ahead. Prudence seems ta me to be had stayin’ put right here.” The man gave Michael a knowing look. “Although, if ya’ listen real close, ya’ can hear movement up ahead. Enemy’s using axes in the forests. They meanin’ ta stay, I think.”

“Would seem that way,” Michael replied.

“I thinks we might be able to finish it at light. I think we good to finish the job at first light.”

“Let’s hope the enemy don’t know they’s nothing between them and their camp. My guns aren’t even unlimbered. We need to get some infantry to picket this area.”

“That would be mighty prudent and no mind to me. Some Federal cavalry came snoopin’ around here a bit ago, but I suppose ‘cause of the darkness they din’t see me fer they’s enemy. I was able to turn them back by actin’ friendly like.” The man looked down and kicked a toe into the ground. “I’d shore feel better if I had some company.”

“Indeed. I won’t promise nothin’. Things seem pretty confused everywhere, but I’ll see what can be done,” Michael said.

The man nodded and leaned back against the tree. Michael started off a few steps and looked back. Already, the man was invisible to him, the blackness of the trees and the night hiding him completely. Michael quickened his pace, fearing getting lost and wandering into another vedette. When the surroundings began to take on a familiar edge, he relaxed.

“Mahoney, First Sergeant, where are you?” Michael called.

“Sir,” Mahoney called back.

“Form a gun line right here and get the pieces primed. They ain’t nothin’ in front of us but the enemy. They ain’t close that I can tell, but I don’t like being exposed.”

“What? They’s supposed to be a picket line out there,” said the haggard first sergeant.

“Well, they ain’t. It’s just us and one lone soul standing by a tree.”

“Should I take one section as skirmishers?” Mahoney asked.

Michael chewed his bottom lip for a moment, then shrugged. “You kin try. Don’t think the boys would know skirmish drill from Quinine Call, but yer welcome ta give it a go. I’m going to find some infantry to do it for real.”

Michael turned and walked into the blackness. He chuckled to himself as he heard Mahoney get a section roused and armed. It wasn’t for an artilleryman to perform such duties. The boys knew how to load and shoot a two-band musket if they had to, but most of their weapons rarely saw useful employment other than taking pot shots at live game.

Walking through the abandoned camp, Michael heard the normal murmur of quiet conversations within the tents and pitiable moaning. Michael was looking for a fire and any large gathering of men, but the camp was dark. Curious, Michael stepped up to a Sibley tent. He opened the flap, peeked in, and immediately gagged. Excrement, blood, and stale air assaulted his nose. Jerking his head back out, he drew a breath to settle his stomach and to purge his nostrils of the awful stench. Michael poked his head in once more after drawing a deep breath.

It was dark inside, and the walls of the tent had been pierced by minié balls—the canvas was ripped and sagging. A writhing mass of humanity covered the floor. Confederate and Federal wounded occupied this tent, and most still seemed to be alive and delirious.

“Water,” a thick, raspy voice called.

Michael looked into the face of a young boy whose head lay directly below. Michael did not have his canteen.

“Water,” the call was taken up by a few others in the tent.

Michael cursed himself for being curious as he had neither a way to succor these poor souls nor the stomach for such work.

“Hold on. I’ll find a canteen.”

Michael ducked out again and drew in clean air. He looked about for a canteen. Shattered rifles, blankets, caps, hats, coats, belts, cartridge boxes, torn haversacks, and camp equipage lay underfoot, but no canteens. He could outfit several men from the cast-off items lying upon the ground, and yet for the want of a single canteen he would give his rank. He pressed on through the camp and eventually stumbled upon a pile of discarded canteens lying around a corpse propped up against a tree. He was a Confederate colonel by his rank, and a darkened spot in his abdomen showed his death wound. The canteens had no doubt been gathered by someone to give the poor man some comfort before he passed on. Gathering the canteens, Michael hurried back to the tent.

“Water, boys. I got water,” Michael said.

Several shaky hands reached out. Michael handed over several of the canteens.

“They’s more layin’ around if any of you can walk,” Michael said and left them without further ado.

The next tent over was in similar straits, and the men therein also desired water. Former enemies of a few hours before lay side by side and tried to tend to each other’s wounds as they were able. Michael was sure that in the annals of war, nothing quite like this had ever been witnessed by enemies so alike. It did not take long for Michael to distribute the water and move on.

When he reached the edge of the camp, Michael spied a series of fires and lanterns in an adjacent camp and headed for it. Where there’s fire, there’s headquarters, Michael thought. He stepped into a bustle of activity and a general liveliness not seen in the other campsite.

“Private, what HQ is this?” Michael asked a man who appeared to be standing guard.

“Polk’s HQ. Polk’s Corps HQ,” was the disinterested reply.

“May I enter?” asked Michael, expecting the normal guard mount challenge and response.

“I ain’t stoppin’ ya’,” was the reply.

Michael brushed passed the useless sentry and walked up to a tired-looking lieutenant. The man was sitting at a table, scribbling upon sheets of paper by the light of a lantern.

“Is General Polk about?” Michael asked.

The lieutenant didn’t look up from his pages. “No. Bragg’s HQ.” Michael leaned over and saw that the lieutenant was copying orders upon a sheet of paper from another he positioned in front of him. He would write a word, look at the other sheet, then write another word. Either he was not too bright or he was very careful. Michael started to get irritated by the man’s demeanor.

“Who can I speak to about positioning an infantry regiment in our front?”

“Major Pigeon over there, an aid de camp of Polk’s.” The lieutenant pointed over to a man leaning against another table and napping upon one arm.

Michael didn’t bother thanking him. He walked over to the napping officer and cleared his throat. Major Pigeon didn’t stir.

“Sir,” Michael said.

“Yes?” Major Pigeon jerked his head up.

“Sir, Captain Grierson of Polk’s battery,” Michael said.

“Yes, Captain?” the major said, still in the daze of fitful sleep.

“Sir, I know it for certain that there is nothing between my section of Polk’s battery and the enemy beyond but a single vedette, and a mighty lonely one at that.”

“Oh?” the major yawned.

“Yes, he’s already bluffed a Yankee cavalry patrol, and I’d feel a might better if my guns weren’t so exposed. Not to mention the security of the division.”

“Where?” The major blinked and rubbed his eyes.

“Two camps over to the south,” Michael said curtly. His frustration was beginning to show.

The major eyed him thoughtfully. “If you can find an infantry company, you could have it. We’re still trying to ascertain where the other divisions are, Captain. I’m sure the general would be right pleased you’re so concerned for our front, but the fact is I don’t have anything to order up to you. The brigades are scattered about, and few have sent in their returns or reports. I’d suggest finding your own brigade first since I’m assuming someone placed you where you’re at now.”

“Sir.” Michael saluted and turned on his heel. The reproof had been unnecessary and unwelcome. Captain Polk was nowhere to be found and would be Michael’s first and probably only step into the chain of command. Polk’s battery was attached to B. R. Johnson’s brigade, but Michael hadn’t seen Johnson since mid-afternoon.

Michael began to understand what Polk had tried to explain earlier. Hopelessness was evident in the HQ, and if Captain Polk had been around it for any length of time, it was no wonder he was in a desperate mind. But, like a caisson under the control of a spooked team of horses, the battle was out of the control of any human hand, and the army was trying to cope as best as it could.

Back in familiar territory and the position of the battery, Michael walked up to Mahoney.

“We’re not going to see any infantry tonight. We’ll have to make do with our own preparations and hope the Yankees don’t decide to press us at first light. Corps HQ doesn’t know what’s going on, and I couldn’t find Captain Polk or even the brigade HQ. We’re on our own for the time.” Michael kicked at the dirt and looked back in the direction he had come.

“I see,” Mahoney said and sniffled. “We kin rotate the sections every hour and a half. The boys is pretty tired.”

“That’ll work, Michael said. “I’ll put Lieutenant Ford in charge of the pickets as officer of the guard. You seen ‘im?”

“He’s over by gun three with the other lieutenant.”

“It’s going to be a long night, and no one’s gonna get any real sleep, but you try anyway, First Sergeant. The boys’ll need you to be sharp tomorrow.”

“I suppose it would be fruitless of me to suggest the same to you?” Mahoney gave him a wry look.

“Probably so. If we get settled right proper, I might steal a wink or two, but with this drizzle, I don’t know if it will be possible.”

“Well, I got one a.m. by my time piece, so we got another six hours afore first light.” Mahoney winked at him. “I’ll expect to catch you napping.”

Michael groaned. “I’m going to make one last try to find Captain Polk and inform him of our situation. At least we can assume the enemy is just as disorganized and won’t move until light.”

“Hope so,” Mahoney replied. “Don’t you go and get lost.”

“I’ll try, Mother,” Michael said and grinned.

Michael turned on his heel and walked back into the inky, drizzly blackness, leaving Mahoney standing alone.

“Section commanders,” Mahoney shouted, “on me.”

*****

36th Indiana picket line

Pittsburg Landing, AM April 7, 1862

Ten rods to the west, through intervening trees and blackness, the 36th Indiana was settling in for a long, uncomfortable night sleeping on their arms, which was to say in battle formation with muskets at their sides. Not a man among them was aware of the prize in cannon waiting to be claimed in front of them. Those who had feared missing the grand ball were satiated, and any who had feared his own cowardice was prepared to stand far more. The Indiana men had faced the elephant and lived to tell of it. Despite the rainfall, the Indiana men were chatty and restless. Every version of the late battle, both real and imagined, was told and retold, and changed and re-changed, until one could wonder whether the men had witnessed the same engagement.

Ahead of the regiment, the men of Company K were spread out the length of the line in picket posts of comrades in arms, huddled closely together for company and warmth. Though the rest of the regiment was equally uncomfortable upon the cold and wet grass, those on picket duty did not have the luxury of relaxing and participating in the tall tales of battle. It also meant little to no sleep for each post, as one man had to remain awake at all times. The Missouri men were spread out in four posts, in hailing distance of each other and struggling to not let their exhaustion win over their vigilance.

“Comrades, Schläfrig bin Ich. Ich need company,” Huebner whined.

“That defeat purpose, Huebner, of you on watch. Ve’re all tired,” Piper said.

“Can’t stay wake alone,” Huebner said. He raised his arm over his mouth to cover a wide yawn.

“Hube, with you making noise, none of us can sleep,” Robert said. He tried to roll his gum blanket around himself to keep the rain out.

Huebner shook Robert. “Du kannst nicht.”

“Hube,” Robert pleaded.

“Du must.”

“Hube, let us be!” Piper snapped at him.

“Nein, can’t fall asleep. Comrades must help.”

Robert sighed and rolled out of his gum blanket. “Piper, I’ll stay up with Hube, so you sleep and take next watch.”

“Danke, Robert.” Huebner said and yawned again.

Huebner sat cross-legged with his poncho draped down over his legs and his rifle underneath the covering. The barrel protruded off to the side. Moments slipped by. Huebner seemed content to stare off into the blackness and let the rain water drip off his nose.