They Met at Shiloh (25 page)

Stephen’s water can was long emptied. The sips he doled out were received with thankfulness, but he knew they were not enough to do any good. In their delirium or mumbled prayers, men called for water and mothers, and occasionally a father. He met familiar faces from the 6th Mississippi who had taken their wounds on the same hill as Stephen’s pard, Willie. Stephen attended two in their death throes. Their deaths were painful to watch, as both men grabbed for him in one last effort to make contact with one last human being. He knew them by name only. One saw the men of other companies during drill, parade, or about camp, but generally one did not socialize outside of his own company.

Stephen supposed it did not matter to them that he was a stranger; he was still a familiar face with whom to share the last moments of life. The surgeons and hospital stewards kept a round-the-clock schedule to dispense what comfort they could. Opium, recovered from the Federal camps, was plentiful, and few sufferers had to endure the pain. Stephen knew he could leave whenever he wanted, but surgeons had to stay until the supply of wounded dried up, something that was unlikely to happen soon. Weary stewards tried several times to enlist his aid in the church, but he managed to stay away from the church building. He wasn’t unsympathetic to the suffering; he wanted to find his pard.

The faces of the men he saw were tired. Their eyes were either fevered or closed forever. Some had died without having been attended at all. Farther from the makeshift hospital, he found blood-soaked clothing and entrails bursting from ruptured bowels in increasing frequency. For no fault but being out of arm’s reach, these poor wretches died with no one but their fellow sufferers to comfort them. Thousands lay where they crawled or were dumped by stretcher bearers. Suffering alone was no way to spend the last moments on earth.

Willie could be one of them, and Stephen was compelled to roll over each corpse. Finding one man in the middle of such a host was daunting. Perhaps Willie had already been sent to the rear hospitals and was now jostling painfully in some ambulance on its way back to Corinth, Mississippi. Perhaps he was dead and awaiting burial, though, from the looks of the line of corpses stretched end on end and row after row, Stephen figured that not much had been planned for the burial of so many.

It was maddening to see face after face but not find Willie. No one was keeping records of who was treated or who had been sent rearward earlier in the day. No one knew of a William Hawkins, though he was directed to a host of wounded from the 6th Mississippi. Though the reunions were sweet, they were not the ones he wanted.

Sudden picket firing startled the wounded, and many tried to crawl away from the sound. Stephen froze in place and looked in its direction. It wasn’t nearby, but it was close enough to agitate the fear of further wounds. As quickly as it started, the firing ended. He moved on in increasing frustration. Finally, Stephen was as far away from the church building as he cared to wander, and the supply of wounded and corpses thinned to nothing. It had taken hours to comb the grounds. He either missed Willie or Willie was just not there. There was very little to do but hope to stumble upon his pard on his way back to the regiment. Crestfallen, Stephen started back through the wounded and double-checked the faces he passed. There were other farm houses and outbuildings scattered all over the region, and they most assuredly were being used to house the wounded and medical staffs. He didn’t have time or strength to visit even one.

The going was slow in the darkness. He had passed this way in the daylight; now everything seemed unfamiliar. He knew the church wasn’t far from where they did battle upon the hill that morning because the 6th had marched past it sometime afterward before counter-marching to the rear by afternoon. There were Sibley tents all over the area, and in the dim light of pre-dawn, they all looked the same. The clouds kept the moon hidden but for a little sliver that glowed through the shroud. Half-naked corpses dotted the ground, victims of scavengers looking for booty or replacement clothing. Stephen stopped to decide which set of tents to head toward when he realized he was standing near the ground he had trod after the fight for the hill.

Walking quickly to the edge of the camp, he scrutinized every fold of ground to see if Willie might yet be lying upon the slope. Amid the usual cast off of broken equipment and head gear, nothing on the hill resembled his pard. He walked over to several bushes along the slope but found nothing. It was eerily quiet with none of the sounds that should be associated with this place. Nothing stirred. The top of the slope was littered with paper cartridges and more headgear and uniform parts. A few Federal corpses remained where they fell. Their stomachs protruded from drawers and trousers that now looked too small. They might have looked comical had Stephen not recognized them for distended corpses filling with gas.

Stephen avoided the grisly freak show and wandered into the camp proper where he and his fellow survivors had shouted in elation at the breaking of the enemy and his precipitous flight rearward. There was noise in this ghost camp filled with the dead. Faint whispers, moans, and gurgled breathing came from a few tents.

Stepping up to one large Sibley tent, Stephen pulled the flaps aside and, on a lark, called out, “Willie? Willie Hawkins, 6th Mississippi?”

“Who?” a muffled voice replied.

“William Hawkins, 6th Mississippi,” Stephen repeated. The voice was unfamiliar, but in the dark and with the floor crowded with supine figures, Stephen would not have recognized his own father.

“Hammel, 25th Missoura. I think that man over there is from the 6th Mississippi,” the voice croaked. “You got any water?”

“No, no I don’t. You loyal regiment, or with us?” Stephen asked, though he didn’t know why it might make any difference.

“25th Missouri loyal,” the voice replied.

“Who else is still alive?” Stephen asked.

“Not sure. Most got quiet some time ago. Your Mississippi man o’er there hasn’t moved in hours,” Hammel said.

Stephen stepped into the tent. The air was stuffy and smelled like a sink. To get to the man Hammel had pointed to, Stephen was forced to step into the mass of figures and hope that solid ground met his toes. Stepping upon a living form and having to offer apologies for the inconvenience was bad enough. Stepping on a corpse was more than a little unsettling. His skin crawled when he made a misstep and the form under his feet made no noise.

It was easy to tell the man he sought was a Confederate from the lightness of his uniform, compared to the Kersey blue trousers and dark blue sack coats of the Union men. Stephen crouched down to get closer. The man’s back was to Stephen, and his front faced the tent wall. Stephen hesitated to touch him.

“Willie, that you?” Stephen asked, hoping the man would respond. “Willie, that you?” he repeated. No response coming, Stephen reached out and grasped the man’s shoulder and shook it. Still no response. Stephen tugged harder, but the form would not budge, the reason quickly apparent. The body was cold and stiff.

“He’s dead, right?” Hammel asked.

Stephen sat back on his heels and stared at the corpse. “Yes, cold and stiff.”

“He your man?” Hammel asked.

“I can’t tell in the dark, and I don’t want to move him more. Whoever he is, he’s gone to meet his maker,” Stephen said. He hung his head, eyes closed, and sighed. Stephen could not convince himself to disturb the corpse any further to satisfy curiosity. He would check back at first light or just move on to another tent. It was a large camp, and if all of the tents were full, he would need time to check.

Hammel’s breath wheezed out, and he made a hacking sound. “Many done just that today, Reb.”

“I don’t think it is Willie anyhow,” Stephen whispered.

“At leas’ you hope it ain’t.”

Stephen stood up and backed away from the corpse.

“It ain’t goin’ to do nuthin’ to you,” Hammel said between fits of coughing.

“Don’t matter. It still don’t seem right to disturb him.”

“Burial detail gonna do worse to it when they come ‘round,” Hammel replied.

“Why do you care anyhow?”

“Don’t.”

“Fer someone who don’t care, you sure usin’ lots of breath.”

“Suit yerself, Reb.” Hammel said after a pause. “Do me a favor, Reb?”

“What?” Stephen looked at the wounded man.

“Carry me out of this death tent? I want to die at least away from the rest of these departed souls and in some fresher air.”

“I ain’t gonna carry you far, Yank.”

Hammel tried to sit up, but only got as far as supporting himself on his elbows. “No matter. Jus’ get me outta here.”

Stephen stepped over the corpses and offered his hand. Hammel weakly batted it away.

“I can’t get up on my own, Reb. Done tried that.” Hammel stared up into Stephen’s eyes. Up close now, Stephen could see that he was covered in dried blood from a wound to his head that creased his scalp and ran down both cheeks.

Stephen knelt down, grabbed Hammel by the armpits, and hoisted the dead weight upward. Hammel groaned, and his head flopped down to his chest.

“No wonder I didn’t get very far. I’m too dizzy and weak to even sit up.”

“C’mon, I’ve got to get you up farther,” Stephen said, and then grunted as he tried to lift the man. “Almost there.”

Stephen made another effort to bring Hammel all the way up to his shoulder level. Hammel wasn’t helping any. Despite Hammel’s suffering, Stephen suddenly felt annoyed at this helpless Yank.

“Oh God, if dyin’ outside’s going to bring this much . . . .”

“Too late to change yer mind now, Reb.” Straining everything he could, Stephen got Hammel up to his chest and swung the man’s right arm over his shoulders to steady him. Hammel’s head flopped against Stephen’s shoulder, his eyes clenched in pain.

“Damn Yank, I better not find stones in those pockets!”

“Just fer you, Reb,” Hammel said between breaths.

“I’ll make you pay,” Stephen grunted as he attempted to take a step. His foot got tangled in a corpse’s arm. He nearly lost his balance and sent both of them careening into the tent wall.

“You already have,” Hammel returned.

“Good, Yank. I’d say we’re even, then,” Stephen shook his foot loose and continued on.

“That’s Corp’ral Patterson yer kickin, Reb,” Hammel muttered. He tried to lift his head to look in Stephen’s eyes but couldn’t quite complete the motion.

“Sorry,” Stephen said and completed his step over the man.

“He was always a laggard.”

“Can you take a step?” Stephen asked, half of his body straddling the unfortunate corporal.

“I can try.”

Already, Stephen was breathing heavily in the close atmosphere. “You gotta step over the body, or this ain’t gonna work. C’mon, I got ya’, one foot at a time.”

For a moment, both men were silent, other than their labored breathing, and Hammel struggled to take a step forward.

“The deacon would be proud. I’d say this counts as my daily good deed.”

“Don’t think this gonna do you any good,” Hammel said through clenched teeth. “Hell, coulda’ been you what shot me.”

“Keep not helpin’ and there’s still time ta shoot you.” Hammel brought his last leg over the corpse, kicking it heavily.

“You know, I always did want to kick Paddy ever time I seed him lagging,” Hammel said. He managed a laugh amid fits of coughing, “God fergive me the insult and Paddy the thought.”

“Save that energy fer the next step, Yank.”

“Gettin’ through the tent opening’s gonna be a trick.”

“How ‘bout I jus’ roll you out?” Stephen grinned at the wounded man.

“You’d prolly like to, Reb.”

“I’m gonna have to duck down under the flap and drag you along. Ok?”

“Yeah.”

Stephen tried to duck down as low as he could go and still hold on to Hammel. The lower he went, the heavier Hammel’s weight pressed down. Stephen succeeded in getting his head through the flaps. He couldn’t stand upright until he got Hammel’s head out, too, and Hammel began to slip off of Stephen’s shoulder.

“Hold on!” Stephen barked.

One last effort brought Hammel’s head out of the flaps. Stephen straightened, and both men breathed in the cool air.

“Oh, thank God!” Hammel said. “I couldn’t take another hour in that tent with that smell of death.”

Dawn had broken, and the sun’s light painted the eastern clouds orange. The morning was muggy. In the light, Hammel looked worse than Stephen expected. A fresh blood trail moistened his left leg from a reopened wound.

“Well, yer out. Where you want to go?” Stephen asked.

“Home,” Hammel said and broke a weak smile.

“I ain’t draggin’ you to Missouri.”

“Then drag me over to them trees.” Hammel motioned with his head toward a copse of elms on the outskirts of the camp. It was some distance and would take a while.

“How ‘bout I just drag you over to them boxes over there?” Stephen asked.

“All right. Just get me where I can get some shade when it gets hot,” Hammel said and closed his eyes.

“Someone’ll find you soon enough and take you to a field hospital.”

“A good shot of laudanum or quinine with whisky would be nice.” His breath grew more ragged.

“You could prolly get some Yankee medicinal from all the captured stores we done got.” He laid Hammel by several boxes of smoothbore .69 caliber rounds. The boxes were emptied, and sawdust packing was piled up. Stephen laid Hammel’s head on the saw dust.

“Should make a good enough pillow fer a Yank,” Stephen said and smiled.

“I’m outta’ that damned tent. Anything else is better.” He closed his eyes. “God, my head hurts. Who was this deacon you was talkin’ about?”

“My pa. He prolly woulda’ quoted me lots of the Good Book to show me why I shoulda’ he’p’d ya’.”

“Well, he weren’t here, but I thank you kindly fer the deed, nonetheless.”

“No honor in tormenting a wounded enemy. Yer fight’s done with anyhow.”

They appraised each other for a moment. “I suppose,” Hammel said, “I should thank you fer creasing my pate with a musket ball. Saved me havin’ to run like a rabbit like the rest of the regiment did.”