They Met at Shiloh (3 page)

“So you don’t think this’ll work?” Michael broke in.

“I hope for all these boys it works, or many of them will have been sacrificed for naught.”

Michael pursed his lips and thought that all war is a gamble, just like business. Father gambled plenty, and lost plenty, and the kids either paid the price or enjoyed the benefits.

The two of them rode in silence. Michael wasn’t sure what to make of these revelations from Marshall. Their relationship had been strained by the inevitable politics of military officers vying for commands and position. When the Texans marched to Louisiana and thence to Arkansas to link up with General Ben McColluch’s forces, he had been in command of the men. Voted captain, Michael was honored to lead “these fine young examples of Texan manhood.” Like the other officers, he didn’t have any clue about how to lead a unit, especially one of artillery. His training consisted of some manuals found in the abandoned armory in Austin. Michael and the other officers tried their hands at drilling the men in the rudiments of artillery maneuvers. Comical at times, suicidal at others, Michael soon recognized that he hadn’t the faintest idea how to form these rugged individualists into a cohesive unit.

The march to Louisiana was a trial in and of itself, with many of the men acting as if they were on posse. The lack of command experience was buttressed soon after their rendezvous at Camp Pendleton in Louisiana, where they were introduced to Captain Marshall T. Polk, a grizzled old Indian fighter and former U.S. Army lieutenant stationed in California. Polk had resigned his commission after Ft. Sumter fell and accompanied several other southern officers, including Albert Sidney Johnston, from California to offer their services to the Confederacy. Polk had his hands full, not only with the Texans but also with other artillery units that marched into camp throughout the quiet months leading up to the battles of Bull Run in Virginia and Wilson’s Creek in Missouri.

Polk took a heavy hand to the volunteers with a relish and instituted a strict schedule of duties that initially chaffed the Texans. The men were accustomed to lolling around camp tending to their horses. Polk put a stop to the holiday atmosphere, and soon the Texans got a taste of real army life with guard duty, stable duty, drill, drill, and more drill.

Michael thought it was time well spent. After being removed from his position as commander to commanding just a section of the battery, the tarnish to his honor and pride had taken a while to heal. For some, this was affront enough to resign one’s commission and travel back home. But from his father Michael had learned well-placed pride and an honor not too easily bruised. Michael had seen his father alternately succeed and fail in one effort after another but still rise up for the next challenge. So he took the downgrading of his position with a grain of salt.

Michael was given the second slot of command. He no longer minded not being the commander, though at times he missed being in the know. The officers themselves had to endure such a tough regimen of classes in maneuver, command, and parade that many soon longed for the days back in Austin. They had to learn how to identify terrain features useable for artillery for greatest effect. They worked the guns themselves to learn setting fields of fire, utilizing the various types of ammunition, and when to use them. They learned to recognize positions that would limit their fields of fire or allow the enemy to bottle them up. The hardest part for some was the mathematics and engineering needed to use artillery effectively. They were given what seemed to Michael like four years of West Point classroom learning in a couple of weeks. The hardest part of this training was doing it, as Michael would muse and commiserate with his fellow officer classmates.

While at Camp Pendelton and being whipped into artillerists, the war went on without them and caused no letup in grumbling from men and officers alike. They celebrated with General Price’s victory over Nathanial Lyon at Wilson’s Creek and with Joseph E. Johnston and P.G.T. Beauregard’s victory over McDowell at Manassas Junction, and they worried that the war would be won without them. With concern, they followed Price and McCulloch’s army as it invaded northern Missouri, and then was maneuvered into Arkansas where it was defeated at Pea Ridge, and they heard rumors of a Union invasion of Virginia.

By the time Polk was satisfied he had whipped the volunteers into soldiers, it was 1862. Grant had already reduced Fort Henry via river gunboats and captured Ft. Donelson and moved his army into winter encampment at Pittsburg Landing. The loss of Ft. Donelson cut off access and control of the Tennessee River and made supplying Confederate forces in Tennessee impossible. As Johnston hurried to cobble together a force large enough to challenge Grant, the tide was turning against the Confederacy in the west.

Corinth Ms. Jan 12, 1862

“S
ir, the battery has formed for review,” First Sergeant Mahoney said to Michael and returned his salute.

The wind whipped Mahoney’s greatcoat collar as he stood in front of the assembled battery in formation by section. Not one to be trifled with but conscious of his duty and position, Mahoney stared icily at Polk, cursing him for tearing him from his slightly warmer hut. Behind them were the battery’s cannon with caissons in the rear. A fortnight had passed since their arrival at Corinth, Mississippi, and they were undergoing yet another inspection by that “dammed old fart Polk,” as the popular quip went.

There had been little joy or celebration this Christmas. The cramped quarters, drill, duty, and military life left little room for holiday celebrations.

Michael swiveled on his heel to face Polk. He saluted and declared, “Sir, the battery is formed.”

“Very well, Captain. You may proceed,” Polk replied and returned the salute.

Michael turned to face Mahoney and the rest of the battery. He took a deep breath and shouted, “Battery, atten–shun! First Sergeant, review the battery.” Mahoney began to pace the line of men. Michael walked with him to the first section and thence to the cannon.

After an hour of shivering in the cold, they were back in the semi-comfort of their huts. The hut that the men crouched in was eight feet by three feet, and was mostly bunks propped against the log walls. Tent canvas served as a roof with a pork barrel for a chimney; any remaining space was clogged with the occupants’ personal effects. Light from several candles lit the interior, and to open the flap for the door was to invite the biting wind. Those gathered in the hut were men Michael had known since before the war.

“Damned old fart Polk,” Mahoney gripped. “Did you see any other fool unit or battery out there today? No you didn’t ‘cause they all had the sense that God granted a mule to stay indoors.”

“All except us’ns of Polk’s Battery,” replied Private Jones. “Cap’n, can’t you talk some sense into Old Fart about this business of drill in this kind of weather?”

Michael gave him a sympathetic look. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Did you see the papers?” Corporal Harper asked Mahoney.

Mahoney picked up a copy from the table at the back of the hut. “Unconditional Surrender: Grant Takes Fort Donelson,” Mahoney read dryly. “20,000 troops walked off into captivity, led by that coward, Pillow.”

“What’s this?” Jones asked. He rubbed his hands together and grimaced. “I still can’t feel my fingers!”

“Yeah,” Harper added. “Tennessee is now in Union hands, too. Here, sir, read for yourself.”

Harper handed the copy of the Corinth Courier to Michael. There, emblazoned in the banner headline, was more bad news for the cause. What was left of Confederate troops in Tennessee streamed into Corinth, Mississippi. The only good news was the escape of most of the cavalry forces under Nathan Bedford Forrest.

Michael glanced at the stories. “He refused to surrender. Forrest escaped and is heading here,” Michael said as he read.

“How long has it been since we’ve heard any good news?” Jones asked. “Isn’t there anything good happening for us?”

“Having Johnston with us is a start,” Michael replied. “He’ll whip Grant when the time is right. These things take time. Just do your job as you’ve been trained, and fight for what you believe, and we’ll prevail.”

His companions stared openly at him, and he felt his face heat up. He wasn’t accustomed to making inspirational speeches. “Well, anyway, something’s gonna happen in the spring, just you watch.” At that they fell silent, each to his own thoughts.

Michael watched as Jones busied himself with his bunk and reverently laid out a well-worn book and papers. Michael looked over at Smith quizzically.

“Vespers,” Smith said.

“You don’t think I’m going outside in this weather, do you?” Jones said to them.

Mahoney stood and stepped to the door flap. “Well, I need to see that the fatigue details are going.”

“You do this every day?” Michael asked Jones.

“Yes, every day. If I didn’t have my faith, all I would have is this,” he said and motioned to his torso. “This body’s fragile, and in these times ya need something more than yer body to keep ya going. So I pray an’ recite my Scriptures. It reminds me that they’s a God an’ Christ died fer me.”

“Well, I don’t think much on that.”

“Maybe ya oughten ta. You’re not going to live forever, Sir,” Jones said.

“Maybe I will sometime when I feel the need. Put in a good word for me, ok?”

Michael exited the hut. As the flap swung back behind him, the icy wind lashed at Michael’s face. He curled the collar of his great coat snugly about his neck and headed toward his own hut.

*****

The sun warmed Michael as he remembered that cold day in Corinth. Riding next to him was Marshall Polk.

“This is a welcome change to those freezing days in Corinth, eh, Captain?” Michael asked.

“Yeah, it is,” Marshall Polk replied.

Polk hadn’t said a word since revealing his thoughts about the coming battle. Michael had not known what to say to him, or how to react to the sudden and strange familiarity. Michael turned his gaze toward Jones and Smith riding on the caisson in front of them. Smith was now asleep with his head bobbing. Now and again he woke abruptly, only to doze off once more. Jones was dreamily staring off into the distance.

“Well, Grierson,” Polk said, “I gotta report to General Cheatham. Make sure you see to our dispositions. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Oh, also make sure that each section has ammo before the trains get all jammed in the rear.” Polk spurred his horse, broke out of the column and moved on ahead.

Michael moved his horse out of the column as well and waited to the side until abreast of Mahoney, who was riding at the rear of the column.

“First Sergeant, we’re going to stop for the night at Michie’s Crossroads. ‘Old Fart’ wants us to form in columns of sections and be ready to move by 0200. No fires and strict noise discipline enforced. Make sure section leaders inventory their ordinance.”

“Yes, sir,” Mahoney nodded.

“I know the boys aren’t going to be happy about no coffee, so if you can find a covered spot, build one fire for coffee and keep it small. If you’re caught, tell them you were acting on my orders,” Michael said.

“Sure, sir, no problem. I’ll take care of the boys,” Mahoney replied with a slight grin.

“Good man,” Michael said.

He gave a tug on the reins and moved out along the column once more. Most of the men were either half-awake or dozing with heads hung low in blissful slumber. The weary march continued as the sun began its arc toward the west and bathed the scenery with rich orange and red hues. The road was drying in places now, making it more bearable by the absence of choking dust.

It was almost dusk when the column of troops in front of the battery peeled off to the right and left of a fork in the road. Michael thought they must be at Michie’s. He picked up his pace and rode to the front caisson of the battery.

“I’m going to ride ahead and show you where to move off to,” he told the soldiers on the caisson. Michael nudged his horse and trotted along the outside of the column of infantry. The foot soldiers were becoming more animated now that a stop was in the making. He could hear quiet whispers among the men as he passed by.

Michael came to the already-choked crossroads and looked on in awe as other units of the corps marched by. He saw Bankhead’s Battery drawing up in the corner of an adjacent field. Next to them was as good as a place as any. It would also give his men a chance to visit with comrades. He waited for the battery to draw up.

The infantry brigade of B. R. Johnson moved off the road, his men marching mechanically in exhaustion and forming into columns of battalions to lie down on arms. No one was pitching camp. Everyone knew that they were near their enemy.

“Move off to the left of Bankhead over there,” Michael said and pointed to the lead caisson. By now it was becoming harder to make out individual faces in the dark as caissons and men moved past him. Thousands of figures were milling about the fields on either side. Here and there a fire was flickering despite orders to the contrary.

It was April 3rd, just a day away from the planned start of the attack.

With the battery situated and parked, the men began to gather in groups around the guns as only pards can do. They chatted softly as they ate a cold meal from their haversacks. Michael made his way over to a group of officers gathered between the two batteries. On the few occasions he had tried to get chummy with the common soldiers, he had been greeted with wariness and not a little suspicion. Here he was greeted by several familiar faces. A flask quickly made the rounds, and each man took a tug from it as they discussed the coming attack. There was no fear here, only expectation and nervousness.

Gathered around a lantern, they chowed down on hard tack and bacon supplied by the mess sergeants. The bacon was cold and greasy, but no one cared. The light shining eerily from the ground cast odd shadows upon the dirty faces. Far from the Victorian ideals of genteel officering, the officers made the best of the situation, suffering the same privations as their men.