They Met at Shiloh (7 page)

As second sergeant, Harper was often put in charge of fatigue details, which the squads rotated now and again in their duties. Normally, this meant seeing to various and sundry details about the encampment or march. Invariably, Philip would find himself and his pards detailed under Harper’s watchful eye for company cook fires, cleaning up around the sinks—a particularly disagreeable task, especially after a few days of the normal deposits of human waste—picket duty—or preparing the officers’ tents. Harper referred to Philip as “the good minister” and took every opportunity to heap abuse or criticism upon whatever Philip was assigned to perform. Never knowing when he might be under Harper’s heel again, Philip struggled with his own resentment toward those injustices. At times, he could not curb his own tongue and would fling barbs of his own Harper’s way until the two men would barely be on civil terms, even for soldiers. The days of the march had been somewhat pleasant for Philip because he and Harper had not crossed paths.

“Mule, where’s the big bugs?” Johnny Henson asked Theo from under the bill of his forage cap. Johnny made up the fourth of Philip’s pards and old acquaintances from the Ohio River Valley Methodist Societies.

Philip perked up at the question and opened his eyes. “Oh, Johnny, when’d you sit down?”

“While you was sawing logs not just ten minutes ago,” Johnny replied.

“Yeah, Mule, what’s happenin’ on the road?” Philip asked.

“You’s going to have to find yourselves another spy. I’m tiring of this officer watching,” Theo griped as he stood and peered down the road. Once the officers began to gather and move about, the order to fall in would soon follow. “Relax, meine kinder, them bugs is nowhere to be seen.”

“Well, I see the good reverend is busy workin’ on his back like any shiftless man of the Good Book,” a voice above them stated.

Harper stood off the road embankment above Philip and the others with a smirk creasing the corners of his mouth. The soft earth began to trickle down the slope and onto Philip’s neck and shirt. Rising quickly and wiping the dirt off of his neck, Philip retorted, “I’ll be sure to request of the good Lord a nice case of the Kentucky quick step for the rest of your movement. Should complement the diarrhea of your mouth, Sergeant.”

“You do that, Rev,” Harper said with a smile and turned away.

When he was out of earshot, “Rear rank, skulker,” Philip hissed.

Johnny piped up. “I seen Harper pretending to take care of the ammunition at Nashville, hanging back with the other riff-raff while we formed line. He always makes sure he is in charge of some important rear guard action, like guarding the knapsacks or equipment when danger is in the air.”

“How you think he got second sergeant?” Theo asked. “He didn’t get it whipping Secesh. He got it with that bragging mouth of his.”

Sammy frowned at them. “Bah! The time will come, and one day he will be seen for what he is. Once we face the Secesh again, then we’ll see that white feather he’s been a-hidin’. He’ll turn and run first sign of trouble. Just you watch and see if he doesn’t.”

Theo got up and stretched. He looked down the road and then pointed. “I see movement on the road, pards. Looks like the rest is over.”

The men groaned. Philip sighed as he struggled to sit upright against the knapsack’s pull.

Camp of 25th Missouri Volunteers

Pittsburg Landing, 3 AM April 6, 1862

“U
p, up! Company B is ordered to stand to arms. C’mon, up, up.”

The voice of First Sergeant Hammel sounded into the tent as an unwelcome messenger of bad news. Robert rubbed his eyes and allowed them to adjust to the darkened tent. The fog of deep sleep melted away slowly, bringing with it the realization he had not been long in slumber; something odd was up.

“Up, up! Get your traps and fall into the company street with arms. Light marching order. Get off your arses and get moving!”

“What’s going on?” Huebner asked.

“Get up and get you traps, Dunkopf. Get ready for Marsch,” Hildebrande snapped.

“March? In this dark?”

“Ja. Get up.”

“Get dressed, Hube,” Robert said as he buttoned his sack coat and felt around for the rest of his leathers. “We got to form up on the company street. Light marching order, Hube. Just grab your leathers and haversack. Don’t need your knapsack.”

Huebner made a whining noise. “Isn’t today Saturday?”

“Ja, what does it matter, Kind? Rouse!” Gustavson tersely ordered.

“I thought Hauptmann Schmitz give us morning off from drill.”

“Hube, just get ready for a march, all right?” Robert said, exasperated.

The Sibley began to empty rapidly as others finished dressing and stepped out. Robert stepped over the bedrolls of his tent mates and ducked out into the open air. It was dark, chilly, damp, and uninviting. The company area was alive with noise and muffled conversations and, except for the darkness, would have seemed like a typical morning. At the head of the company street roared a fire, its light illuminating a crowd of orange-faced watchers.

Robert squeezed his way into the circle and welcomed the warmth on his face and legs. The essential gallon of coffee was boiling, and he could detect just the slightest wisp of steam rising out of its vent. Like vagabonds or street urchins, the men held their muckets, awaiting the generosity of the company cook.

Hours could be spent just staring into the flames. At this hour, there was little talk. Even the company wags were content to just watch the flames and rub the sleep out of their eyes.

A familiar face poked itself into the light of the fire. “Form up on the street in thirty minutes.” The face disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared.

“What time is it?” a voice broke the silence.

A figure in the circle produced a time piece. “Two in the morning.”

Like a solitary rain drop that announces the coming storm, those first words broke the quiet at the fireside.

“Patrol?”

“Dunno.”

“That’s why we have pickets.”

“They’ve got us and D and E Companies rousted. What else could it be?”

“Maybe we’re increasing the pickets.”

“Maybe ol’ Colonel Peabody has finally gone mad. He’s sendin’ us chasin’ Rebel ghosts again.”

“Maybe so, but he could’ve picked a better hour to do it.”

“He’s probably still in his tent countin’ Rebs in his sleep.”

“Naw. Saw him not more than ten minutes ago talkin’ to Colonel Van Horn, and he looked his normal agitated self.”

“He’s still gone mad, seein’ Rebs behind every bush and tree for weeks.”

“No matter how mad he may be, vir sind die Soldaten up in die Morgen.”

“Isn’t it boiling yet?”

“No.”

“Vo ist das Kind Huebner?” Hildebrande asked.

“Probably still in the Sibley,” Gustavson stonily answered.

“Needs to get his arse in shape.”

“Uh oh, here he comes.”

Huebner’s cheery early morning expression appeared between Hildebrande and Gustavson.

“Alvays just in time for die Kaffe,” Gustavson groused.

“Wird der Kaffee gebrüht?” Huebner asked.

“Nein, Kaffe nicht gebrüht,” replied Hildebrande.

“We ought to try it anyway. Hammel’s going to be showin’ up any second to call formation,” another man said.

“Ja, no more wasting time. Let’s get it before it’s too late,” Hildebrande agreed and bent over to lift the boiler from its hook above the fire.

As the pitcher was delicately tipped to pour its contents into the crowding muckets, Hildebrande and Gustavson kept Huebner at bay until all had been served, allowing the others to enjoy a full un-spoilt cup. The circle instinctively widened as Huebner bent down to fill his mucket but lost his balance, pouring a healthy portion of the liquid into the fire, raising yet another cloud of ash. The lid over the pitcher protected its contents, and everyone else was far enough away to be immune from the fallout.

Robert held the mucket to his lips and blew across its surface. It was hot enough to enjoy, but the rim of his steel mucket was too hot to put his lips to yet, allowing only quick sips. He let the aroma sink into his consciousness. The early morning wake-up was unusual, but not so much so as to cause alarm. He was used to being rudely shaken awake occasionally, as when on picket duty he would have to spell the previous watch for a few hours, and he usually drew the worst time of the night, between one and three a.m. At least he was enjoying a fire and a hot cup, two things denied while on picket. In the last two weeks, his regiment and the others of the brigade had been ordered to patrol the woods in front. Only the evening before, two other companies had been formed for an early morning march with no results.

The cold, damp air was filled with the noise of clanking equipment and the crackling of the fire. Even the insects were smart enough to be resting at this hour. The darkness cloaked the forest, which sat only a few hundred rods from the edge of the camp. Somewhere out there, the company pickets were posted, and Robert wondered if they were going to join them or push on ahead into the unknown.

As the coffee enlivened them, the men began to move about with more alacrity. Groups of men formed, and conversation became lively. Robert moved over to where Gustavson and Hildebrande stood. The flicker of the fire danced shadows about their faces.

“Probably just another fool’s errand,” Robert said.

“Ja, it’s just our turn. A and C had their turn die andere Morgen,” Hildebrande replied.

“Here comes Hammel.” Robert quickly took another draught of his mucket in anticipation of having to dump the remainder. He spied Huebner happily munching on a hard tack and cuddling his mucket to his chest. A quiet expression lit his face as he stared mesmerized by the flames.

A shout interrupted their reverie. “B Company! Form up on the street!”

With one last gulp of coffee, Robert up-ended his mucket and secured it to his haversack. He walked over to Huebner and shook his shoulder vigorously. “Hube, we gotta form up. Dump that and get moving.”

Robert turned and took a few steps in the direction of the company street, but not hearing foot falls behind him, he stopped and turned. Huebner was still transfixed by the fire. “Hube! C’mon.” Robert walked back to his erstwhile companion and grabbed the sleeve of his sack coat and dragged him away.

“Time to form?” Huebner asked.

“Yeah, time to form.”

*****

They made their way down the goat track that stood for a road. The early morning dew and rain of the day before left his brogans soaking wet, and his toes squished about in wet woolen socks. Robert’s company was third in line of the column. All he could see in the front was a line of heads and rifles. The still, dark forest put Robert on edge. They had marched silently, not by order but just by the thought of not being caught unawares after leaving the picket post half an hour before. The blackness made it exceedingly difficult to see but a few feet in any direction, and the general downward slope of the track forced him to control his stride lest he blunder into the back of the man in front. The lead company was extended in a skirmish line and as flankers, spread out at five pace intervals in front and on flanks parallel to the march column. Despite the chill, Robert was sweating as the tension built.

He could see his pards well enough in the darkness to see they, too, were uneasy. Every shadow they passed, each odd grouping of trees or bushes, looked like bandits ready to attack. Each sound or break of a twig sent shivers down him as they waited on another halt. Peering into the thickness of the woods to the side of the trail, he saw numerous ghostly apparitions flitting from shadow to shadow, blending in with the trunks and shrubs. Sudden movement in the distance would form silhouettes and then morph into something different as he stared. He imagined an army of ghouls moving about, only to freeze at the right moment just as his gaze fell upon them.

“Forward, march,” Captain Schmitz said softly.

The silence was broken again by the shuffling of several hundred foot falls upon the track. Resuming the march allowed Robert to relax once again. He concentrated on keeping the pace, which was preferable to imagining Rebels lurking in each change of shadow.

Without warning, the report of a musket rang out. Robert jumped at the sudden sound breaking the relative quiet. A string of individual shots followed from the skirmish line ahead. In between he could make out the fire of pistols and the pounding of hooves.

“Halt! Halt!”

Like an accordion, the company columns compressed at the suddenness of the command. Cursing rang out when men blundered into the backs of their fellows. They heard wild and irregular firing ahead in the distance. For brief moments, the horizon was lit up as a musket discharged. Robert craned his neck to make out what was going on in the distance.

Captain Schmitz returned to the company and loudly ordered, “By the right oblique, forward march!”

Sluggishly, the men stumbled forward off the rough trail and into the underbrush. From Major Powell, the command rang out, “By company into line, form battalion!” With unsure footing stumbling on numerous obstacles in the dark, the marching column changed into a double rank front. Robert kept his arm in touch with the man next to him. Others were similarly groping along.

The next command heightened the tension. “At the double quick, forward march!” Captain Schmitz shouted as the column broke into a labored trot through the thickets and toward the next company forming in front. Robert struggled to keep his balance. Every man grabbed the one ahead of him to follow the pell-mell race to form a line of files.

Each company found its place in the line for battle. All were breathing heavily and struggling to maintain balance in the midst of the rising tempo of musketry to their front. Officers moved about nervously, animated by the adrenaline that came with the nearness of action.

“Forward, march!” commanded Major Powell, and the battalion lurched forward. Company officers and file closers in the rear kept up a constant stream of commands and admonitions to keep the pace, keep the guide to the right, keep their resolve. With a full view now of what lay ahead, Robert kept his attention glued to what might appear in front of them. To his relief, the trees gave way to the solid blue of an opening in the forest. He made out the bobbing heads of the skirmish line through the intervening trees. Beyond the skirmishers, he saw moving forms in the distance, and a fence line leaped into view.