The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Read online

  It was here that Melissa bore him two more children, Eunice in 1837 and Katherine in 1838. Eunice, Katherine, and Melissa succumbed to an outbreak of measles in 1838, a not uncommon happenstance. This left Finneaus with Emma and Paul, both in their early teens, and his two eldest sons. As was also common for a man of means or, in Finneaus’s case, a man of would-be means, to take care of the younger children he married Paula Ecklandburg, the daughter of a prominent German merchant family in Natchez. Paula, Michael’s mother, was twenty-two when Finneaus married her, and she would bring him another four children in the years that followed Michael’s birth in 1840.

  Keeping his merchant business going in Natchez consumed Finneaus for the next five years, as the trade boomed then busted. Michael remembered his easy-going childhood in Natchez, playing with his younger siblings, Gertrude, born in 1841, Stephen, born in 1843, and Eva, born in 1844. Paula was a doting mother. She chose to raise her own children despite being a woman of means and preferred to spend hours with them rather than enjoying a life of limited luxury. Michael grew up with the odor of the river and the smell of dry goods from the warehouse. Emma, a comely lass of 16 when Michael was born, attended school in Charleston where she stayed with her grandparents, about whom she knew little until Finneaus sent her there in 1840. Paul, thirteen years old in 1844, when he wasn’t in school, looked after Michael as they wandered the wharf and shop areas or when they strayed too far from Paula’s watch. Paul, being the only male child still at home and the closest thing Michael would have to an older brother, was expected to take care of him despite the difference in parentage. Michael’s oldest brother, Andrew, was twenty-three by that time and worked for his father most of the day. Michelle, back from boarding school in St. Louis, helped Paula mind the younger children who were still at home.

  Michael had little to occupy his time at the tender age of five, other than exploring with his older brother Paul, playing with Gertie and Stephen, or forcing Michelle to chase him around the neighborhood. His earliest remembrances were of watching the paddle steamers and smaller steam craft moving up and down the Mississippi, spilling forth their loads of goods onto the docks. He watched blacks and poor whites moving bags of beans, piles of tobacco, or rolls of cotton from the ships into wagons or directly into the warehouses. His first contact with slavery was watching the wharf hands laboring under the watchful eyes of the foreman. Even at five, he recognized that they were different from himself. He could come and go as he pleased; they couldn’t. They were marched to the wharf in a gang and marched back at the end of the day. He was too young to dwell on the inequalities of their disposition. Andrew told him they had to work there. He tried to explain slavery to him as best as he understood it.

  “Think of it as a punishment. They are being punished for being niggers,” Paul said.

  Michael related to punishment. Sometimes Paula or Michelle would rein in his adventures and make him stay at home. Now, as he thought about it, he realized that life for the blacks was much like the life of soldiers.

  ****

  Michael was far removed from those days of freedom in Natchez. The musty, damp morning gave way to welcome sunshine as breaks in the trees afforded patches of sunlight, allowing him to soak up the heat. The roads were still muddy, and the regular sucking sounds made by horses’ hooves and water-logged brogans on the feet of the infantry added to the sounds of thousands of men on the move.

  So far, Tennessee proved most undesirable, as it seemed to Michael to have rained every day for the past two months. If it wasn’t raining, it was oppressing them with the humid heat of early spring. Their tenure in the state was made more difficult by constant retreats and bad news. Since the year before, Confederate fortunes had waned in the west after a promising beginning. Union armies had maneuvered Albert Sidney Johnston’s forces farther south as, one by one, key forts along the Tennessee River fell. Grant’s army had not been idle in the winter months of 1861 and 1862, taking Fort Donelson late in the campaigning season. His army now rested on the banks of the Tennessee River at Pittsburg Landing and at an additional camp five miles downriver at Crump’s Landing and at Savannah, where Grant had his headquarters.

  Confederate General Albert Sidney Johnston had not been idle either, putting together troops from around the various command departments in the region until he enjoyed a numerical superiority to Grant. Regiments from Arkansas, from Kentucky, from Missouri, and from his own retreating forces from Bowling Green, Kentucky marched to Corinth, Mississippi, and became the Confederate Army of Mississippi. If Johnston could bring these forces together in time, he could surprise the Yankees and save Tennessee once again.

  Confederate forces were pushed out of Missouri the year before, and Johnston was given command of the Trans Mississippi West. The string of reversals convinced Confederate President Jefferson Davis that the disparate Confederate forces in the trans-Mississippi west needed a firm hand and Johnston was given command of the department. A glimmer of hope reinvigorated the Confederates to regain what was lost. But before Johnston could make a positive impact upon the strategic situation, the Confederates lost two key forts, Henry and Donelson, which controlled the Missouri and Tennessee rivers.

  Michael was not privy to the grand strategic designs of Johnston and his staff, but the rank and file knew that a battle was brewing and that they were going to “surprise the Yanks in their beds” on the morrow. The Texans were up before dawn and on the move all day. The troops had been told to observe strict noise discipline, but with thousands of men, some were bound to have lapses in judgment.

  As the rain gave way to clear skies, many infantryman decided it would be a good idea to test their powder. The sight and sound of men discharging their muskets made the march seem like a holiday parade or celebration. Michael had to laugh as he watched staff officers riding to and fro along the columns yelling at the tops of their lungs for the men to “stop that infernal noise!” As soon as an officer got the men in line at one point, firing erupted farther ahead or behind, causing another paroxysm of rage and cursing from the staff. Despite the racket, they had not seen any enemy.

  The Texans considered themselves luckier than most artillery regiments when they marched off to the war, resplendent with their six twelve-pound Napoleon cannon. With its ability to send a twelve-pound, solid shot 1,800 yards, the Napoleon was a prize. They came compliments of the United States government, collected from several outposts manned by U.S. army units throughout Texas before the war. Being well-supplied with the Napoleons made them the mainstay of the divisional artillery, or so they thought.

  When they had arrived in Corinth with the rest of the forces from Arkansas, they were shocked to find themselves reassigned. They were placed under the command of Captain Marshall T. Polk and were to support the movements of the newly formed 2nd Brigade under Bushrod R. Johnson. With the reorganization Johnston initiated came the second shock. The 20th Texas Light Artillery lost its designation. In line with the Confederate artillery’s penchant for referring to batteries by their commanders, they became known as Polk’s battery. The original battery was broken up, and the Napoleons were farmed out to other organizations. Two sections of the 20th were then combined with a battery from Tennessee, Polk’s own command. Though initially this hurt the Texans’ pride, they soon got on with the business of making war and drilling under the watchful eye of Captain Polk.

  *****

  Squinting wearily as the sun found a hole in the cloud cover and bathed the soldiers in warmth and brightness, Michael stared up the road at the long and seemingly endless column trudging forward. Somewhere up that same road lay the enemy camp at Pittsburg Landing. He thought to himself, Do they already know of our approach? Had they heard all this ruckus? Will we carry the day? Surprise was essential.

  The Union army settled into camp at Pittsburg Landing to await the arrival of several of its disparate parts before moving on Corinth, Mississippi, and completing the cleansing of Tennessee of Rebel presence. Rumor had
it that another army was moving slowly from Kentucky to merge with the force at the Landing. They needed more speed, but so far as he could see, speed was only a dream as the near constant rain turned the Tennessee roads into mush and slowed the march to a crawl. He looked toward the sun burning away the clouds. Maybe it was a good omen.

  A voice called to him, “Captain Grierson.”

  “Sir?” Michael shook himself from his reverie as Captain Marshall Polk moved his horse alongside.

  “When we get to Michie’s Tavern, move the battery off the road somewhere and bed for the night,” Polk told him. “We’re to wait for Bragg’s Corps to move past us before moving on again into line of battle. Maintain strict noise discipline, no fires, and have the men ready to move at 0200.”

  “Yes, sir.” Michael said curtly. “Should I have the men brew something at the first opportunity, then?”

  “With the pace we are keeping, I doubt they will get the chance, but you may try.”

  “I’ll tell Mahoney to have the men ready for march at 0200 tomorrow.” Just before Polk could leave, Michael asked him in a whisper, “Hey, Marsh, do you think we’re gonna pull this off? What’s the latest talk at headquarters?”

  Polk looked in the direction the column was moving. “Well, I can’t see how the Yanks don’t know something is up with all the noise an army this size makes. Michie’s is supposed to be two miles or so from our form-up point, and from there it’s only three more miles to the enemy encampment. It’s kind of eerie, ya’ know,” Marshall Polk said. He took off his hat and scratched his head, revealing greasy, sweat-matted auburn hair. “I’d almost rather that the enemy knew we were here.”

  “What?” Michael said loudly, looking at Marshall. In a quieter tone, he asked, “What are you meaning?”

  “It’s the tension. Every noise, every idiot infantryman what decides to test his wet powder or carry on as he’d just seen the paymaster means the tension gets rougher. You know this whole thing is bent on surprise.” Polk waved his hand to indicate the men marching forward. “Well, if we know that they know we are here, then all we have to do is make up our minds to attack or go home. But as it is, we creep forward, not knowin’ if the slightest rustle of the leaves is going to bring a heap of cavalry upon us or if we’re going to march into an open field to find the whole enemy host arrayed for battle.” He paused for a moment and examined the pommel of this saddle. “I’d rather we knew what we were getting into than have this game of cat and mouse.”

  “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.

  CHAPTER 2

  Corinth Ms. Jan 12, 1862

  “Sir, 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.