The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 6

  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!”

  Sluggish
ly, 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.

  Glancing to his left and right, he made out the weary faces of his pards. Gustavson was on his right, and Hildebrande and Huebner were directly behind him. The firing was still sporadic from both the skirmishers and the invisible enemy cavalry.

  Like the opening of a door releasing one from cramped confines, they stepped out from the forest and stood in front of a fence. Before them, in the dim blue of morning, they could see an open field and the dim outlines of the Fraley farm upon a slight rise three hundred yards from where the men of the 25th and 21st Missouri of Peabody’s brigade broke into view. Darting to and fro between the buildings and the opposing skirmish lines, the heads of the enemy could be seen appearing then disappearing in the field opposite. In the darkness, a small ditch could be made out that cut across the length of the field and separated the two skirmish lines. The skirmish line of the enemy held a position slightly elevated from theirs, and minié balls whizzed uncomfortably near.

  “Halt! Dress your line. Dress on the colors!” shouted Captain Schmitz.

  A sudden shifting of bodies ensued as the men dressed right and each one in turn pressured the man next to him to move to the right. Near the fence line the ground was uneven, and the act of moving to the right in the dark was unnerving. The morning dew made the field slippery, causing more than one man to stumble and draw a string of cursing from the file closers.

  The level of fire had not increased beyond the pop, pop, pop of the cavalry opposing them. Feeling confident that only a few volleys would be needed, the Federals stood confidently stolid. Robert looked down the line of men that seemed to disappear into the blackness. There was a confidence to be felt in numbers. A volley, a move forward, and another volley should scatter the cavalry and put them to flight.

  “Ready!”

  The shifting into the position of ready and the half cock of hammers echoed about the fence line. Robert felt his heartbeat quicken with excitement as the execution of incessant drilling was put to the test. The supreme test of mettle and bravery, honor, and devotion to cause was about to be displayed. Company officers and first sergeants kept a steady stream of chatter from behind.

  “Aim low.”

  “Send them sons of perdition straight to Hell.”

  “Aim for the discharges.”

  “Aim!”

  Four hundred muskets leveled upon the enemy, and four hundred hammers locked into firing position. Robert stood with his rifle to his shoulder. Huebner’s musket bounced unsteadily upon Robert’s cocked right arm, Gustavson’s on his left, forming a solid phalanx of iron that would in seconds be sent down the field into the enemy cavalry.

  “Fire!”

  As if by one action, a solid crack of sound exploded around them and briefly obscured their front in a cloud of smoke. A chorus of hurrahs erupted from the Federal line, celebrating the solidness of the volley. Hours of drill and discipline displayed in singular action swelled Robert and his pards with pride.

  “Load and come to the ready!”

  The smoke began to clear. They could see their enemy out in their front and around the farm buildings. The command to move forward was given, and Robert clambered over the rail fence and grabbed Huebner’s rifle so he could climb over as well. Dressing their lines once more, the command to forward march was shouted amid the increasing fire from the Confederates. Ineffectual skirmishing by both sides caused little damage in the darkness. The line was halted again at a ditch in the field. From here, the farm buildings and beyond could be seen more clearly. The field was wide and long and rimmed by forest. The enemy fire became more focused, and they could hear the uncomfortable zip of lead.

  “Ready!”

  Robert brought his rifle to the ready position and cocked the hammer to safe. This time, we should do some damage, he thought. He could see another tree line in the distance behind the farm houses. The clearing looked to be a mile in width but only half that in length, creating a pocket of tillable land in the intervening space. He noticed movement behind the houses, looking much like something solid and long creeping forward. The movement extended far beyond the right and left of the battalion. When he realized what it was, his heart skipped a beat. Others began to see it as well, growing quiet as they did. Following gasps of realization, four hundred Federals held their breaths as they stood exposed in the open field. They stood transfixed, watching the wave of movement wash toward them in the darkness. Robert felt a tremble in his gut.

  *****

  6th Mississippi line of battle

  West edge of Fraley Field, 5 AM April 6, 1862

  Stephen followed the step, step, step of the pace set by the tramping of thousands of footfalls upon the uneven ground. The movement made so much noise that he wondered how the enemy could fail to hear the elephantine throng lumbering forward. Shouted commands and admonitions competed with the clanking of tin cups, heavy foot falls, and the rustling of undergrowth and bushes. The sound invigorated him, the sound of an immense and irresistible fighting machine moving forward to crush anything that lay in its path.

  He stumbled forward in exhaustion. The previous day saw his regiment laying upon its arms or hastily forming line of battle when one false alarm after another brought everyone to his feet and ready to move forward. The strain had become unbearable. They knew they were in a difficult position should they be discovered prematurely. The well-laid trap became more and more a risk as anxiety gave way to carelessness; any noise, no matter how soft, was enough to cause a man to freeze and look in the direction of the enemy camp.

  They had gone without coffee and palatable food for three days. Awakened now by the commencement of the attack, Stephen’s senses were fully engaged. The touch of elbows while evading trees and obstacles kept his attention riveted upon the guide file. Like a giant accordion, the formation ebbed and flowed, morphing into a snaking movement until it resembled a wave more than a straight line, drawing commands and curses from company officers. The formation extended in both directions as far as he could see.

  The division formed before the tree line of the forest that separated them from the enemy camps and the enemy soldiers who had confidently entered it twenty minutes ago. The strain of struggling through the thickets was unnerving. They were more than a little relieved when the forest suddenly opened up to a vista of cleared fields and farm buildings.

  Sudden sounds of musketry surprised him. The noise of their movement through the trees had drowned out the sounds of the skirmish occurring around the farm buildings. The shock widened their eyes; qu
izzical looks passed from man to man. So close had the enemy been to their step-off point that Stephen’s heart stopped; their preparations for the grand attack in secret coming to naught. Yet there was the enemy giving fight to the advance skirmish lines. The dim light and distance obscured what was going on to their right, save for the muzzle flashes. A farm was situated on an elevation, and its now-barren field extended downward. The uncomfortable prospect of advancing over the open space in the face of a well-hidden enemy in the tree line fell heavily upon him. If the enemy were there in force, the attack might fail before it had even started.

  As if to punctuate his fears, the sudden crack of a volley thundered and echoed out to the right in the darkness. The advance had taken him to a position 200 yards to the right of the farm buildings, and he saw the 15th Arkansas skirmishers keeping a steady pace out front. The cheering from the enemy line confirmed his fears, and the hitherto steady move forward faltered a step.

  “Forward! Forward!” shouted Colonel Thornton as he wheeled his horse about.

  Stephen glanced over at William, who returned his worried expression.

  “I thought we was to surprise ‘em. Sounds like they is waitin’ fer us!” William shouted over the din.

  “I guess we’ll just see what’s on the other side of these buildings,” Stephen shouted back.

  “By the right flank, by column of companies, forward march!”

  The firing to their right increased in volume, making the absence of any hint of the enemy in their front more unnerving. Stephen could only see the brief flashes of light from the discharge of the guns.

  “You see anything ahead?” Stephen shouted.

  “Too dark still,” William answered.

  The movement hardly skipped a beat despite the racket.

  “I don’t hear any cannon fire. This ain’t their main line!” William shouted.