OFF FOR THE SEAT OF WAR. THE BATTLE OF SHILOH. MARCH AND APRIL, 1862.
On March 25th we left Benton Barracks for the front. We marched through
St. Louis and onto the steamboat that day, but from some cause I never
knew, the boat did not leave the wharf until about dark the next
evening. My company was quartered on the hurricane deck of the boat.
Soon after the boat started down the river an incident befell me that
looks somewhat comical now, but at that time it was to me a serious
matter, and one that troubled my conscience a good deal. I had piled my
knapsack, with the blanket strapped on the outside, and my other stuff,
at the foot of the gun stack which included my musket. Suddenly I
discovered, to my great consternation, that my blanket was gone! Yes,
my lords and gentlemen, some "false Scot" had deliberately and
feloniously appropriated my indispensable equipment for a night's
repose. And a long, raw March night was coming on, and the damp and
chilly air was rising, like a fog, from the cold surface of the river.
All signs, too, portended a rainy night. The thunder was muttering off
in the southwest, intermittent flashes of lightning lit up the sky, and
scattering drops of rain were even then beginning to patter on the
hurricane deck and ripple the bosom of the stream. What should I do? I
must have a blanket, that was certain. But all my life the belief had
been instilled into me that stealing was well-nigh the most disgraceful
of all crimes, and that a thief was a most odious and contemptible
wretch. Moreover, one of the ten commandments "pintedly" declared.
"Thou shalt not steal." But something had to be done, and speedily. At
last it occurred to me that being a soldier, and belonging for the time
being to Uncle Sam, I was a species of government property, which it
was my duty to protect at all hazards. That settled the question, and
conscience and honesty withdrew. Without going into the demoralizing
details, suffice it to say that I stole a blanket from some hapless
victim belonging to another company, and thus safeguarded the health
and military efficiency of a chattel of the Nation. How the other
fellow got along, I don't know. I made no impertinent inquiries, and,
during the day time, indefinitely thereafter, kept that blanket in my
knapsack, carefully concealed from prying eyes. But it will be recorded
here that this was the only act of downright larceny that I committed
during my entire term of service, except the gobbling of a couple of
onions, which maybe I'll mention later. Of course I helped myself many
times, while on the march, or on picket, to roasting ears, sweet
potatoes, apples, and the like, but that came under the head of
legitimate foraging, and was sanctioned by the military authorities.
The night we left St. Louis I had my first impressive object lesson
showing the difference between the conditions of the commissioned
officers and the enlisted men. I had spread my blanket at the base of
the little structure called the "Texas," on which the pilot house
stands. All around the bottom of the "Texas" was a row of small window
lights that commanded a view of the interior of the boat's cabin below,
and I only had to turn my head and look in and down, to see what was
passing. The officers were seated in cushioned chairs, or sauntering
around over the carpeted and brilliantly lighted room, while their
supper was being prepared. Colored waiters dressed in white uniforms
were bringing in the eatables, and when all was ready, a gong was
sounded and the officers seated themselves at the table. And just look
at the good things they had to eat! Fried ham and beefsteak, hot
biscuits, butter, molasses, big boiled Irish potatoes steaming hot,
fragrant coffee served with cream, in cups and saucers, and some minor
goodies in the shape of preserves and the like. And how savory those
good things smelled!--for I was where I could get the benefit of that.
And there were the officers, in the warm, lighted cabin, seated at a
table, with nigger waiters to serve them, feasting on that splendid
fare! Why, it was the very incarnation of bodily comfort and enjoyment!
And, when the officers should be ready to retire for the night, warm
and cozy berths awaited them, where they would stretch their limbs on
downy quilts and mattresses, utterly oblivious to the wet and chill on
the outside. Then I turned my head and took in my surroundings! A
black, cold night, cinders and soot drifting on us from the smoke
stacks, and a drizzling rain pattering down. And my supper had
consisted of hardtack and raw sow-belly, with river water for a
beverage, of the vintage, say, of 1541. And to aggravate the situation
generally, I was lying on a blanket which a military necessity had
compelled me to steal. But I reflected that we couldn't all be
officers,--there had to be somebody to do the actual trigger-pulling.
And I further consoled myself with the thought that while the officers
had more privileges than the common soldiers, they likewise had more
responsibilities, and had to worry their brains about many things that
didn't bother us a particle. So I smothered all envious feelings as
best I could, and wrapping myself up good in my blanket, went to sleep,
and all night long slept the unbroken, dreamless sleep of youth and
health.
The weather cleared up that night, and the next day was fine, and we
all felt in better spirits. Our surroundings were new and strange, and
we were thrilling with excitement and bright hopes of the future. The
great majority of us were simple country boys, who had so far passed
our lives in a narrow circle in the backwoods. As for myself, before
enlisting in the army I had never been more than fifty miles from home,
had not traveled any on a steamboat, and my few short railroad trips
did not amount, in the aggregate, to more than about seventy-five
miles, back and forth. But now the contracted horizon of the
"Whippoorwill Ridges" adjacent to the old home had suddenly expanded,
and a great big wonderful world was unfolding to my view. And there was
the daring, heroic life on which we were entering! No individual boy
expected that he would be killed, or meet with any other adverse fate.
Others might, and doubtless would, but he would come out safe and
sound, and return home at the end of a victorious war, a military hero,
and as such would be looked up to, and admired and reverenced, all the
rest of his life. At any rate, such were my thoughts, and I have no
doubt whatever that ninety-nine out of a hundred of the other boys
thought the same.
On the afternoon of this day (March 27th) we arrived at Cairo, rounded
in at the wharf, and remained a short time. The town fronted on the
Ohio river, which was high at the time, as also was the Mississippi.
The appearance of Cairo was wretched. Levees had been constructed to
protect it from high water, but notwithstanding the streets and the
grounds generally were just a foul, stagnant swamp. Engines were at
work pumping the surface water into the river through pipes in the
levee; otherwise I reckon everybody would have been drowned out.
Charles Dickens saw this locality in the spring of 1842 when on a visit
to America, and it figures in "Martin Chuzzlewit," under the name of
"Eden." I never read that book until after the close of the war, but
have several times since, and will say that if the Eden of 1842 looked
anything like the Cairo of twenty years later, his description thereof
was fully warranted.
Our boat had hardly got moored to the wharf before the word went round
that some Confederate prisoners were on the transport on our right, and
we forthwith rushed to that side to get our first look at the "Secesh,"
as we then called them. It was only a small batch, about a hundred or
so. They were under guard, and on the after part of the lower deck,
along the sides and the stern of the boat. We ascertained that they
were about the last installment of the Fort Donelson prisoners, and
were being shipped to a northern military prison. Naturally, we scanned
them with great curiosity, and the boys soon began to joke and chaff
them in a perfectly good natured way. They took this silently, with no
other manifestation than an occasional dry grin. But finally, a rather
good looking young fellow cocked his eyes toward us and in a soft,
drawling tone called out, "You-all will sing a different tune by next
summah." Our boys responded to this with bursts of laughter and some
derisive whoops; but later we found out that the young Confederate
soldier was a true prophet.
Our halt at Cairo was brief; the boat soon cast off and proceeded up
the Ohio to the mouth of the Tennessee, and from thence up that river.
Some time the next day we passed Fort Henry. We had read of its capture
the month previous by the joint operations of our army and navy, and
were all curious to see this Confederate stronghold, where a mere
handful of men had put up such a plucky fight. My ideas of forts at
that time had all been drawn from pictures in books which depicted
old-time fortresses, and from descriptions in Scott's "Marmion" of
ancient feudal castles like "Tantallon strong," and the like. And when
we approached Fort Henry I fully expected to see some grand, imposing
structure with "battled towers," "donjon keep," "portcullis,"
"drawbridges," and what not, and perhaps some officer of high rank with
a drawn sword, strutting about on the ramparts and occasionally
shouting, at the top of his voice, "What, warder, ho!" or words to that
effect. But, to my utter amazement and disgust, when we steamed up
opposite Fort Henry I saw only a little squatty, insignificant looking
mud affair, without the slightest feature of any of the "pride, pomp,
and circumstance of glorious war." It had been built on the low bottom
ground near the bank of the Tennessee river, the stream was now high,
and the adjacent land was largely covered with water, while the inside
of the fort looked a good deal like a hog pen. I couldn't imagine how
such a contemptible looking thing had stood off our gunboats as long as
it did. But I did not know then that just such works, with earthen
walls, were the strongest and best defenses against modern artillery
that could be constructed. In fact, what I didn't know about war, at
that stage of the proceedings, was broad and comprehensive, and covered
the whole field.
As we journeyed up the Tennessee we began to notice queer-looking green
bunches of something on the trees. As the forest had not yet put forth
its foliage, we knew that growth could not be leaves, and were puzzled
to imagine what it could be. But we finally learned from some of the
boat's crew that it was mistletoe. So far as I knew none of the private
soldiers had ever before seen that curious evergreen, and it was to us
a strange curiosity. But we got well acquainted with it later.
We arrived at Pittsburg Landing on the evening of March 31, about
sundown. On going into camp in our position upon the line, for the
first time in our service we dwelt in tents. We had what was called the
Sibley tent, an affair of a conical shape, rather large, and capable of
accommodating about twelve men, with their accoutrements. As a
circumstance bearing on our ignorance of life in tents, I will say that
we neglected to ditch around them, and on the very first night we slept
in them there came a heavy rain, and the next morning found us lying
more or less in the water, and our blankets and other stuff sopping
wet. But after that, on pitching our tents one of the first things we
did was to dig around them a sufficient ditch with a lateral extension.
I retain a vivid recollection of the kind of army cooking we had for
the first few months in Tennessee. At Camp Carrollton and Benton
Barracks we had company cooks who prepared the food for the entire
company. They were merely enlisted men, detailed for that purpose, and
while their cooking was nothing to brag about, it was vastly superior
to what now ensued. We divided up into messes, of four, eight, or
twelve men, or thereabouts, to the mess, and generally would take turns
in the culinary line. Very few of us knew anything whatever about
cooking, and our exploits in that regard would have been comical if the
effects had not been so pernicious. Flour was issued to us after our
arrival at Pittsburg Landing, but we had no utensils in which we could
cook biscuits, or loaves. So we would make a batter out of flour,
water, grease, and salt, and cook it in a mess pan, the product being
the army "flapjack." It invariably was tough as a mule's ear, about as
heavy as lead, and very indigestible. Later we learned to construct
ovens of wood, daubed with mud, or of stone, and in them, in the course
of time, we acquired the knack of baking good bread. But with us in the
west the hardtack was generally our standard bread diet, and nothing
could beat it.
And for some time our cooking of "Yankee beans," as we called them, was
simply atrocious. As you know, beans should be cooked until they are
thoroughly done; otherwise they are decidedly harmful. Well, we would
not cook them much more than half enough, the result being a sloppy,
slimy mess, its looks alone being well-nigh sufficient to extinguish
one's appetite. And as for the rice--the horrible messes we would make
of that defy description. I know that one consequence with me was I
contracted such an aversion to rice that for many years afterwards,
while in civil life, I just couldn't eat it in any form, no matter how
temptingly it was prepared.
Owing to improperly cooked food, change of climate and of water, and
neglect of proper sanitation measures in the camps, camp diarrhea
became epidemic at Pittsburg Landing, especially among the "green"
regiments like ours. And for about six weeks everybody suffered, more
or less, the difference being only in degree. The fact is, the
condition of the troops in that quarter during the prevalence of that
disorder was simply so bad and repulsive that any detailed description
thereof will be passed over. I never saw the like before, and never
have seen it since. I always thought that one thing which aggravated
this trouble was the inordinate quantity of sugar some of the men would
consume. They would not only use it to excess in their coffee and rice,
but would frequently eat it raw, by handfuls. I happen to think, right
now, of an incident that illustrates the unnatural appetite of some of
the men for sugar. It occurred in camp one rainy day during the siege
of Corinth. Jake Hill, of my company, had covered the top of a big army
hardtack with sugar in a cone-like form, piling it on as long as the
tack would hold a grain. Then he seated himself on his knapsack and
proceeded to gnaw away at his feast, by a system of "regular
approaches." He was even then suffering from the epidemic before
mentioned, and so weak he could hardly walk. Some one said to him,
"Jake, that sugar ain't good for you in your condition." He looked up
with an aggrieved air and responded in a tone of cruelly injured
innocence, "Haven't I the right to eat my r-a-a-tion?" Strange to say,
Jake got well, and served throughout the war. He was a good soldier,
too.
For my part, I quit using sugar in any form, early in my army service,
(except a little, occasionally, with stewed fruit, or berries,) and
didn't resume its general use until some years after my discharge from
the army.
In consequence of the conditions at Pittsburg Landing that have been
alluded to, men died by the score like rotten sheep. And a great many
more were discharged for disability and thereby were lost to the
service. It is true that some of these discharged men, especially the
younger ones, subsequently re-enlisted, and made good soldiers. But
this loss to the Union armies in Tennessee in the spring of '62 by
disease would undoubtedly surpass the casualties of a great battle,
but, unlike a battle, there was no resulting compensation whatever.
The battle of Shiloh was fought on April 6 and 7. In 1890 I wrote an
article on the battle which was published in the New York Tribune, and
later it appeared in several other newspapers. It has also been
reprinted in book form in connection with papers by other persons, some
about the war, and others of a miscellaneous nature. The piece I wrote
twenty-five years ago is as good, I reckon, if not better than anything
on that head I can write now, so it will be set out here.
IN THE RANKS AT SHILOH.
By Leander Stillwell,
late First Lieutenant, 61st Illinois Volunteer Infantry.
There has been a great deal said and written about the battle of
Shiloh, both by Rebel and Union officers and writers. On the part
of the first there has been, and probably always will be, angry
dispute and criticism about the conduct of General Beauregard in
calling off his troops Sunday evening while fully an hour of broad,
precious daylight still remained, which, as claimed by some, might
have been utilized in destroying the remainder of Grant's army
before Buell could have crossed the Tennessee. On the part of Union
writers the matters most discussed have been as to whether or not
our forces were surprised, the condition of Grant's army at the
close of the first day, what the result would have been without the
aid of the gunboats, or if Buell's army had not come, and kindred
subjects. It is not my purpose, in telling my story of the battle
of Shiloh, to say anything that will add to this volume of
discussion. My age at the time was but eighteen, and my position
that of a common soldier in the ranks. It would therefore be
foolish in me to assume the part of a critic. The generals, who,
from reasonably safe points of observation, are sweeping the field
with their glasses, and noting and directing the movements of the
lines of battle, must, in the nature of things, be the ones to
furnish the facts that go to make history. The extent of a
battlefield seen by the common soldier is that only which comes
within the range of the raised sights of his musket. And what
little he does see is as "through a glass, darkly." The dense banks
of powder smoke obstruct his gaze; he catches but fitful glimpses
of his adversaries as the smoke veers or rises.
Then, too, my own experience makes me think that where the common
soldier does his duty, all his faculties of mind and body are
employed in attending to the details of his own personal part of
the work of destruction, and there is but little time left him for
taking mental notes to form the bases of historical articles a
quarter of a century afterward. The handling, tearing, and charging
of his cartridge, ramming it home (we used muzzle loaders during
the Civil War), the capping of his gun, the aiming and firing, with
furious haste and desperate energy,--for every shot may be his
last,--these things require the soldier's close personal attention
and make him oblivious to matters transpiring beyond his immediate
neighborhood. Moreover, his sense of hearing is well-nigh overcome
by the deafening uproar going on around him. The incessant and
terrible crash of musketry, the roar of the cannon, the continual
zip, zip, of the bullets as they hiss by him, interspersed with the
agonizing screams of the wounded, or the death shrieks of comrades
falling in dying convulsions right in the face of the
living,--these things are not conducive to that serene and judicial
mental equipoise which the historian enjoys in his closet.
Let the generals and historians, therefore, write of the movements
of corps, divisions, and brigades. I have naught to tell but the
simple story of what one private soldier saw of one of the
bloodiest battles of the war.
The regiment to which I belonged was the 61st Illinois Infantry. It
left its camp of instruction (a country town in southern Illinois)
about the last of February, 1862. We were sent to Benton Barracks,
near St. Louis, and remained there drilling (when the weather would
permit) until March 25th. We left on that day for the front. It was
a cloudy, drizzly, and most gloomy day, as we marched through the
streets of St. Louis down to the levee, to embark on a transport
that was to take us to our destination. The city was enveloped in
that pall of coal smoke for which St. Louis is celebrated. It hung
heavy and low and set us all to coughing. I think the colonel must
have marched us down some by-street. It was narrow and dirty, with
high buildings on either side. The line officers took the
sidewalks, while the regiment, marching by the flank, tramped in
silence down the middle of the street, slumping through the nasty,
slimy mud. There was one thing very noticeable on this march
through St. Louis, and that was the utter lack of interest taken in
us by the inhabitants. From pictures I had seen in books at home,
my idea was that when soldiers departed for war, beautiful ladies
stood on balconies and waved snowy-white handkerchiefs at the
troops, while the men stood on the sidewalks and corners and swung
their hats and cheered.
There may have been regiments so favored, but ours was not one of
them. Occasionally a fat, chunky-looking fellow, of a German cast
of countenance, with a big pipe in his mouth, would stick his head
out of a door or window, look at us a few seconds, and then
disappear. No handkerchiefs nor hats were waved, we heard no
cheers. My thoughts at the time were that the Union people there
had all gone to war, or else the colonel was marching us through a
"Secesh" part of town.
We marched to the levee and from there on board the big sidewheel
steamer, Empress. The next evening she unfastened her moorings,
swung her head out into the river, turned down stream, and we were
off for the "seat of war." We arrived at Pittsburg Landing on March
31st. Pittsburg Landing, as its name indicates, was simply a
landing place for steamboats. It is on the west bank of the
Tennessee river, in a thickly wooded region about twenty miles
northeast of Corinth. There was no town there then, nothing but
"the log house on the hill" that the survivors of the battle of
Shiloh will all remember. The banks of the Tennessee on the
Pittsburg Landing side are steep and bluffy, rising about 100 feet
above the level of the river. Shiloh church, that gave the battle
its name, was a Methodist meeting house. It was a small, hewed log
building with a clapboard roof, about two miles out from the
landing on the main Corinth road. On our arrival we were assigned
to the division of General B. M. Prentiss, and we at once marched
out and went into camp. About half a mile from the landing the road
forks, the main Corinth road goes to the right, past Shiloh church,
the other goes to the left. These two roads come together again
some miles out. General Prentiss' division was camped on this
left-hand road at right angles to it. Our regiment went into camp
almost on the extreme left of Prentiss' line. There was a brigade
of Sherman's division under General Stuart still further to the
left, about a mile, I think, in camp near a ford of Lick Creek,
where the Hamburg and Purdy road crosses the creek; and between the
left of Prentiss' and General Stuart's camp there were no troops. I
know that, for during the few days intervening between our arrival
and the battle I roamed all through those woods on our left,
between us and Stuart, hunting for wild onions and "turkey peas."
The camp of our regiment was about two miles from the landing. The
tents were pitched in the woods, and there was a little field of
about twenty acres in our front. The camp faced nearly west, or
possibly southwest.
I shall never forget how glad I was to get off that old steamboat
and be on solid ground once more, in camp out in those old woods.
My company had made the trip from St. Louis to Pittsburg Landing on
the hurricane deck of the steamboat, and our fare on the route had
been hardtack and raw fat meat, washed down with river water, as we
had no chance to cook anything, and we had not then learned the
trick of catching the surplus hot water ejected from the boilers
and making coffee with it. But once on solid ground, with plenty of
wood to make fires, that bill of fare was changed. I shall never
again eat meat that will taste as good as the fried "sowbelly" did
then, accompanied by "flapjacks" and plenty of good, strong coffee.
We had not yet got settled down to the regular drills, guard duty
was light, and things generally seemed to run "kind of loose." And
then the climate was delightful. We had just left the bleak, frozen
north, where all was cold and cheerless, and we found ourselves in
a clime where the air was as soft and warm as it was in Illinois in
the latter part of May. The green grass was springing from the
ground, the "Johnny-jump-ups" were in blossom, the trees were
bursting into leaf, and the woods were full of feathered songsters.
There was a redbird that would come every morning about sunup and
perch himself in the tall black-oak tree in our company street, and
for perhaps an hour he would practice on his impatient, querulous
note, that said, as plain as a bird could say, "Boys, boys! get up!
get up! get up!" It became a standing remark among the boys that he
was a Union redbird and had enlisted in our regiment to sound the
reveille.
So the time passed pleasantly away until that eventful Sunday
morning, April 6, 1862. According to the Tribune Almanac for that
year, the sun rose that morning in Tennessee at 38 minutes past
five o'clock. I had no watch, but I have always been of the opinion
that the sun was fully an hour and a half high before the fighting
began on our part of the line. We had "turned out" about sunup,
answered to roll-call, and had cooked and eaten our breakfast. We
had then gone to work, preparing for the regular Sunday morning
inspection, which would take place at nine o'clock. The boys were
scattered around the company streets and in front of the company
parade grounds, engaged in polishing and brightening their muskets,
and brushing up and cleaning their shoes, jackets, trousers, and
clothing generally. It was a most beautiful morning. The sun was
shining brightly through the trees, and there was not a cloud in
the sky. It really seemed like Sunday in the country at home.
During week days there was a continual stream of army wagons going
to and from the landing, and the clucking of their wheels, the
yells and oaths of the drivers, the cracking of whips, mingled with
the braying of mules, the neighing of the horses, the commands of
the officers engaged in drilling the men, the incessant hum and
buzz of the camps, the blare of bugles, and the roll of drums,--all
these made up a prodigious volume of sound that lasted from the
coming-up to the going-down of the sun. But this morning was
strangely still. The wagons were silent, the mules were peacefully
munching their hay, and the army teamsters were giving us a rest. I
listened with delight to the plaintive, mournful tones of a
turtle-dove in the woods close by, while on the dead limb of a tall
tree right in the camp a woodpecker was sounding his "long roll"
just as I had heard it beaten by his Northern brothers a thousand
times on the trees in the Otter Creek bottom at home.
Suddenly, away off on the right, in the direction of Shiloh church,
came a dull, heavy "Pum!" then another, and still another. Every
man sprung to his feet as if struck by an electric shock, and we
looked inquiringly into one another's faces. "What is that?" asked
every one, but no one answered. Those heavy booms then came thicker
and faster, and just a few seconds after we heard that first dull,
ominous growl off to the southwest, came a low, sullen, continuous
roar. There was no mistaking that sound. That was not a squad of
pickets emptying their guns on being relieved from duty; it was the
continuous roll of thousands of muskets, and told us that a battle
was on.
What I have been describing just now occurred during a few seconds
only, and with the roar of musketry the long roll began to beat in
our camp. Then ensued a scene of desperate haste, the like of which
I certainly had never seen before, nor ever saw again. I remember
that in the midst of this terrible uproar and confusion, while the
boys were buckling on their cartridge boxes, and before even the
companies had been formed, a mounted staff officer came galloping
wildly down the line from the right. He checked and whirled his
horse sharply around right in our company street, the iron-bound
hoofs of his steed crashing among the tin plates lying in a little
pile where my mess had eaten its breakfast that morning. The horse
was flecked with foam and its eyes and nostrils were red as blood.
The officer cast one hurried glance around him, and exclaimed: "My
God! this regiment not in line yet! They have been fighting on the
right over an hour!" And wheeling his horse, he disappeared in the
direction of the colonel's tent.
I know now that history says the battle began about 4:30 that
morning; that it was brought on by a reconnoitering party sent out
early that morning by General Prentiss; that General Sherman's
division on the right was early advised of the approach of the
Rebel army, and got ready to meet them in ample time. I have read
these things in books and am not disputing them, but am simply
telling the story of an enlisted man on the left of Prentiss' line
as to what he saw and knew of the condition of things at about
seven o'clock that morning.
Well, the companies were formed, we marched out on the regimental
parade ground, and the regiment was formed in line. The command was
given: "Load at will; load!" We had anticipated this, however, as
the most of us had instinctively loaded our guns before we had
formed company. All this time the roar on the right was getting
nearer and louder. Our old colonel rode up close to us, opposite
the center of the regimental line, and called out, "Attention,
battalion!" We fixed our eyes on him to hear what was coming. It
turned out to be the old man's battle harangue.
"Gentlemen," said he, in a voice that every man in the regiment
heard, "remember your State, and do your duty today like brave
men."
That was all. A year later in the war the old man doubtless would
have addressed us as "soldiers," and not as "gentlemen," and he
would have omitted his allusion to the "State," which smacked a
little of Confederate notions. However, he was a Douglas Democrat,
and his mind was probably running on Buena Vista, in the Mexican
war, where, it is said, a Western regiment acted badly, and threw a
cloud over the reputation for courage of the men of that State
which required the thunders of the Civil War to disperse.
Immediately after the colonel had given us his brief exhortation,
the regiment was marched across the little field I have before
mentioned, and we took our place in line of battle, the woods in
front of us, and the open field in our rear. We "dressed on" the
colors, ordered arms, and stood awaiting the attack. By this time
the roar on the right had become terrific. The Rebel army was
unfolding its front, and the battle was steadily advancing in our
direction. We could begin to see the blue rings of smoke curling
upward among the trees off to the right, and the pungent smell of
burning gun-powder filled the air. As the roar came travelling down
the line from the right it reminded me (only it was a million times
louder) of the sweep of a thunder-shower in summer-time over the
hard ground of a stubble-field.
And there we stood, in the edge of the woods, so still, waiting for
the storm to break on us. I know mighty well what I was thinking
about then. My mind's eye was fixed on a little log cabin, far away
to the north, in the backwoods of western Illinois. I could see my
father sitting on the porch, reading the little local newspaper
brought from the post-office the evening before. There was my
mother getting my little brothers ready for Sunday-school; the old
dog lying asleep in the sun; the hens cackling about the barn; all
these things and a hundred other tender recollections rushed into
my mind. I am not ashamed to say now that I would willingly have
given a general quit-claim deed for every jot and tittle of
military glory falling to me, past, present, and to come, if I only
could have been miraculously and instantaneously set down in the
yard of that peaceful little home, a thousand miles away from the
haunts of fighting men.
The time we thus stood, waiting the attack, could not have exceeded
five minutes. Suddenly, obliquely to our right, there was a long,
wavy flash of bright light, then another, and another! It was the
sunlight shining on gun barrels and bayonets--and--there they were
at last! A long brown line, with muskets at a right shoulder shift,
in excellent order, right through the woods they came.
We began firing at once. From one end of the regiment to the other
leaped a sheet of red flame, and the roar that went up from the
edge of that old field doubtless advised General Prentiss of the
fact that the Rebels had at last struck the extreme left of his
line. We had fired but two or three rounds when, for some
reason,--I never knew what,--we were ordered to fall back across
the field, and did so. The whole line, so far as I could see to the
right, went back. We halted on the other side of the field, in the
edge of the woods, in front of our tents, and again began firing.
The Rebels, of course, had moved up and occupied the line we had
just abandoned. And here we did our first hard fighting during the
day. Our officers said, after the battle was over, that we held
this line an hour and ten minutes. How long it was I do not know. I
"took no note of time."
We retreated from this position as our officers afterward said,
because the troops on our right had given way, and we were flanked.
Possibly those boys on our right would give the same excuse for
their leaving, and probably truly, too. Still, I think we did not
fall back a minute too soon. As I rose from the comfortable log
from behind which a bunch of us had been firing, I saw men in gray
and brown clothes, with trailed muskets, running through the camp
on our right, and I saw something else, too, that sent a chill all
through me. It was a kind of flag I had never seen before. It was a
gaudy sort of thing, with red bars. It flashed over me in a second
that that thing was a Rebel flag. It was not more than sixty yards
to the right. The smoke around it was low and dense and kept me
from seeing the man who was carrying it, but I plainly saw the
banner. It was going fast, with a jerky motion, which told me that
the bearer was on a double-quick. About that time we left. We
observed no kind of order in leaving; the main thing was to get out
of there as quick as we could. I ran down our company street, and
in passing the big Sibley tent of our mess I thought of my knapsack
with all my traps and belongings, including that precious little
packet of letters from home. I said to myself, "I will save my
knapsack, anyhow;" but one quick backward glance over my left
shoulder made me change my mind, and I went on. I never saw my
knapsack or any of its contents afterwards.
Our broken forces halted and re-formed about half a mile to the
rear of our camp on the summit of a gentle ridge, covered with
thick brush. I recognized our regiment by the little gray pony the
old colonel rode, and hurried to my place in the ranks. Standing
there with our faces once more to the front, I saw a seemingly
endless column of men in blue, marching by the flank, who were
filing off to the right through the woods, and I heard our old
German adjutant, Cramer, say to the colonel, "Dose are de troops of
Sheneral Hurlbut. He is forming a new line dere in de bush." I
exclaimed to myself from the bottom of my heart, "Bully for General
Hurlbut and the new line in the bush! Maybe we'll whip 'em yet." I
shall never forget my feelings about this time. I was astonished at
our first retreat in the morning across the field back to our camp,
but it occurred to me that maybe that was only "strategy" and all
done on purpose; but when we had to give up our camp, and actually
turn our backs and run half a mile, it seemed to me that we were
forever disgraced, and I kept thinking to myself: "What will they
say about this at home?"
I was very dry for a drink, and as we were doing nothing just then,
I slipped out of ranks and ran down to the little hollow in our
rear, in search of water. Finding a little pool, I threw myself on
the ground and took a copious draught. As I rose to my feet, I
observed an officer about a rod above me also quenching his thirst,
holding his horse meanwhile by the bridle. As he rose I saw it was
our old adjutant. At no other time would I have dared accost him
unless in the line of duty, but the situation made me bold.
"Adjutant," I said, "What does this mean--our having to run this
way? Ain't we whipped?" He blew the water from his mustache, and
quickly answered in a careless way: "Oh, no; dat is all ride. We
yoost fall back to form on the reserve. Sheneral Buell vas now
crossing der river mit 50,000 men, and vill be here pooty quick;
and Sheneral Lew Vallace is coming from Crump's Landing mit 15,000
more. Ve vips 'em; ve vips 'em. Go to your gompany." Back I went on
the run, with a heart as light as a feather. As I took my place in
the ranks beside my chum, Jack Medford, I said to him: "Jack, I've
just had a talk with the old adjutant, down at the branch where
I've been to get a drink. He says Buell is crossing the river with
75,000 men and a whole world of cannon, and that some other general
is coming up from Crump's Landing with 25,000 more men. He says we
fell back here on purpose, and that we're going to whip the Secesh,
just sure. Ain't that just perfectly bully?" I had improved some on
the adjutant's figures, as the news was so glorious I thought a
little variance of 25,000 or 30,000 men would make no difference in
the end. But as the long hours wore on that day, and still Buell
and Wallace did not come, my faith in the adjutant's veracity
became considerably shaken.
It was at this point that my regiment was detached from Prentiss'
division and served with it no more that day. We were sent some
distance to the right to support a battery, the name of which I
never learned.[1] It was occupying the summit of a slope, and was
actively engaged when we reached it. We were put in position about
twenty rods in the rear of the battery, and ordered to lie flat on
the ground. The ground sloped gently down in our direction, so that
by hugging it close, the rebel shot and shell went over us.
[1] Some years after this sketch was written I ascertained
that this battery was Richardson's, Co. D, 1st Missouri Light
Artillery.
It was here, at about ten o'clock in the morning, that I first saw
Grant that day. He was on horseback, of course, accompanied by his
staff, and was evidently making a personal examination of his
lines. He went by us in a gallop, riding between us and the
battery, at the head of his staff. The battery was then hotly
engaged; shot and shell were whizzing overhead, and cutting off the
limbs of trees, but Grant rode through the storm with perfect
indifference, seemingly paying no more attention to the missiles
than if they had been paper wads.
We remained in support of this battery until about 2 o'clock in the
afternoon. We were then put in motion by the right flank, filed to
the left, crossed the left-hand Corinth road; then we were thrown
into the line by the command: "By the left flank, march." We
crossed a little ravine and up a slope, and relieved a regiment on
the left of Hurlbut's line. This line was desperately engaged, and
had been at this point, as we afterwards learned, for fully four
hours. I remember as we went up the slope and began firing, about
the first thing that met my gaze was what out West we would call a
"windrow" of dead men in blue; some doubled up face downward,
others with their white faces upturned to the sky, brave boys who
had been shot to death in "holding the line." Here we stayed until
our last cartridge was shot away. We were then relieved by another
regiment. We filled our cartridge boxes again and went back to the
support of our battery. The boys laid down and talked in low tones.
Many of our comrades alive and well an hour ago, we had left dead
on that bloody ridge. And still the battle raged. From right to
left, everywhere, it was one never-ending, terrible roar, with no
prospect of stopping.
Somewhere between 4 and 5 o'clock, as near as I can tell,
everything became ominously quiet. Our battery ceased firing; the
gunners leaned against the pieces and talked and laughed. Suddenly
a staff officer rode up and said something in a low tone to the
commander of the battery, then rode to our colonel and said
something to him. The battery horses were at once brought up from a
ravine in the rear, and the battery limbered up and moved off
through the woods diagonally to the left and rear. We were put in
motion by the flank and followed it. Everything kept so still, the
loudest noise I heard was the clucking of the wheels of the
gun-carriages and caissons as they wound through the woods. We
emerged from the woods and entered a little old field. I then saw
to our right and front lines of men in blue moving in the same
direction we were, and it was evident that we were falling back.
All at once, on the right, the left, and from our recent front,
came one tremendous roar, and the bullets fell like hail. The lines
took the double-quick towards the rear. For awhile the attempt was
made to fall back in order, and then everything went to pieces. My
heart failed me utterly. I thought the day was lost. A confused
mass of men and guns, caissons, army wagons, ambulances, and all
the debris of a beaten army surged and crowded along the narrow
dirt road to the landing, while that pitiless storm of leaden hail
came crashing on us from the rear. It was undoubtedly at this
crisis in our affairs that the division of General Prentiss was
captured.
I will digress here for a minute to speak of a little incident
connected with this disastrous feature of the day that has always
impressed me as a pathetic instance of the patriotism and unselfish
devotion to the cause that was by no means uncommon among the rank
and file of the Union armies.
There was in my company a middle-aged German named Charles
Oberdieck. According to the company descriptive book, he was a
native of the then kingdom of Hanover, now a province of Prussia.
He was a typical German, flaxen-haired, blue-eyed, quiet and
taciturn, of limited and meager education, but a model soldier, who
accepted without question and obeyed without a murmur the orders of
his military superiors. Prior to the war he had made his living by
chopping cord-wood in the high, timbered hills near the mouth of
the Illinois river, or by working as a common laborer in the
country on the farms at $14 a month. He was unmarried, his parents
were dead, and he had no other immediate relatives surviving,
either in his fatherland or in the country of his adoption. He and
I enlisted from the same neighborhood. I had known him in civil
life at home, and hence he was disposed to be more communicative
with me than with the other boys of the company. A day or two after
the battle he and I were sitting in the shade of a tree, in camp,
talking over the incidents of the fight. "Charley," I said to him,
"How did you feel along about four o'clock Sunday afternoon when
they broke our lines, we were falling back in disorder, and it
looked like the whole business was gone up generally?" He knocked
the ashes from his pipe and, turning his face quickly towards me,
said: "I yoost tells you how I feels. I no care anydings about
Charley; he haf no wife nor children, fadder nor mudder, brudder
nor sister; if Charley get killed, it makes no difference; dere vas
nobody to cry for him, so I dinks nudding about myselfs; but I
tells you, I yoost den feels bad for de Cause!"
Noble, simple-hearted old Charley! It was the imminent danger only
to the Cause that made his heart sink in that seemingly fateful
hour. When we heard in the malignant and triumphant roar of the
Rebel cannon in our rear what might be the death-knell of the last
great experiment of civilized men to establish among the nations of
the world a united republic, freed from the curse of pampered kings
and selfish, grasping aristocrats--it was in that moment, in his
simple language, that the peril to the Cause was the supreme and
only consideration.
It must have been when we were less than half a mile from the
landing on our disorderly retreat before mentioned, that we saw
standing in line of battle, at ordered arms, extending from both
sides of the road until lost to sight in the woods, a long,
well-ordered line of men in blue. What did that mean? and where had
they come from? I was walking by the side of Enoch Wallace, the
orderly sergeant of my company. He was a man of nerve and courage,
and by word and deed had done more that day to hold us green and
untried boys in ranks and firmly to our duty than any other man in
the company. But even he, in the face of this seemingly appalling
state of things, had evidently lost heart. I said to him: "Enoch,
what are those men there for?" He answered in a low tone: "I guess
they are put there to hold the Rebels in check till the army can
get across the river." And doubtless that was the thought of every
intelligent soldier in our beaten column. And yet it goes to show
how little the common soldier knew of the actual situation. We did
not know then that this line was the last line of battle of the
"Fighting Fourth Division" under General Hurlbut; that on its right
was the division of McClernand, the Fort Donelson boys; that on its
right, at right angles to it, and, as it were, the refused wing of
the army, was glorious old Sherman, hanging on with a bulldog grip
to the road across Snake Creek from Crump's Landing by which Lew
Wallace was coming with 5,000 men. In other words, we still had an
unbroken line confronting the enemy, made up of men who were not
yet ready, by any manner of means, to give up that they were
whipped. Nor did we know then that our retreating mass consisted
only of some regiments of Hurlbut's division, and some other
isolated commands, who had not been duly notified of the recession
of Hurlbut and of his falling back to form a new line, and thereby
came very near sharing the fate of Prentiss' men and being marched
to the rear as prisoners of war. Speaking for myself, it was twenty
years after the battle before I found these things out, yet they
are true, just as much so as the fact that the sun rose yesterday
morning. Well, we filed through Hurlbut's line, halted, re-formed,
and faced to the front once more. We were put in place a short
distance in the rear of Hurlbut, as a support to some heavy guns.
It must have been about five o'clock now. Suddenly, on the extreme
left, and just a little above the landing, came a deafening
explosion that fairly shook the ground beneath our feet, followed
by others in quick and regular succession. The look of wonder and
inquiry that the soldiers' faces wore for a moment disappeared for
one of joy and exultation as it flashed across our minds that the
gunboats had at last joined hands in the dance, and were pitching
big twenty-pound Parrott shells up the ravine in front of Hurlbut,
to the terror and discomfiture of our adversaries.
The last place my regiment assumed was close to the road coming up
from the landing. As we were lying there I heard the strains of
martial music and saw a body of men marching by the flank up the
road. I slipped out of ranks and walked out to the side of the road
to see what troops they were. Their band was playing "Dixie's
Land," and playing it well. The men were marching at a quick step,
carrying their guns, cartridge-boxes, haversacks, canteens, and
blanket-rolls. I saw that they had not been in the fight, for there
was no powder-smoke on their faces. "What regiment is this?" I
asked of a young sergeant marching on the flank. Back came the
answer in a quick, cheery tone, "The 36th Indiana, the advance
guard of Buell's army."
I did not, on hearing this, throw my cap into the air and yell.
That would have given those Indiana fellows a chance to chaff and
guy me, and possibly make sarcastic remarks, which I did not care
to provoke. I gave one big, gasping swallow and stood still, but
the blood thumped in the veins of my throat and my heart fairly
pounded against my little infantry jacket in the joyous rapture of
this glorious intelligence. Soldiers need not be told of the thrill
of unspeakable exultation they all have felt at the sight of armed
friends in danger's darkest hour. Speaking for myself alone, I can
only say, in the most heart-felt sincerity, that in all my obscure
military career, never to me was the sight of reinforcing legions
so precious and so welcome as on that Sunday evening when the rays
of the descending sun were flashed back from the bayonets of
Buell's advance column as it deployed on the bluffs of Pittsburg
Landing.
My account of the battle is about done. So far as I saw or heard,
very little fighting was done that evening after Buell's advance
crossed the river. The sun must have been fully an hour high when
anything like regular and continuous firing had entirely ceased.
What the result would have been if Beauregard had massed his troops
on our left and forced the fighting late Sunday evening would be a
matter of opinion, and a common soldier's opinion would not be
considered worth much.
My regiment was held in reserve the next day, and was not engaged.
I have, therefore, no personal experience of that day to relate.
After the battle of Shiloh, it fell to my lot to play my humble
part in several other fierce conflicts of arms, but Shiloh was my
maiden fight. It was there I first saw a gun fired in anger, heard
the whistle of a bullet, or saw a man die a violent death, and my
experiences, thoughts, impressions, and sensations on that bloody
Sunday will abide with me as long as I live.