SHILOH.
"The sun of Austerlitz" was neither brighter nor more glorious than the
sun which arose over the field of Shiloh Sunday morning, April 6, 1862.
Around the little log chapel, wont to echo to the voice of prayer and
song of praise, along the hillsides and in the woods, lay encamped the
Federal army. The soldiers had lain down the night before without a
thought of what this bright, sunny Sabbath would bring forth. A sense of
security pervaded the whole army. From commander down to private, there
was scarcely a thought of an attack.
"I have scarcely the faintest idea of an attack," wrote Grant to Halleck
on April 5th.
On the evening of the same day Sherman wrote to Grant: "I do not
apprehend anything like an attack upon our position."
Yet when these words were written the Confederate army was in battle
array not much over three miles distant.
But there was one general in the Federal army who was uneasy, he hardly
knew why. He was little known at the time, he never held a
distinguished command afterward; yet it was by his vigilance that the
Federal army was saved from surprise, perhaps from capture. This general
was Prentiss. A vague idea that something was wrong haunted him. The
ominous silence in front oppressed him, as something to be feared. Then
on Saturday a curious fact occurred. An unusual number of squirrels and
rabbits were noticed dodging through the line, and they were all headed
in one direction--toward Pittsburg Landing. What had startled them? It
set General Prentiss thinking.
To guard more surely against surprise Prentiss posted his pickets a mile
and a half in front of his lines, an unusual distance. At three o'clock
Sunday morning he sent three companies of the Twenty-fifth Missouri out
on a reconnoitering expedition. These three companies followed a road
that obliqued to the right, and a little after daylight met the enemy's
advance in front of Sherman's division. Thus the battle of Shiloh
opened.
When the first shots were fired, Preston Johnston, son of the
Confederate commander, looked at his watch, and it was just fourteen
minutes past five o'clock.
This little advance band must have made a brave fight, for Major
Hardcastle, in command of the Confederate outposts, reports that he
fought a thousand men an hour. It was after six o'clock when the general
advance of the whole Confederate army commenced, and the pickets along
the line of Prentiss' and Sherman's divisions were driven in. Preston
Johnston states that it was seven o'clock when the first cannon shot was
fired. It was eight o'clock before the engagement became general along
the whole line, and at that time portions of Prentiss' division had been
fighting for nearly three hours.
General Grant was at breakfast in Savannah, nine miles away, when he was
startled by the booming of cannon in the direction of Shiloh. Hastily
writing an order to General Nelson to procure a guide and march his
division up the river to a point opposite Pittsburg Landing, Grant left
his breakfast half-eaten, and boarding his dispatch boat was soon
steaming up the river. His fear was that the isolated division of
General Lewis Wallace, which lay at Crump's Landing, had been attacked.
Finding this not to be the case when he reached Crump's, he bade Wallace
hold his division in readiness and to await orders, and steamed on.
The roar of cannon had become almost continuous. Turning to Rawlins, his
chief-of-staff, Grant said:
"Rawlins, I am afraid this is a general attack. I did not expect it.
Prentiss' and Sherman's divisions are in front, and both are composed of
raw troops; but if we can hold them until Wallace and Nelson come we are
all right."
"It is a pity you did not order Wallace up when you were there,"
answered Rawlins.
"Yes," answered Grant, "but I couldn't make up my mind it was a general
attack. I am not entirely sure yet."
"It sounds very much like it," replied Rawlins, grimly.
When Grant reached the landing the battle was raging furiously, and all
doubts as to its being a general attack were removed from his mind.
Already the vanguard of what was afterward an army of panic-stricken men
had commenced gathering under the river bank.
A staff officer was sent back immediately to order General Wallace to
come at once. Grant then set to work quickly to do what he could to stem
the tide, which was already turning against him. Two or three regiments
which had just landed he ordered to points where they were the most
needed. He then rode the entire length of the line, encouraging his
generals, telling them to stand firm until Wallace and Nelson came, and
all would be well.
He found Sherman engaged in a terrific conflict. Some of his regiments
had broken at the first fire, and fled panic-stricken to the Landing.
Sherman was straining every nerve to hold his men firm. Oblivious of
danger, he rode amid the storm of bullets unmoved, encouraging,
pleading, threatening, as the case might be. Grant cautioned him to be
careful, and not expose himself unnecessarily, but Sherman answered: "If
I can stem the tide by sacrificing my life, I will willingly do it."
Then turning to Grant, he said, with feeling: "General, I did not
expect this; forgive me."
"Forgive you for what?" asked Grant, in surprise.
"I am your senior general," answered Sherman. "You depended on me for
reports; I quieted your fears. I reported there was no danger of an
attack. I couldn't believe it this morning until my orderly was shot by
my side, and I saw the long lines of the enemy sweeping forward. Forgive
me."
Grant was greatly moved. "There is nothing to forgive," he said, gently.
"The mistake is mine as well as yours. Neither did I expect this attack.
If I had, I could have had Buell here. As it is, Wallace and Nelson will
soon be here, and we will whip them; never fear."
"God grant it!" fervently replied Sherman.
By ten o'clock Prentiss had been pushed back clear through and beyond
his camp, and had taken position along a sunken road. General W. H. L.
Wallace's division came up and joined him on the right. This part of the
field was afterward known as the "Hornet's Nest."
Here Grant visited them, and seeing the strength of the position, told
them to hold it to the last man.
"We will," responded both Wallace and Prentiss.
Bravely did they keep that promise. For hours the Confederate lines beat
against them like the waves of the ocean, only to be flung back torn and
bleeding.
The roar of battle was now terrific. Both flanks of the Federal army
were bent back like a bow. Every moment the number of panic-stricken
soldiers under the bank grew larger.
Noon came, but no Lew Wallace, no Nelson. Turning to an aid, Grant said:
"Go for Wallace; bid him hurry, hurry."
Everywhere, except in the center, the Confederates were pressing the
Union lines back. But the desperate resistance offered surprised
Johnston; he had expected an easier victory. Many of his best regiments
had been cut to pieces. Thousands of his men had also fled to the rear.
The afternoon was passing; the fighting must be pressed.
A desperate effort was made to turn the Federal left flank, and thus
gain the Landing. Like iron Hurlbut's men stood, and time after time
hurled back the charging columns. At last the Confederates refused to
charge again. Then General Johnston placed himself at their head and
said: "I will lead you, my children."
The effect was electrical. With wild cheers his men pressed forward;
nothing could withstand the fury of the charge. The Federal left was
crushed, hurled back to the Landing in a torn, disorganized mass.
But the brave leader fell mortally wounded. For a time the Confederate
army stood as if appalled at its great loss. The thunder of battle died
away, only to break out here and there in fitful bursts. But the
respite was brief, and then came the final desperate onslaught.
With features as impassive as stone, Grant saw his army crumbling to
pieces. Officer after officer had been sent to see what had become of
General Lew Wallace; he should have been on the field hours before. With
anxious eyes Grant looked across the river to see if he could catch the
first fluttering banner of Nelson's division. There was no aid in sight.
An officer rides up, one of the messengers he had sent for Wallace.
Grant's face lights up. Wallace must be near. But, no. The officer
reports: "Wallace took the wrong road. I found him five miles further
from the Landing than when he started. Then he countermarched, instead
of hurrying forward left in front. He lost much precious time. Then he
is marching so slow, so slow. He will not be here before night."
For an instant a spasm of pain passed over Grant's face. "He
countermarched; coming slow," he said, as if to himself, "Great God,
what does he mean?" and then all was calm again.
Turning to Colonel Webster, he said: "Plant the siege guns around the
Landing. See that you have every available piece of artillery in
position."
And it was only this frowning line of artillery that stood between
Grant's army and utter rout.
"Have you any way of retreat mapped out?" asked General Buell of Grant.
Buell had come up from Savannah on a boat, and was now on the field,
viewing with consternation and alarm the tremendous evidences of
demoralization and defeat.
Turning to him as quick as a flash, Grant replied: "Retreat! retreat! I
have not yet despaired of victory."
Both the right and left wings of Grant's army were now crushed back from
the center. Around the flanks of W. H. L. Wallace's and Prentiss'
divisions the exultant Confederates poured. Well had Wallace and
Prentiss obeyed the orders of Grant to hold their position. From ten
o'clock in the forenoon until nearly five o'clock in the afternoon their
lines had hurled back every attack of the enemy. The Hornet's Nest stung
every time it was touched. But now the divisions were hemmed in on every
side. The brave Wallace formed his men to cut their way out, and as he
was cheering them on he fell mortally wounded. No better soldier than
Wallace fell on that bloody field. As for the two divisions, they were
doomed.
General Grant sits on his horse, watching the preparations for the last
stand. An officer, despair written in every lineament of his face, rides
up to him.
"General," he says, "Sherman reports that he has taken his last
position. He has but the remnant of one brigade with him and what
stragglers he has gathered. His slender line cannot withstand another
attack."
"Go back," quietly said Grant, "and tell Sherman to hold if possible;
night is most here."
McClernand's division had been standing bravely all day, and had
furnished fewer stragglers than any other division in the army, but now
an orderly with a pale face and his left arm resting in a bloody sling,
came spurring his reeking horse up to Grant, and exclaimed:
"General McClernand bade me report, that after his division had most
gallantly repulsed the last charge of the enemy, for some unaccountable
reason, the left regiments broke, and are fleeing panic-stricken to the
Landing."
"Go tell McClernand," said Grant, "that he has done well, but he must
hold out just a little longer. Wallace will be here shortly."
General Hurlbut, his face black with the smoke of battle, rode up.
"General," he said, in a broken voice, "my division is gone, the whole
left is gone; the way to the Landing is open to the enemy."
"General," replied Grant, without a quiver, "rally what broken regiments
and stragglers you can behind the guns, close up as much as possible on
McClernand, and hold your position to the last man."
Now there came roaring past a confused mass of white-faced officers and
soldiers commingled, a human torrent stricken with deadly fear.
"All is lost! All is lost!" they cry. "Prentiss and Wallace have
surrendered."
Grant's face was seen to twitch. "Oh, for Lew Wallace, for Nelson, or
for night," he groaned.
From across the river there came to his ears the sound of cheering.
Grant looked, and there among the trees he saw the banners of Nelson's
regiments waving.
Hope came into his eyes; his face lighted up.
"Go, go!" he cried to his aids, "go to Sherman, to McClernand, to
Hurlbut. Tell them to hold! hold! hold! Help is near."
But if Grant had known it the danger had already passed; for Beauregard
had given orders for his army to cease fighting. Night was coming on,
the capture of W. H. L. Wallace's and Prentiss' divisions had
disarranged his lines, and thinking that he was sure of his prey in the
morning, he had given orders to withdraw.
One brigade of the Confederate army did not receive this order, and when
Nelson's advance crossed the river this brigade was charging the line of
cannon on the left. These cannon were entirely unprotected by infantry,
and Grant himself placed Nelson's men in line as they arrived.
The Confederate brigade was advancing with triumphant shouts, when they
were met with a withering volley and sent reeling back. Then, to his
surprise, the commander found that of all of the Confederate army his
brigade was the only one continuing the fight, and he hastily fell back.
The battle for the day was over.
Alone and practically unaided the brave soldiers of the Army of the
Tennessee had fought the battle of Sunday and saved themselves from
capture. To them belongs the glory.
The battle of Monday was mainly the fight of the Army of the Ohio.
Without its aid Grant could never have been able to turn defeat into
victory, and send the Confederate hosts in headlong flight back to
Corinth. There would have been no advance Monday morning if Buell had
not been on the field. The whole energy of Grant would have been devoted
to the saving of what remained of his army.
The terrible conflict of the day had left its impress on the Army of the
Tennessee. There was but a remnant in line capable of battle when night
came.
The generals of divisions were so disheartened that the coming of Buell
failed to restore their spirits. Even the lion-hearted Sherman wavered
and was downcast. Grant found him sitting in the darkness beside a tree,
his head buried in his hands, and his heart full of fears. He had fought
as generals seldom fight. Three horses had been shot under him, and he
had received two wounds. When Grant told him there was to be an advance
in the morning, he sadly shook his head and said: "No use, General, no
use; the fight is all out of the men. I do not possibly see how we can
assume the offensive."
"Look here, Sherman," replied Grant. "Remember how it was at Donelson.
If we assume the offensive in the morning a glorious victory awaits us.
Lew Wallace is here; Buell will have at least 20,000 fresh troops on the
field. The Confederates, like ourselves, are exhausted and demoralized.
If we become the aggressors, success is sure."
Sherman became convinced; his fears were gone, his hopes revived.
Why was it that the fiery and impetuous Nelson was so late in getting on
the field? He was only nine miles away early in the morning, and had
received orders from Grant to move his division opposite Pittsburg
Landing. If there had been any roads there would have been no excuse for
his delay. But a heavily timbered, swampy bottom lay between him and his
destination. The river had been very high, overflowing the whole bottom,
and when the water had receded it left a waste of mud, from which all
vestige of a road had disappeared. To plunge into that waste of mud and
wilderness without a guide would have been madness. A guide, though
Grant said one could easily be found, could not be secured. So Nelson
sent a staff officer to see if he could find a practicable route. This
officer did not return until noon. All of this time the division lay
listening to the booming of cannon and eager to be led to the fray. As
for Nelson, he fretted and fumed, stormed and swore at the delay.
"The expected has come," he growled, "and here I am doing no more good
than if I were a hundred miles away. Might have been on the field, too,
if Grant had not kept saying, 'No use hurrying!' I knew they were a set
of fools to think that Johnston would sit down at Corinth and suck his
thumbs."
At length a guide was found who said he could pilot the division
through the bottom, but that the route was passable only for horsemen
and infantry; the artillery would have to be left behind. The division
started at one o'clock, the men keeping step to the music of the thunder
of cannon.
"This beats Donelson," remarked Fred, as the roar of artillery never
ceased.
"My boy," replied Nelson, "the greatest battle ever fought on this
continent is now being waged. God grant that we may get there in time.
It was rumored at Savannah that the Confederates were sweeping
everything before them."
"Your division will surely give a good account of itself," said Fred,
looking back, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "See how eager the men
are, and how well they keep closed up, notwithstanding the mud. Half of
them are mourning because they think the battle will be over before they
get there."
"No danger of that," replied Nelson. "The question is, shall we be in
time."
Soon the roll of musketry began to be heard; then the cheers of the
combatants. A quiver of excitement ran along the lines, and every
soldier grasped his musket with a firmer hold. As they approached the
river cannon balls began to crash through the treetops above them; then
was heard the peculiar whir of the minie ball when it is nearly
spent--so close was the fighting to the river.
To Fred's surprise, he saw numerous skulkers dodging through the timber
on the same side of the river as himself. In some manner they had
managed to get across the river; not only this, but the boats which came
to ferry Nelson's troops over were more or less crowded with these
skulkers, who would have died rather than be driven off. In the river
were seen men on logs making their way across, and some of these men
wore shoulder straps.
So incensed were Nelson's soldiers at the sight of such cowardice that
they begged for permission to shoot them.
As they landed, Fred stood aghast at the sight before him. Cowering
beneath the high bank were thousands upon thousands of trembling
wretches. It was a dense mass of shivering, weeping, wailing, swearing,
praying humanity, each one lost to shame, lost to honor, lost to
everything but that dreadful fear which chained him soul and body.
As Nelson's advance brigade forced its way through the panic-stricken
throng, they were greeted with, "You are all going to your death! You
are all going to your death!"
"Back! back!" roared Nelson, purple with rage. "Don't touch my men; you
contaminate them; don't speak to them, you cowards, miscreants, you
should be swept from the face of the earth."
And in the fury of his wrath, Nelson begged for the privilege of turning
cannon on them.
With firm, unwavering steps, and well closed up, the division pressed
their way up the bank, and there were soldiers in the ranks who looked
with contempt on the shivering wretches below the hill, who themselves,
the next day, fled in terror from the awful destruction going on around
them. So little do we know ourselves and what we will do when the
supreme moment comes.
Afterward the great majority of the soldiers who cowered under the bank
at Shiloh covered themselves with glory, and hundreds of them laid down
their lives for their country.
Fred always remembered that night on the battlefield. From the Landing
came the groans and shrieks of the wounded, tortured under the knives of
the surgeons. The night was as dark and cloudy as the day had been
bright and clear. About eleven o'clock a torrent of rain fell, drenching
the living, and cooling the fevered brows of the wounded. Fred sat
against a tree, holding the bridle of his horse in his hand. If by
chance he fell asleep, he would be awakened by the great cannon of the
gunboats, which threw shells far inland every fifteen minutes.
At the first dawn of day Nelson's division advanced, and the battle
began. Fred acted as aid to Nelson, and as the general watched him as he
rode amid the storm of bullets unmoved he would say to those around him:
"Just see that boy; there is the making of a hero."
About eleven o'clock one of Nelson's brigades made a most gallant
charge. Wheeling to the right, the brigade swept the Confederate line
for more than half a mile. Before them the enemy fled, a panic-stricken
mob. A battery was run over as though the guns were blocks of wood,
instead of iron-throated monsters vomiting forth fire and death. In the
thickest of the fight, Fred noticed Robert Marsden, the betrothed of
Mabel Vaughn, cheering on his men.
"Ah!" thought Fred, "he is worthy of Mabel. May his life be spared to
make her happy."
On, on swept the brigade; a second battery was reached, and over one of
the guns he saw Marsden fighting like a tiger. Then the smoke of battle
hid him from view.
On the left Fred saw a mere boy spring from out an Indiana regiment,
shoot down a Confederate color-bearer, snatch the colors from his dying
grasp, wave them defiantly in the face of the enemy, and then coolly
walk back to his place in the ranks.
General Nelson saw the act, and turning to Fred, said: "I want you to
hunt that boy up, and bring him to me after the battle."
But the brigade paid dearly for its daring charge. A strong line, lying
down, let the frightened fugitives pass over them; then they arose and
poured a deadly volley into the very faces of the charging column.
Cannon in front and on the flank tore great gaps through the line. The
brigade halted, wavered, and then fled wildly back, leaving a third of
its number dead and wounded.
By three o'clock the battle was over; the Confederates were in full
retreat, and the bloody field of Shiloh won.
As the firing died away, Fred sat on his horse and shudderingly surveyed
the field. The muddy ground was trampled as by the feet of giants. The
forest was shattered as by ten thousand thunderbolts, while whole
thickets had been leveled, as though a huge jagged scythe had swept over
them.
By tree and log, in every thicket, on every hillside, dotting every
field, lay the dead and wounded. Many of the dead were crushed out of
all semblance of humanity, trampled beneath the hoof of the warhorse or
ground beneath the ponderous wheels of the artillery. Over 20,000 men
lay dead and wounded, Confederate and Federal commingled.
But Grant's army was saved. The fondest hopes of the Confederates had
been blasted; instead of marching triumphantly forward to Nashville, as
they hoped, they retreated sullenly back to Corinth.
But the battle brought the war to the hearts of the people as it had
never been brought before. From the stricken homes of the North and the
South there arose a great wail of agony--a weeping for those who would
not return.