The Hornet's Nest

--Sunrise--

Reveille had already been called, morning roll call attended, and most men had already set to frying up some salted pork for breakfast.  A few scattered regiments, most of them new to battle --fresh units that had arrived after Fort Donelson-- were drilling off in the distance.  What ignorant bugler was playing revellie again?  Was he deaf? Maybe dumb. Both, most probably.  An officer was debating with himself,  --as he did most every morning-- deciding whether or not he should bother shaving.  He sighed. He'd rather save the water for his canteen and deal with the itch. An artillerist was just about to worm the bore of his crew's gun again when he heard a familiar, low, rumbling far away.  Every veteran ear in camp perked up.  Sergeants shouted orders, Colonels climbed onto their mounts; most men just grabbed their cartridge pouches and slung them on.  Before the green men knew what to ask, a battery opened fire, plastering the camp with shot and shell.

A dispatch rider carrying a report that the pickets had been smashed rushed through the lines.  As if anyone couldn't hear the firing now.  The division commander threw his brigades into a makeshift line, strengthening it with regiments as they became available.  Some heard mention that Shiloh Church was the rally point.  The Alamo.  A private wondered what his minister might have thought about artillery parked on a church lawn.  No matter.  There was no time for that.  The firing was getting steadier, heavier.  The line lurched and snaked it's way over the low hill in view of the Church.  When they crested the rise, they immediately received fire, and casualties.  The gunners were doing their best to ready the guns.  They had been covered, parked; no one had expected a battle today, and especially not this early.  They pushed and pulled the carriages into position with nothing more than manpower.  The lines kept moving forward under fire until they hesitated at the distant sight of movement in the treeline ahead.  Cavalry. They must have been screening the main force. 

The advance line was getting anxious.  Nothing was harder on the nerves than moving under artillery fire without being able to do anything about it.  But at least the damn red legs could reply to the rebs! They were sure taking their time.  Finally....the artillerists managed to manhandle the guns to the crest and ram some shells home.  With an ear shattering tear, the entire gun line opened fire in unison.  The infantrymen in front eased their clenched teeth a little.  At least the secesh were getting as good as they gave.  The gunners worked themselves into a good cadence, establishing a rhythm; their weapons thundered in response to the enemy's. 

The lines of blue were driven ever forward by their officers.  Better to engage the enemy as far out from the church as possible.  The forward regiments quickly made it too hot for the cavalry screen.  With the supporting artillery's help, the horsemen were driven off.  The brigade in the center had to keep moving or seek defilade.  It was absorbing too much fire and there wouldn't be anybody left if they had much further to go. They didn't.  The enemy artillery slackened some; the temporary silence was pierced by the spine tingling, banshee wail of the rebel yell.

The masses of butternut crested the rise and made straight for the center.  They were greeted by the Union men, and their minié balls too.  They poured it on...and on.  The manual of arms, the procedure for reloading that they had repeated so many times and thought silly, came like second nature to them.  Their training did have a purpose.  They reloaded as fast as their shaking hands could grip their cartridges. They knew well the salty taste of gunpowder, familiar from tearing the cartridge open with their teeth.  Most tried not to think of the fact that they were being shot at.  If one didn't see it happening, it might not be.  Look down and at your weapon.  Only look up when you had to fire.  Less frightening that way.  Most could repeat the motion with their eyes closed, some did.

The whole area, miles around, shook with the din of battle joined.  The center was getting it's share.  The bullets sailed back and forth with a hum and whizz, audible, like the sound of an angry hornet's nest that some poor soul had kicked.  The Confederates dispersed their artillery; a battery here, a battery there.  They moved a good portion to the left flank to support a massed thrust.  That, and a concerted cavalry charge on the right pushed both Union flanks back, back...slowly, but surely back.

The center groaned under the pressure.  The line was just too thin.  Not enough...not enough.  The division on the left bent, and then broke.  The bluecoats ran like hell in the face of the inexorable march of the gray wave.  A regiment of regulars made a valiant last stand in the center before being surrounded, and annihilated, when they turned down the rebel colonels pleading offer of quarter.

The rebs were within sight of Shiloh's steeple.   They "had the scare on" and were giving every ounce of energy they had to push home their advantage.  Perhaps they were too audacious.  The leading regiments were wiped away with massed canister; the survivors filtering back through the files of the oncoming regiments.  A pause...the sound of horses whinnying and orders being shouted; and then with a crash the storm broke on the artillery positions.  A regiment of rebel Zouaves got amongst the guns on the far right, and cavalry broke through the center, ending the engagement.  The Union army in tatters flowed back some distance.  The day was late, and the rebels couldn't finish the job.  They were exhausted -hell, everyone was exhausted--, and it was simply beyond human endurance to continue the fight that day.  Men fell asleep where their bodies landed, ditches and open ground, weapons in hand.

--Later That Night--

At camp, a brigadier general who had commanded a brigade on the right, approached the army's commander who was sitting on a tree stump near a campfire.  "Well, we've sure had the devil's own today, haven't we?", asked Sherman.  "Yes", Grant replied, and then puffed his cigar. "Lick 'em tomorrow though."