It is now move ing [sic]—a beautiful Sabbath morning. The
dews have gone to heaven and the stars have gone to God; the sky is all inlaid
with crimson, far away to the east. From behind the eastern hills the sun is
peering; it is moving on its path. But ere it has long illumed the sky, war's
dread tocsin is heard; the sullen roar of artillery breaks upon our ears,
telling to us that the storm-king of battle would ride upon the banks of the
Tennessee to-day. The army of the Tennessee springs to arms to meet the advancing
columns of Albert Sidney Johnson. The pennons are now flying. Major Rowett and
the Seventh are quickly buckled for the conflict. Her old, tattered and shot-riven
flag goes flying through the woods, and the regiment is soon in the conflict.
Their position is now behind a rail fence. Oh! the angry tempest that rolls
around here! Belching cannons, shotted to the muzzle, are now plowing deep
lanes in the Union ranks. How can we describe the sound of a storm of grape and
canister, cutting their hellish paths through serried ranks of human beings. It
is impossible. Many are the storms flying around the Seventh now. Thicker and
faster they come, but those noble men who bore that riddled flag over Fort
Donelson's walls, struggle on. Many have breathed quickly, and, trampled under
their comrades' feet, have rolled in bloody agonies and now lie in quiet
eternal slumber. The mighty armies are now struggling—struggling desperately
for the life or death of a nation.
Fiercer and fiercer
rages the battle. The great Grant is moving on the field with a mighty power.
But fearful odds are against us, and the army of the Tennessee is compelled to
yield position after position. The Seventh has been forced to yield many points
to-day; at one time being so far in the advance, we were left without support,
and had it not been for the quick perception of our gallant Major, we would
have been cut off and captured. Forming columns by divisions, we retreated from
our critical position, and were compelled to fall back across an open field. It
was a trying time. The harsh, fierce barking of the dogs of war made the earth
tremble, as if in the midst of a convulsion. But there was no confusion in the
Seventh-no panic there. Led by the brave Rowett, they moved firmly, as if to
say, that shot-pierced flag, tattered and torn, shall not go down to-day. Major
Rowett, with the aid of Captain Monroe, acting Major now form a new line with
the Seventh. War's ruthless machine is moving with a relentless force.
It is now past noon.
Confusion reigns; brave men are falling like rain drops. All seems dark—seems
that the Union army will be crushed by this wild sweep of treason. But on the
crippled army of the Tennessee struggles; they still keep the flag up. It is
now four o'clock. Step by step the army is being driven back towards the river.
The old Union banner seems to be drooping in the wrathful storm, but by an
almost superhuman effort the tide is checked. For a while there is a lull in
the battle, but only to make preparations for the last desperate assault-an
assault in which the enemy expect to see the old flag come down to their feet.
Buell is said to be
approaching; he is hourly expected. Grant is now seen moving with a care-worn
countenance, He moves amid the carnage to form his last grand line one-fourth
mile from the Tennessee, where the advance is now driven. Grant's last line is
formed. It is a line of iron, a line of steel, a wall of stout hearts, as firm,
as powerful as Napoleon under like reverses ever formed in the days of his
imperial power. It seems almost impossible for such a line to be formed at this
hour 50 compact. On every available spot of earth an iron-lipped monster
frowns. It is a trying moment, for Grant knows and his army knows that should
this line be broken, the battle would be lost and the proud flag would be
compelled to fall. At half-past four o'clock Grant dashes through the woods.
His voice rings out: “They come! they come! Army of the Tennessee stand firm!”
A breathless silence pervades these serried ranks, until broken by the
deafening crash of artillery. The last desperate struggle on Sunday evening now
commences. One hundred brazen guns are carrying terror and death across
Shiloh's plain. The Seventh is at its place; every officer and soldier is at
his post; Rowett and Monroe are at their stations, now on foot; (Rowett's horse
killed in former charge; Monroe's disabled.) All the company officers are in
their places, cheering and encouraging their gallant men, and as we gaze upon
the bristling bayonets that are gleaming along the Seventh's line, we know that
every brawny arm that is beneath them will be bared to shield the old flag. The
infantry are clashing now, but this line of stout hearts stands firm. The
traitor hosts grow desperate; the earth trembles; the sun is hid behind the
wrathful smoke, but amid all the deafening battle elements of the darkened
field, the flag and its defenders stand. Down beneath its shadow brave men are
falling to close their eyes in glory. The storm still increases in its sweeping
power. About five o'clock the issue becomes doubtful; each seems to hold the
balance, and like Napoleon at Waterloo, who prayed that night or Blucher
would come, so we prayed that night or the army of Ohio would come.
About this time, Albert Sidney Johnson poured out his life-blood upon the altar
of a vain ambition. At that fatal hour the enemy's lines waver, and the sun
goes down with the army of the Tennessee standing victorious on their last
great line.
Night comes, and
with it Buell comes, but only in time to witness the closing scene on Sunday
evening. We thanked God for the arrival of the army of the Ohio, but we never
thanked God for Don Carlos Buell when he rode across the Tennessee and spoke
lightly of the great Grant, who had successfully stemmed the wildest storm of
battle that ever rolled upon the American continent.
The sable curtains
have now fallen, closing to our eyes the terrible scene. Soon it commences to
rain. Dark, dark night for the army of the Tennessee. Many brave men are
sleeping silently. They have fought their last battle. Fearful, desolating war
has done a desperate work. Noble men have thrown themselves into the dread
ordeal, and passed away. The human pen will fail to picture the battle-field of
Shiloh as it presented itself on Sunday night. The Seventh, tired and almost
exhausted, drops down on the ground, unmindful of the falling rain, to rest
themselves. Ere it was noon some of the Seventh had already lain down to rest,
and ere it was night others laid down, but it was an eternal rest-the soldier's
last slumber. Disastrous war has wrapped its winding sheet around the cold form
of many a fond mother's boy, and before many days there will be weeping in the
lonely cottage homes; weeping for the loved and lost who are now sleeping
beneath the tall oaks on the banks of the Tennessee. About the noble men of the
Seventh who fell to-day, we will speak hereafter; we shall not forget them. How
could we forget them, when they have played their part so well in the great
tragedy?
SOURCES: Daniel Leib Ambrose, History
of the Seventh Regiment Illinois Volunteer Infantry, p. 49-54
