I Want to See a Battle: A Hoosier at Shiloh

Writing in his diary, Private Manius Buchanan of the 29th Indiana recalled the eagerness with which his regiment marched towards Savannah, Tennessee with the sounds of the battle of Shiloh ringing in their ears.

          “The forced march was kept up until 2 p.m. when we were halted until 4 p.m,” he noted. “The rest was really needed, but the continual question is ‘Why are we stopped here?’ The sound of battle increased in volume and anxiety to be up and doing grows more intense. As I am weak from a late sickness, I am urged to fall to the rear; but no, in common with all, I want to see a battle and fear this will be my only chance.”

The regiment would go into action the following afternoon, and of the four neighborhood boys who had enlisted together in Co. B, only Buchanan escaped unscathed. One afternoon's exposure to the horrors of battle was all it took to satisfy this Hoosier's desire to see the elephant. “I wanted to see a battle. I am satisfied. I don’t want to see any more. One such victory is enough for a lifetime,” he concluded.

Buchanan would only serve a few more months with the 29th Indiana before being discharged for disability. He later served as a captain in the 118th Indiana and after the war, moved to Portland, Oregon. The local newspaper, the Portland Oregonian, published his diary in its April 8, 1902, edition marking the 40th anniversary of the battle.

 

          Forty years ago last Sunday morning April 6, the battle of Shiloh was ushered in with the rising sun. Believing that a quotation from my diary, written at the time, will be of special interest to some of your readers, I will copy it here. I will state that I was in McCook’s division of Buell’s column and at this time we were executing a hard march from Nashville via Columbia to join Grant’s forces at Savannah or somewhere else on the Tennessee River. The weather had been quite hot and the roads very dusty so much so that we were exhausted…

 

Private Manius Buchanan of Co. B, 29th Indiana in his officer's uniform while serving as a captain in the 118th Indiana Infantry. 

April 6, 1862: Heard the cannons open roar early in the morning. This is a very beautiful, bright Sunday morning. Upon such mornings as this, in times past, we delighted in answer to musical bells to wend our way to some house of worship; but these sounds indicate that some at least will spend this Lord’s day in a vastly different way.

          The cannonading is away in the southwest; it must be that Grant is over there. We started early and marched as usual until 10 o’clock when we obeyed with alacrity and enthusiastic shouts the order ‘Unsling knapsacks and prepare for a forced march!’ The cannonading is heavier and I think I can hear the roll of musketry. There is evidently something serious ahead.

          The forced march was kept up until 2 p.m. when we were halted until 4 p.m. The rest was really needed, but the continual question is ‘Why are we stopped here?’ The sound of battle increased in volume and anxiety to be up and doing grows more intense. As I am weak from a late sickness, I am urged to fall to the rear; but no, in common with all, I want to see a battle and fear this will be my only chance.

          The march resumed at 4 p.m. and we arrived at Savannah on the Tennessee River at 8 p.m. We have marched 20 miles today and from the heat, dust, and excitement we are all tired. We stood around in the streets in a pouring rain without other covering than the sheets of water until 2 a.m., when we were marched aboard a boat where we hoped to get a little rest and sleep preparatory for what the morrow may bring forth. All day long, the roar of battle has been borne to our ears, growing louder and more fearful as the day advanced and we came nearer the scene of strife. In the morning, we were about 25 miles away, now we are 9 miles distant.

          Late in the afternoon, a new sound was added to the cannonade- a shrill ‘b-i-n-g’ that has the sound of metal in it. We are informed that this is the music of the gunboats. That sound yet occasionally wakes the echoes of the night. Words cannot express the feelings within us throughout this day of extreme anxiety and burning desire to be present and take a hand in the fray. How we should have liked to shouted over to Grant’s men, ‘Be of good cheer, for we are coming 40,000 strong!’

          Now good diary, this may be the very last time I will ever take you in hand; if so, I want you to be the messenger to carry my last farewell to all my friends everywhere. Say to mother and sweetheart that their names are the last that my lips shall utter. A soldier’s life seems the cheapest thing out. Nobody seems to value it- not even the possessors. We lie down upon our hard bed, the floor, and go peacefully to sleep with scarcely a thought of the morrow, although after this quiet rest, we expect a harvest of death and many victims of the sickle will strew the ground. If I am one of them, farewell to all.

 

Colonel Edward N. Kirk of the 34th Illinois led Buchanan's brigade at Shiloh which consisted of Kirk's own regiment, the 29th Indiana, 30th Indiana, and 77th Pennsylvania. These four regiments would serve together throughout much the war. Kirk would be wounded at Shiloh and mortally wounded at Stones River, in both cases Colonel Joseph Dodge of the 30th Indiana assumed brigade command. 

April 8, 1862: Yesterday there was neither time nor inclination to write. I cannot tell even my diary what took place yesterday. No one sees a battle. I scarcely think anyone knows just what he does in a battle. Maybe others do not get rattled as I did. I can give only the slightest outline of the little part I took in the day’s events.

          As soon as it was light enough, our boat took its slow way up the river. We arrived at Pittsburg Landing at 7 a.m. and here we found an immense jam of demoralized stragglers, estimated at 10,000 men, crowding the little hillside from the top to the water’s edge, apparently the only place safe from the flying missiles of death. We were ordered to go to the top of the hill, about 75 yards from the boat, and form in line. A few hearts failed and joined the skulkers.

          We marched back into the edge of a wood and ate our breakfast which consisted of a single cracker sandwich and a cup of coffee. These sandwiches were made by two crackers, the Army cracker is two inches square, and putting a thin, small piece of raw ham between them. Stray bullets were whistling around. Although this kind of music was new to us, yet no one seemed to pay any attention to it. The only unsatisfactory thing about the meal was its small quantity. After dispatching our meal, we marched toward the fighting line, passing through an undulating, sparsely timbered country. There had been considerable undergrowth but that was principally mowed off by the bullets. It looked to an unsophisticated spectator as if it would be quite impossible for men to remain alive where nearly all the small brush was cut down, yet they had. The larger timber looks as if it had been passed through a cyclone of leaden hail. I counted as many as 70 ball holes in a tree, and some quite large branches were entirely cut off.

          Being in the rear, I had good opportunity to look around. My attention was early called to the dead. The difference between the Union and Rebel dead was very marked. The Union dead had the usual hue while the faces of the Rebel dead had turned quite dark, giving them a vindictive look. I am informed that this was caused by them drinking whiskey and powder. The Union men put the powder in their guns.

Buchanan's division commander
General Alexander McDowell McCook

          I discovered among the dead a fine specimen of young manhood, yet in his teens, with the breath of life in him. He was lying with his head in a rivulet. I went to him, raised him gently, and carried him to higher ground then fixed him as comfortably as I could against the roots of a tree. I now gave him a drink of water and he soon revived enough to talk to me. His first question was ‘Will I live?’ Here was the saddest duty of my young life. Looking down into that noble young face, it was hard for me to say what duty demanded of me to say. ‘I fear not, you appear to be shot through the heart.’ He then gave me his mother’s address, some tender messages, a testament, etc. I now told him that I had done all I could for him, must hasten to join my company, and the ambulance corps would soon take care of him. Today, I have done all he requested of me. (Note: I afterward learned that he had lived seven days with a ball hole through the lower part of his heart; he was taken up into Illinois and that in his last moments he was ministered to be a loving mother.)

          When I overtook the regiment, it was halted on the reserve line. We were ordered to lie down. After a while, I got restless and wanted to see around. So, with Simon Trego, I got up to see better. Directly we saw a blue streak coming towards us: it was a cannon ball. Although we could see it, we had no time to even think, much less move. It came under the log behind which and just where we had been lying, struck Trego’s gun which stood on the ground between us, shattered it to splinters, the splinters tearing the clothing and flesh of Trego’s leg into shreds. I caught Trego and assisted him to the rear and turned him over to the ambulance corps. Poor Trego! The first man shot in our command and sent to the rear so soon. He will always regret not seeing the fun. But here was a lucky escape. Had we been obeying orders and lying down, one or both of us would likely have been killed.

          About 10 o’clock we were ordered forward. We marched out into an open field, halted, and reformed under a tremendous hail of all the missiles of death ever invented and were then ordered to charge into a ravine filled with Rebels. We charged all right but were soon compelled to fall back again. We kept a good alignment while charging, but when we commenced to fall back, I am sorry to say that some hurried too much. We faced about after crossing the field mentioned, and soon crossed it a third time, not to stop until the enemy was in full retreat.

The battle was over by 4 p.m. and then we had the opportunity to pull ourselves together, see where we were at, and see who was left. Of the four neighbor boys who left home together, Jacob Odel is shot through the right knee (died soon after), Daniel Rager is shot through the thigh, William Chasey is slightly wounded, and I alone am untouched. When the excitement died out, we realized for the first time today that we were hungry-mighty hungry. Practically without breakfast, and no time to think of dinner, with the most exhausting labor, it is small wonder that we were played out.

In making our first charge, our company passed through a pond of water. I recollect seeing the balls glancing on the water, but I had no realization of being wet. This shows how completely our whole being was absorbed by the terrible contest going on around us. After resting a little while, we marched back near the landing and went into camp. By some means, hardtack, coffee, and pork was dug up and our most pressing want was relieved. Men tumbled down here and there to talk over the events of the day and, exhausted, soon surrendered to the arms of Morpheus.

But I could not rest until I had hunted up my wounded comrades and knew that they were as comfortable as was possible under the circumstances. It was near midnight before I could relieve myself from duty. We still had no tents or blankets, and the rain was coming down by the bucketful. I found a caisson with a tarpaulin over it. I dared not take the tarpaulin off the caisson, but I did lift a corner of it and hunker down against a wheel. I stayed there until morning but I did not rest much.

This morning, we fell in and marched 5 or 6 miles and apparently waited for orders to follow up the Rebels, but instead we returned to the former camp. The next duty was to bury the dead. I am not on the detail, so will get to take a much-needed rest. I wanted to see a battle. I am satisfied. I don’t want to see any more. One such victory is enough for a lifetime.

Source:

“The Battle of Shiloh: Mr. Buchanan’s Vivid Story of Personal Experiences,” Diary account of Private Manius Buchanan, Co. B, 29th Indiana Volunteer Infantry, Portland Oregonian (Oregon), April 8, 1902, pg. 12

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