 During the initial assault, on the morning of April 6th, Confederate Private Henry Morton Stanley was hit. He was lucky, in that the bullet was stopped by the buckle of his belt so he was only stunned. But what followed was a transformative moment for him that, I think, likely translates to any number of soldiers on the battlefield at Shiloh that day. I'm going to let him tell the story after he recovered from the hit, quote. I could not have been many minutes prostrated before I recovered from the shock of the blow and fall to find my clasp deeply dented and cracked. My company was not in sight. I was grateful for the rest and crawled feebly to a tree and plunging my hand into my haversack, ate ravenously. Within half an hour, feeling renovated, I struck north in the direction which my regiment had taken over a ground, strewn with bodies and the debris of war. The desperate character of this day's battle was now brought home to my mind in all its awful reality. The ghastly relics appalled every sense. I felt curious as to who the fallen greys were and moved one stretch straight out. It was the body of a stout English sergeant of a neighboring company. At the crossing of the Arkansas River this plump, ruddy-phased man had been conspicuous for his complexion, jovial features, and good humor, and had been nicknamed John Bull. He was now lifeless and lay with his eyes wide open, regardless of the scorching sun and the tempestuous cannonade which sounded through the forest and the musketry that crackled incessantly along the front. Close by him was a young lieutenant who, judging by the new gloss on his uniform, must have been some father's darling. A clean bullet-hole through the center of his forehead had instantly ended his career. A little further were some twenty bodies lying in various postures, each by its own pool of viscous blood which emitted a peculiar scent which was new to me, but which I have since learned is inseparable from the battlefield. Beyond these, a still larger group lay, body overlying body, knees crooked, arms erect or wide-stretched and rigid, according as the last spasm overtook them. The company opposed to them must have shot straight. Other details of that ghastly trail formed a mass of whores that will always be remembered at the mention of Shiloh. I can never forget the impression those wide-open, dead eyes made on me. Each seemed to be starting out of its socket, with a look similar to the fixed, wondering gaze of an infant, as though the dying had viewed something appalling at the last moment. An object once seen, if it has affected my imagination, remains indelibly fixed in my memory. And among many other scenes with which it is now crowded, I cannot forget that half-mile square of woodland, lighted brightly by the sun and littered by the forms of about a thousand dead and wounded men, and by horses and military equipment. It formed a picture that may always be reproduced with an almost absolute fidelity, for it was the first field of glory I had seen in my life, and the first time that glory sickened me with its repulsive aspect, and made me suspect it was all a glittering lie. I'm Chris Calton, and this is the Mises Institute podcast, Historical Controversies. Today's episode is going to be something a little bit different. And feel free to let me know if you like this kind of episode or not, because it pretty much grew spontaneously and unplanned, so I don't know whether or not I'll do more like it, but I don't want to rule it out. But today, with the help of Professor CJ from the Dangerous History podcast, we will be telling the stories of two soldiers who served in the Battle of Shiloh. The lives and deaths of officers, like Albert Sidney Johnston or William H. L. Wallace, are far more likely to make the history books than the experiences of a private. But these are the experiences that the vast majority of participants shared. Because these first-hand accounts were so beautifully written, CJ and I have decided to tell the story in the first person. We will mostly be using direct quotes from their own voice, and in the occasions that we paraphrase anything, we believed it would be best to stay in the first person voice so we don't have to interrupt the narrative to indicate when we're quoting directly, which will be the vast majority of what you hear. The story I'll be telling is that of Henry Morton Stanley, a 21-year-old Confederate soldier. Stanley is an interesting character, to say the least. He was born in Wells, where he lived a rough life as an orphan, and he moved to the United States in 1859. After the Civil War, he would earn fame in Africa. When Dr. David Livingston was sent to explore the Nile River, he was unheard of for some years and Stanley was sent to find him, and according to legend, when Stanley finally found Dr. Livingston, he famously said, Dr. Livingston, I presume? Although the line is famous, it's unlikely this is actually how the two were introduced to each other, but in either case, Stanley became a well-known figure. He also, more controversially, served as an agent of Belgium's King Leopold during the brutal colonization of the Congo, infamous even by the standards of 19th century African colonization. But at the Battle of Shiloh, he was just a 21-year-old private in a Confederate army. CJ will be telling the story of a 16-year-old Union soldier named John Cockrell. Cockrell would not become as famous as Henry Morton Stanley, but his life after the war mirrored Stanley in many ways. Cockrell also grew up to become a journalist, and he also traveled to and wrote about Africa. He actually died in Cairo, Egypt, in fact, where he was working for the New York Herald. Also as professional writers, both men offer vivid accounts of their experiences. As a result, we'll be letting them tell their own stories far more than I typically do when I'm weaving soldier testimonies into my battlefield narratives. Their testimonies span the course of the battle, tying in with the events I've already summarized in the previous episodes. But our focus today is not on the events, but rather the experience that these two soldiers and countless others like them went through over the course of the war. This episode is really more than the story of two soldiers or one battle. It's the story of how so many soldiers on both sides of the conflict learned that everything they had been told about, the glory of war, was, as Stanley so eloquently put it, all a glittering lie. This is CJ Kilmer of the Dangerous History Podcast, and I'm going to be telling you the story of the Battle of Shiloh as experienced by a young Ohio soldier named John Cockrell. My name is John Cockrell. In the spring of 1862, I was a 16-year-old musician in the 25th Ohio Volunteer Regiment. I've often thought about what a funny sort of soldier I must have looked like at the time. My uniforms never fit right. My sleeves and pant legs were always too long, so I had to cut the pant legs to shorten them and roll my sleeves up. My brother was an officer in the 25th Ohio as well. In 1861, I'd seen a little bit of battle in Western Virginia, but it had been nothing like what was to come in April of 1862. Towards the end of 1861, my regiment was transferred to Kentucky to become part of the Union Army of the Ohio that was then being put together under general Buell. Initially, we ended up in Paducah, Kentucky, but I took ill on the way. Because of my sickness, I ended up under the care of my own father, who was at the time the commander of a different Ohio regiment, the 70th. The 70th was part of the army that was then being put together by William DeCumseh Sherman. When I began to recover from my illness, I asked to join my own regiment. But General Sherman said that his army would soon be meeting up with Buells, and that in the meantime, my father would undoubtedly provide me with better care than I would get with the 25th. So I'd as well stay with the 70th for now, and proceed with Sherman's army up the Tennessee River until we rendezvoused with the 25th. So that was how, on the Sunday morning of April 6, 1862, I found myself in the battle that would come to be known to history by the name of a church built of logs that stood on the right side of the Union line. That church's name was, of course, Shiloh. My regiment was just beginning breakfast when we were startled by shots caused by Confederates who were approaching our picket lines. And before long, we heard full-on volleys being fired. The 70th Ohio, which at the time consisted mostly of raw recruits, began forming up to fight. I left my breakfast and found my father, whom I found in his tent. In the process of putting on his sword, my first heroic act of the day was to grab a stunningly beautiful Enfield rifle, which my father had set aside when his regiment was being issued their weapons, because of its unusual, gorgeous, curly maple stock, which, of course, stood out from the rest of the rifles in the lot, which were much more mundane in appearance. I'd carried that rifle before and had 20 rounds of ammunition for it in a borrowed cartridge box. By the time I had my kit strapped on and had stepped outside of the tent, bullets and shells were flying all around us, and my father was already mounted on his horse. He said a quick goodbye and hurried off to lead his men. I was very unsure what exactly to do. At first, I headed over to the church. The battle was already growing intense to my right and to my front and left, but one of the most beautiful pageants I ever saw in the war was unfolding. In the middle of thick woods and undergrowth, there was a partial clearing, what is known as a deadening. A vast, open, unfenced district, grown up with rank-dry grass, dotted here and there with blasted trees, as though some farmer had determined to clear a farm for himself and had abandoned the undertaking in disgust. From out of the edge of this deadening came regiment after regiment and brigade after brigade of the Confederate troops. The sun was just rising in their front and the glittering of their arms and equipment made a gorgeous spectacle for me. On the farther edge of this opening, two brigades of Sherman's command were drawn up to receive the onslaught. As the Confederates moved into this field, they poured out their deadly fire and, half obscured by their smoke, they advanced as they fired. My position behind the old log church was a good one for observation. The splendid soldier erected his saddle, his eye bent forward, looked a veritable war eagle, and I knew history was being made in that immediate neighborhood. From nearby, some of our artillery came up and began to fiercely duel with advancing rebel artillery. And in this exchange, the Rebs quickly got the better of the contest and the Union batteries soon retreated. At this point, the enemy was closing in on my left and I realized that the old log structure of the church would provide very little in the way of real cover. So, using the intermittent tree line as much as I could for a little bit of concealment, I headed back toward the 70th Ohio's headquarters. There, everything was chaos. As I stood there, debating in my mind whether to join my father's command or continue my independent action, three men approached, carrying a badly wounded officer in a blanket. They asked for my assistance and, as my place was really with the hospital corps, being officially a musician, and therefore technically a noncombatant, I did comply with their request. We carried the poor fellow some distance to the rear, through a thick wood and found there a scene of disorder, or more accurately, I should say, downright panic. Men were fleeing about in every direction, commissary wagons were struggling through the underbrush, and the roads were packed, fleeing men and wagons carrying all manner of baggage, ammunition and provisions of the army. Finding one mostly empty wagon, we placed that wounded officer inside and then left at liberty. I started on down toward the Tennessee River. I'd gone probably less than a mile when I encountered General MacArthur's Illinois Highland Brigade, an outfit of veterans easily recognizable by their distinctive Scottish caps. They appeared to be ready, even eager for battle, but were apparently waiting on orders. They gave every appearance of knowing what they were about, steadiness and confidence, that stood in stark contrast to what I'd seen so far from the other Union troops in this engagement. As I approached, a young lieutenant of the Highland Brigade asked me, where do you belong? I belong to Ohio, was my reply. Well, Ohio is making a bad show of itself here today, he said. I have seen stragglers from a dozen Ohio regiments going past here for half an hour. Ohio expects better work from her sons than this. I admit my state pride was strongly painted hearing this. Do you wanna come fight with us, he said? I said that I would. He asked me my name and also whether I had any friends on the field. I gave him my father's name and regiment and saw him make a careful entry in a little notebook, which he afterward placed in a coat pocket, as he rather sympathetically informed me that he would see, in case anything should happen to me, that my friends should know of it. That was how I became temporarily attached to Company B of the 9th Illinois Regiment, MacArthur's Brigade. This was the first time in my admittedly short time as a soldier that I was with a unit in which I knew not a single man, and I must admit it was disorienting, especially considering this was quickly shaping up to be the most momentous engagement I'd seen. On April 2nd, 1862, we received orders to prepare three days cooked rations. Through some misunderstanding, we did not set out until the 4th, and on the morning of that day, the 6th Arkansas Regiment of Hinman's Brigade Party's Corps marched from Corinth to take part in one of the bloodiest battles of the West. We left our knapsacks and tents behind us. After two days of marching and two nights of bivouacking and living on cold rations, our spirits were not so buoyant at dawn of Sunday, the 6th of April, as they ought to have been for the serious task before us. Many wished, like myself, that we had not been required to undergo this discomfort before being precipitated into the midst of a great battle. Generals Johnston and Beauregard proposed a hurl into the Tennessee River, an army of nearly 50,000 rested and well-fed union troops by means of 40,000 Confederate soldiers, who for two days had subsisted on sodden biscuit and raw bacon, who had been exposed for two nights to rain and dew, and had marched 23 miles. At four o'clock in the morning on April 6th, we rose from our damp bivouac, and after a hasty refreshment, we were formed into a line. We stood in rank for half an hour or so, while the military dispositions were being completed along the three-mile front. Our brigade formed at the center. Clayborns and Gladden's brigades were on our respective flanks. Day broke with every promise of a fine day. Next to me, on my right, is a boy of 17, Henry Parker. I remember it because while we stood at ease, he drew my attention to some violets at his feet and said, it would be a good idea to put a few into my cap. Perhaps the Yanks won't shoot me if they see me wearing such flowers, for they are a sign of peace. Capital, said I, I will do the same. We plucked a bunch in a range to the violets in our caps. The men in the ranks laughed at our proceedings, and had not the enemy been so near, their merry mood might have been communicated to the army. Once the line was ready, we started our march toward the enemy. Before we had gone 500 paces, our serenity was disturbed by some desultery firing in our front. It was then a quarter past five. They're at it already, we whispered to each other. Stand by gentlemen, said our captain, LG Smith. Our steps became unconsciously brisker and alertness was noticeable in everybody. The firing continued at intervals, deliberate and scattered as at target practice. We drew near to the firing and soon a sharper rattling of musketry was heard. That is the enemy waking up, we said. Within a few minutes, there was another explosive burst of musketry. The air was pierced by many missiles, which hummed and pinched sharply by our ears, patterned through the treetops and brought twigs and leaves down on us. Those are bullets, Henry whispered with awe. There they are, was no sooner uttered than we cracked into them with leveled muskets. Aim low, men, commanded Captain Smith. I tried hard to see some living thing to shoot at for it appeared absurd to be blazing away at shadows. But still advancing, firing as we moved, I at last saw a row of little globes of pearly smoke streaked with crimson, breaking out with spurred of quickness from a long line of bluey figures in front. And simultaneously, there broke upon our ears an appalling crash of sound. The series of fuselods following one another with startling suddenness, like a mountain upheaved with huge rocks tumbling and thundering down a slope and the echoes rumbling and receding through space. Again and again, these loud and quick explosions were repeated, seemingly with increased violence until they rose to the highest pitch of fury and in unbroken continuity. All the world seemed involved in one tremendous ruin. This was how the conflict was ushered in as it affected me. I looked around to see the effect on others or whether I was singular in my emotions and was glad to notice that each was possessed with his own thoughts. All were pale, solemn, and absorbed. By transmission of sympathy, I felt that they would gladly prefer to be elsewhere, though the law of the inevitable kept them in line to meet their destiny. Replied our arms, loaded and fired with such nervous haste as though it depended on each of us how soon this fiendish uproar would be hushed. My nerves tingled, my pulses beat double quick, my heart throbbed loudly and almost painfully. But amid all the excitement, my thoughts, swift as the flash of lightning, took all sound and sight and self into their purview. I listened to the battle raging far away on the flanks, to the thunder in front, to the various sounds made by the leaden storm. I was angry with my rear rank because he made my eyes smart with the powder of his musket and I felt like cuffing him for deafening my ears. After a steady exchange of musketry which lasted some time, we heard the order. Fix bayonets on the double quick in tones that thrilled us. There was a simultaneous bound forward, each soul doing its best for the emergency. The federal's appeared inclined to await us, but at this juncture, our men raised a yell. Thousands responded to it and burst out into the wildest yelling it has ever been my lot to hear. It drove all sanity and order from among us. It served the double purpose of relieving pent-up fillings and transmitting encouragement along the attacking line. I rejoiced in the shouting like the rest. It reminded me that there were about 400 companies like the Dixie Greys who shared our feelings. Most of us, engrossed with the musket work, had forgotten the fact, but the wave after wave of human voices louder than all other battle sounds together penetrated to every sense and stimulated our engines to the utmost. They fly, was echoed from lip to lip and accelerated our pace and filled us with a noble rage. Then I knew what the Berserker passion was. It deluged us with rapture and transfigured each Southerner into an exulting victor. At such a moment, nothing could have halted us. Those savage yells and the sight of thousands of racing figures coming towards them, discomfited the blue coats. And when we arrived upon the place where they had stood, they had vanished. Then we caught sight of their beautiful array of tents before which they had made their stand after being roused from their Sunday morning sleep and huddled into line at hearing their pickets challenge our skirmishers. The half-dressed dead and wounded showed what a surprise our attack had been. We paused for a moment at the Union camp to catch our breath, celebrate the moment's victory and look for whatever spoils of war we could grab. But the peace didn't last long before we moved on to the next camp where we faced a hail storm of bullets and artillery fire. After being exposed for a few seconds to this fearful downpour, we heard the order to lie down, men, and continue your firing. Before me was a prostrate tree, about 15 inches in diameter, with a narrow strip of light between it and the ground. Behind the shelter, a dozen of us flung ourselves. The security it appeared to offer restored me to my individuality. We could fight and think and observe better than out in the open, but it was a terrible period. How the cannon bellowed and their shells plunged and bounded and flew with screeching hisses over us. Their sharp-rending explosions and hurtling fragments made a shrink and cower despite our utmost efforts to be cool and collected. I marveled as I heard the unintermitting patter snip thud and hum of the bullets, how anyone could live under this reigning death. I could hear the balls beating a merciless tattoo on the outer surface of the log, pinging vivaciously as they flew off at a tangent from it and thudding into something or other at the rate of a hundred a second. One here and there found its way under the log and buried itself in a comrade's body. One man raised his chest as if to yawn and jostled me. I turned to him and saw that a bullet had gored his whole face and penetrated into his chest. Another ball struck a man a deadly wrap on the head and he turned on his back and showed his ghastly white face to the sky. It is getting too warm, boys, cried his soldier, and he uttered a vehement curse upon keeping soldiers hugging the ground until every ounce of courage was chilled. He lifted his head a little too high and a bullet skimmed over the top of the log and hit him fairly in the center of his forehead and he fell heavily on his face. Cries of Ford, Ford, raised us as with a spring to our feet and changed the complexion of our feelings, the pulse of action beat feverishly once more. Just as we bent our bodies for the onset, a boy's voice cried out, oh, stop, please stop a bit. I've been hurt and can't move. I turned a look and saw Henry Parker standing on one leg and dolefully regarding his smashed foot. The violets, it seemed, did not protect him from the Yankee fire after all. Somebody yelled, Ford, Ford, don't give them breathing time and we instinctively obeyed and soon he came in clear view of the blue coats who were scornfully unconcerned at first but seeing the leaping tide of men coming on at a tremendous pace, their front dissolved and they fled in a double-quick retreat. Again we felt the glorious joy of heroes. It carried us on exultantly, rejoicing in the spirit which recognizes nothing but the prey. We were no longer an army of soldiers but so many schoolboys racing in which length of legs, wind and condition tell. We gained the second line of camps, continued to rush through them and clean beyond it. It was now about 10 o'clock, my physical powers were quite exhausted and to add to my discomforture, a bullet struck me on my belt clasp and tumbled me headlong to the ground. We waited for what seemed like eternity but which was in reality less than an hour, listening to the roaring sounds of battle waiting to be sent into it. When we were finally ordered forward we found the road clogged with the wounded and with retreating skulkers and we had to shove and weave our way through them. Initially, men of the Highland Brigade were used to plug some weak spots on the existing line and we were also employed to protect artillery batteries. The latter duty was thoroughly terrifying to me since the artillery batteries drew constant heavy fire both from enemy artillery as well as from enemy riflemen. We actually spent most of our time lying on the ground desperately trying to take advantage of what little cover we could find while we were performing this duty. It is amazing how time passes so abnormally under these sorts of circumstances. I am sure that there were occasions that morning when 20 minutes exposure to fire near these field batteries felt like it took an entire week. And everything looked weird and unnatural. The very leaves on the trees though scarcely out of bud seemed greener than I had ever seen leaves and larger. The faces of the men about me looked like no faces that I had ever seen before. Actions took on the grotesque forms of nightmares. The roar and din of the battle it all its terror outstripped my most fanciful dreams of pandemonium. The wounded and butchered men who came up out of the blue smoke in front of us and were dragged or sent hobbling to the rear seemed like bleeding messengers come to tell us of the fate that awaited us. Up till this point in the battle the outfit I was with hadn't suffered too badly but things were about to get much worse. As the day wore on we were shifted to our left. It became our duty to try to shore up the line against Confederate attempts at flaking attacks. Eventually I found myself at the extreme left flank of the entire union line after we crossed through a ravine and been ordered to form up on its far bank. Everybody at this point felt that the critical moment had come. The terrible nervous strain of that day was nothing compared with the feeling that now the time had come for us to show our metal. As I looked around at the other faces of the regiment I was with I could tell that all felt it. Every face was pale, every eye was wild, every hand was trembling involuntarily. All of us shared the same sensation that the air itself in which we were living and breathing in that spot on the battlefield was positively electrified. The enemy's approach was announced by shots from their outlying skirmishers spattering through the foliage toward us. We all held our fire not wanting to reveal our position until we were ready to launch a devastating volley. But then one man lost his nerve and fired early whether deliberately or negligently I have no idea. With a suddenness that was shocking there came from all along our front a crash of musketry and the bullets shrieked over our heads and through our ranks. Quickly we returned fire with a masked volley of our own. The fight on our far end of the line was now full on and decidedly mutual as both sides began to try to pour lead balls into each other frantically. Things quickly degenerated from at least semi-organized volleys into an uncontrolled series of firefights with haphazard rhythm or perhaps no rhythm at all really but that which was imagined onto the cacophony by my frazzled musician's brain. We were all armed with muzzle loaders. There were no breech loaders in this regiment and this meant that much of our time in the engagement was actually spent doing our best to try to complete the tedious process of reloading. All the while bullets were flying toward us and all around us, some of which of course were hitting our comrades who were starting to fall erratically. I was startled when as I took my second shot an enemy bullet hit a bush in front of me through splinters in my face and then flew audibly right over my shoulder. Somehow I managed to keep up the process of reloading and shooting despite being rattled by all this. Though I admit I am not sure at what I was shooting other than in the general direction of the approaching rebels. Through the gun smoke and foliage it was very hard to see much at all. Then it got even harder when some of the dry brush around us began to go up in flames because of all the shooting. I've often wondered since whether or not any of my musket balls that I fired in that fight hit any enemy soldiers at all. And to be honest, I do not know and never will know but I strongly doubt it. If any of them did, it was through pure blind luck and not through any deliberate intention or skill on my part. I rarely had but a fleeting glimpse of the enemy at this time and never was able to see one of them clearly enough and long enough to actually take deliberate aim and squeeze off a shot at them. And even if I had been able to do that I am sure that I wouldn't have been able to see whether or not I'd actually hit my target. Suddenly the young lieutenant who had my information in the notebook contained in his pocket and who was gallantly waving his sword in the front was struck by a bullet and fell instantly dead almost at my feet. Then it was that I realized my utter isolation and shuddered at the thought of my impending fate dead and unknown. After I recovered from the shock of being hit I looked at the massive dead bodies lying around me. Can it be, I asked myself that at the last glance they saw their own retreating souls and wondered why their caskets were left behind. My surprise was that the form we made so much of and that nothing was too good for should now be mutilated, hacked and outraged. And that the life hitherto guarded as a sacred thing and protected by the constitution, law, ministers of justice, police should have a sudden, at least before I can realize it be given up to death. An object once seen, if it has affected my imagination remains indelibly fixed in my memory and among many other scenes with which it is now crowded I cannot forget that half mile square of Woodland. Lighted brightly by the sun and littered by the forms of about a thousand dead and wounded men and by horses and military equipments it formed a picture that may always be reproduced with an almost absolute fidelity. For it was the first field of glory I had seen in my life and the first time that glory sickened me with its repulsive aspect and made me suspect it was all a glittering lie. In my imagination I saw more than it was my fate to see with my eyes for under a flag of truce I saw the bears pick up the dead from the field and lay them in long rows beside a wide trench. I saw them laid one by one close together at the bottom thankless victims of a perished cause and all their individual hopes, pride, honor, names buried under oblivious earth. My thoughts reverted to the time when these festering bodies were idolized objects of their mother's passionate love, their father standing by, half fearing to touch the fragile little things and the wings of civil law outspread to protect parents and children and their family loves their coming and going followed with pride and praise and the blessing of the almighty overshadowing all. Then as they were nearing manhood through some strange warp of society men in authority summoned them from school and shop field and farm to meet in the woods on a Sunday morning for mutual butchery with the deadliest instruments ever invented. Civil law, religion and morality complacently standing aside while 90,000 young men who had been preached and moralized to for years were let loose to engage in the carnival of slaughter. Only yesterday they professed a shutter at the word murder. Today by a strange twist in human nature they lusted to kill and were hounded on in the work of destruction by their pastors, elders, mothers and sisters. Oh for once I was beginning to know the real truth. Man was born for slaughter. All the pains taken to soothe his savage heart were unavailing. Holy words and heavenly hopes had no lasting effect on his bestial nature. For when once provoked how swiftly he flung aside the sweet hope of heaven and the dread of hell with which he amused himself in time of ease. As I moved or stricken through the fearful shambles where the dead lay as thick as the sleepers in a London park on a bank holiday, I was unable to resist the belief that my education had been in abstract things which had no relation to our animal existence. For if human life is so disparaged what has it to do with such high subjects as God, heaven and immortality and to think how devotional men and women pretended to be on a Sunday. Oh cunning, cruel man. He knew that the sum of all real knowledge and effort was to know how to kill and mangle his brothers as we were doing today. Reflecting on my emotions, I wondered if other youths would feel that they had been diluted like myself with man's fine polemics and names of things which vanished with the reality. A multitude of angry thoughts surged through me which I cannot describe in detail but they amounted to this that a cruel deception had been practiced on my blank ignorance, that my atom of imagination and filling had been darkened and that man was a pretentious creature from which I recoiled with terror and pity. He was certainly terrible and hard but he was no more to me now than a two-legged beast. He was cunning beyond finding out but his mortality was only a mask for his wolfish heart. Thus scoffing and railing at my infatuation for moral excellence as practiced by humanity, I sought to join my company in regiment. By this time, the fire from the enemy in our front, which was the division of General Hardy turning the flank of the federal position became so terrible that we were driven back into the ravine. Here, we were comparatively safe. We could load our rifles, crank up the bank of the ravine, fire and pull back into the safety of the ravine to reload. However, many unlucky men who crawled up the embankment to take a shot suddenly fell back, dead or wounded. And in one instance, as I crouched down loading my piece, a man who had been struck above me fell on top of me and died by my side. It was here in this terrible moment that I, just a 16-year-old boy, suddenly couldn't help but think of my peaceful Ohio home where a loving, anxious mother was doubtless thinking of me and worrying terribly every day that I was gone. The thought suddenly occurred to me that perhaps my own father had been killed elsewhere in this terrible battle. These thoughts made me want nothing more than to be out of this horrible fight, but somehow I kept firing as long as my cartridges lasted. When these were gone, a fierce sergeant with a revolver in his hand placed its muzzle close to my ear and demanded why I was not firing. I told him that I had no cartridges. Take cartridges from the box of the man there, he said, pointing to the dead man who had just fallen upon me. But mine was an Enfield rifle and my deceased neighbor's cartridges were for a Springfield rifle. I had clung to this beautiful Enfield with its unusually beautiful maple stalk which my father had selected for his own and I was determined that it should not leave my hands. Then suddenly the enemy came upon us in full charge and looking up through the smoke of the burning leaves, I saw the gray, dirty uniforms of the Confederates. I heard their famous rebel gills and I saw their flags flapping. That was a sight which I have never forgotten. I can see the tiger ferocity in those faces yet. All these years later, I can see them in my dreams along with many other terrifying and horrible sights I witnessed at this battle. We began to pull back out of the ravine, the enemy in hot pursuit. Whether the men were ordered by someone in charge to pull back or whether they had begun to do so spontaneously, I have no idea. But either way, once enough men began to retreat, nearly all of them began to follow suit and their retreat began to virtually turn into an outright route. I remember being very worried that I might be shot in the back as I retreated along with all of my comrades. A soldier next to me who looked to be only a few years older than I was screamed with agony and turning toward him, I saw him dragging one of his legs which had been utterly wrecked by a bullet. He had dropped his rifle and as I ran to his support, he fell upon me and begged me to help him. I half carried and half dragged him for some distance, still holding on to my infield rifle with its beautiful stock. And then finally, seeing that I must either give up the role of good Samaritan or drop the rifle, I dropped the rifle and tried my best to keep helping my wounded young comrade to retreat with the rest of the regiment. Before long though, he was clearly fading and we had to stop me helping him to sit down. I realized that he was probably bleeding to death but I had no knowledge or training of how I might help him. I tried to stop some other retreating union men to get their help. The first of these just ignored me and the second took a quick look and just said, he's a dead man. He was right. In little time, the wounded young soldier died right in front of me and I was totally helpless to do anything for him. Perhaps there was nothing more than anyone. Even a surgeon may have been able to do for this young man in that moment. Perhaps not. But it was a terrible feeling to watch the light go out in the eyes of another very, very young soldier and to feel completely useless to a system in any way. I forced myself to get up and resume moving so as to stay with my men and not to end up being taken prisoner by the advancing enemy behind us. Then for the first time, I suddenly realized how tired, hungry and especially thirsty I was. It was the thirstiest I'd ever been in my life. I happened to see a union soldier sitting on a tree stump, apparently observing things, not part of our retreating group. He had a canteen. So I begged him for a drink and he obliged. Almost without realizing it, I drank his canteen dry. He didn't object, but merely asked how the battle was going. I told him the bad news about what had happened to my outfit thus far. From his expression, he was not happy at that news. I thanked him for the drink and resumed retreating. But I must say, my friend on that stump, I shall never forget him. Though I have no idea who he was or what ended up happening to him. How gratefully I remember that drink of warm water from his rusty old canteen. Bless his military soul, he probably never knew what a kindness he rendered me. Soon, I ran into a cavalry outfit that was trying to round up Sculkers. One of those whom they'd corralled belonged to my father's regiment. I asked him what had happened to the regiment and he told me that it had been entirely cut to pieces and that he'd personally seen the death of my father, that he had been shot from off his horse. This news, as you would expect, was even more dejecting and heartbreaking than all of the terrible things I'd experienced so far. I felt very near to tears, but somehow did not cry. And I decided, musician and non-combatant that I was, that I would leave this terrible battlefield. I overtook my regiment about one o'clock and found that it was engaged in one of these occasional spurts of fury. The enemy resolutely maintained their ground and our side was preparing for another assault. The firing was alternately brisk and slack. We lay down and availed ourselves of trees, logs and hollows and annoyed their upstanding ranks. Battery pounded battery and meanwhile we hugged our resting places closely. Of a sudden, we rose and raced towards the position and took it by sheer weight and impetuosity as we had done before. At about three o'clock the battle grew very hot. The enemy appeared to be more concentrated and immovably sullen. Both sides fired better as they grew more accustomed to the den. But with the assistance from the reserves, we were continually pressing them towards the River Tennessee without ever retreating an inch. About this time, the enemy were assisted by the gunboats which hurled their enormous projectiles far beyond us. But though they made great havoc among the trees and created tear, they did comparatively little damage to those in close touch with the enemy. The screaming of the big shells when they first began to sell over our heads had the effect of reducing our fire for they were as fascinating as they were distracting. But we became used to them and our attention was being claimed more in the front. Our officers were more urgent and when we saw the growing dike of white clouds that signaled the bullet storm, we could not be indifferent to the more immediate danger. Dead bodies, wounded men writhing in agony and assuming every distrustful attitude were frequent sights. But what made us heart sick was to see now and then the well-groomed charger of an officer with fine saddle and scarlet and yellow edged cloth and brass-tipped holsters or a straight cavalry or artillery horse galloping between the lines snorting with tear while its entrails soiled with dust trailed behind him. Finally, about five o'clock, we assaulted and captured a large camp. After driving the enemy well away from it, the front line was as thin as that of a skirmishing body and we were ordered to retire to the tents. There, we hungrily sought after provisions and I was lucky in finding a supply of biscuits and a canteen of excellent molasses which gave great comfort to myself and friends. The plunder in the camp was abundant. There were bedding, clothing and accoutrements without stint, but people were so exhausted, they could do no more than idly turn the things over. Night soon fell and only a few stray shots could now be heard to remind us of the thrilling and horrid den of the day. Accepting the huge bombs from the gunboats which as we were not far from the blue coats discomforted only those in the rear. By eight o'clock, I was repeating my experiences in the region of dreams, indifferent to Colombians and mortars and the torrential rain which at midnight increased to the miseries of the wounded and tentless. I briefly joined an ambulance that was passing, loaded with wounded and used them as a sort of color to avoid the cavalrymen who were rounding up stragglers. I passed by the old warehouse which had been turned into a temporary field hospital where hundreds of wounded men brought down in wagons and ambulances were being unloaded and where their arms and legs were being hacked off by surgeons and thrown into big, gory, ghastly piles. It was now late afternoon. I made my way down the plateau overlooking the river. Below lay around 30 transport boats all being loaded with the wounded and all around me were baggage wagons, mule teams, disabled artillery teams and thousands of panic-stricken men. Officers were doing their best to stop the stragglers and turn the able-bodied among them around. While observing all of this, I saw General Grant himself. I'd seen him once briefly the day before. Now he was doing his best to rally and steady his men and telling them that reinforcements were on the way and furthermore that cavalry would soon come through after all the stragglers. Soon thereafter, the cavalry did sweep through the area and most of the skulkers appeared to form up, seemingly ready to return to the fight. However, within minutes of the cavalry's departure from the area, most of the skulkers, well, they resumed their skulking. I didn't see Grant again during the entire war and the next time I personally saw him he was actually the President of the United States. As I sat and watched the far side of the river, a horseman emerged, waving a white flag with a red square in its center. Some men nearby me were worried, believing this to be Texas cavalry, but I knew that this was an actuality and auspicious omen for us, for that flag signified General Buell's Union Army. Our empty transport ships began to ferry over these reinforcements. The first boat to come back across to the side of the river on which I sat carried a huge, imposing-looking man mounted upon a magnificent Kentucky horse. The man wore an enormous hat with a black feather in it. I knew that this was the Union General known as Fighting Bull Nelson. As the boat carrying him hit the beach on my side of the bank, Nelson put spurs to his horse and jumped over the gunnel. As he did this, he drew his sword and rode right into the crowd of refugees shouting, damn your souls. If you won't fight, get out of the way and let men come here who will. I realized that Nelson's presence probably meant that my original regiment, the 24th Ohio, was nearby. I managed to persuade a boatman to allow me onto the ship to cross back to the other side. Once across, I quickly found the 24th and my brother with it who was understandably surprised to see me. I did my best to quickly tell him my story, including the terrible news I'd heard about our father. Then I asked him if he had anything to eat and to my pleasant surprise, he had his Negro servant bring me a broiled chicken which I devoured as I moved with the regiment back toward the battle lines. As we came closer to the heart of the action, I saw a man's head get blown clean off by a cannon shot and yet I didn't stop voraciously consuming the chicken for a moment. My nerves were settled and my stomach was asserting its rights. My brother turned to me and giving me some papers to keep and some messages to deliver in case of his death shook me by the hand and told me to keep out of danger and above all things, to try and get back home. This part of his advice I readily accepted. I watched though as the brigade met and stopped the advancing Confederates. Then the artillery, including that of the river gunboats, began to fire fiercely if the sun went down and then finally the roar of the battle ceased entirely. All night long, the transport boats wheezed and groaned and came and went with their freight of humanity. And right by my side marched all night long the poor fellows who were being pushed out to the front to take their place on the battle line for the morrow. By this time the road was churned into mud that was knee deep. And as regiment after regiment went by with that peculiar slosh of men marching in mud and the rattling of canteens against bayonet scabbards so familiar to the ear of the soldier I could hear in the intervals the low complainings of the men and the urging of the officers until it seemed to me that if there ever was such a thing as hell on earth I was in the fullest enjoyment of it. As fast as a transport unloaded its troops the gangway was hauled in and the vessel dropped out and another took the vacant place and the same thing was gone over again. Now and then a battery of artillery would come off the boat the wheels would stick in the mud and then a grand turmoil of half an hour would follow during which time every man in the neighborhood was impressed to aid in relieving the embargoed gun. The whipping of the horses and the cursing of the drivers was less soothing if anything than those soul shattering gunboat broadsides. There never was a night so long, so hideous or so utterly uncomfortable. An hour before dawn I awoke from a refreshing sleep and at daylight I fell in with my company but there were only about 50 of the Dixie present. Almost immediately after symptoms of the coming battle were manifest. Regiments were hurried in the line but even to my inexperienced eyes the troops were in ill condition for repeating the efforts of Sunday. However in brief time and consequence of our pickets being driven in on us we were moved forward in skirmishing order. In a short time we met our opponents in the same formation as ourselves and advancing most resolutely we threw ourselves behind such trees as were near us fired loaded and darted forward to another shelter. Presently I found myself in an open grassy space with no convenient tree or stump near but seeing a shallow hollow some 20 paces ahead I made a dash for it and plied my musket with haste. Despite our firing the blue coats were coming uncomfortably near. I arose from my hollow but to my speechless amazement I found myself a solitary gray and a line of blue skirmishers. My companions had retreated. The next I heard was down with that gun to seshe or all drill a hole through you drop it quick. Half a dozen of the enemy were covering me at the same instant and I dropped my weapon incontentally. Two men sprang at my collar and marched me unresisting into the ranks of terrible Yankees. I was a prisoner. I heard bursts of a tuperation from several horse throats which straightened my back and made me defiant. Where are you taking that fellow to drive a bayonet into the damn bastard? Let him drop where he is. They cried by the dozen with a German accent. They grew more excited as we drew near and more men joined in the appropriate chorus. Then a few dashed from the ranks with the leveled bayonets to execute what appeared to be the general wish. I looked into their faces deformed with fear and fury and I felt intolerable loathing for the wild-eyed brutes. Their eyes projected and distended appear to like spots of pale blue ink and faces of dough. Reason had fled altogether from their features and to appeal for mercy to such blind ferocious animalism would have been the height of absurdity. But I was absolutely indifferent as to what they might do with me now. Could I have multiplied myself into a thousand? Such unintellectual looking louts might have been brushed out of existence with ease despite their numbers. They were apparently new troops from such backlands that as were favored by German immigrants. And though of sturdy build another such massive savagery and stupidity could not have been found within the four corners of North America. How I wished I could return to the Confederates and tell them what kind of people were opposing them. Before their bayonets reached me my two guards flung themselves before me and presenting their rifles cried, here stop that you fellows, he is our prisoner. A couple of officers were almost as quick as they and flourished their swords and amid an expenditure of profanity drove them quickly back into their ranks cursing and black guarding me and a man or truly American. A company opened its lines as we passed to the rear. Once through I was comparatively safe from the Union troops but not from the Confederate missiles which were dropping about and striking men right and left. Though my eyes had abundant matter of interest within their range my mind continually hearkened back to the miserable hollow which had disgraced me and I kept wondering how it was that my fellow skirmishers had so quickly disappeared. But it was useless to trouble my mind with conjectures. I was a prisoner, shameful position. What would become of my knapsack and my little treasures, letters and souvenirs of my father. My father died when I was only an infant so I had no memory of him. My mother gave me up as a baby but she left me with some mementos of my father which I always carried with me. They were lost beyond recovery. On the way my guards and I had a discussion about our respective causes and though I could not admit it there was much reason in what they said and I marveled that they could put their case so well. For until now I was under the impression that they were robbers who only sought to desolate the south and still the slaves but according to them had we not been so impatient and flown to arms the influence of Abe Lincoln and his fellow abolitionists would not have affected the Southerners pecuniarily. For it might have been possible for Congress to compensate slave owners that is by buying up all the slaves and afterwards setting them free but when the Southerners who were not averse to selling their slaves in the open market refused to consider anything relating to them and began to seize upon government property forts, arsenals and warships and to set about establishing a separate system in the country then the North resolved that this should not be and that was the true reason of the war. The Northern people cared nothing for the blacks. The slavery question could have been settled in another and quieter way but they cared all their lives were worth for their country. As the gray streaks of dawn began to appear the band of the 15th regulars on the deck of one of the transports began playing magnificently and how inspiring that music was. Every soldier, even the wounded ones looked to be experiencing the same uplift from the music that I was. Soon there was light enough to see a little bit and the sounds of renewed battle began to reach our ears. It began just as a shower of rain begins and soon deepened into a terrible hail storm with the booming artillery for the thunder. I got up and started immediately toward the front for everybody felt now that the battle was going to be ours. Those fresh, sturdy troops from the Army of the Ohio had furnished a blue bulwark behind which the incomparable fighters Grant and Sherman were to push to victory. Even the Sculcars of the previous day seemed to be imbued with genuine manhood and thousands of them were returning to the front to render good service. My only breakfast that morning consisted of a swig of so-called commissary whiskey given to me by a comrade. As cold, wet and depressed as I was I have to say that whiskey as terrible as it tasted brought me such consolation as I had never found before. I have drunk champagne and eponae. I have sipped Johannesburger at the foot of its sunny mount. I have tasted the regal Montipulsiano, but by Jove I have never enjoyed a drink as I did. That swig of common whiskey on the morning of April 7th, 1862. By around 10 o'clock that morning our Army was taking the initiative going on the offensive and pushing forward and I resolved without a second thought to continue to go forward with them despite what I had told my brother about seeking safety. As we advanced, we regained all the ground we had lost the previous day. The underbrush had been almost completely mowed down in many places by bullets and much of what was left had been scorched by the brush fires and giant trees had been shattered by artillery fire. In many places, the bodies of the dead lay upon the ground so thick that I could have stepped from one to the other. The pallet faces of the dead men in blue were scattered among the blackened corpses of the enemy. This to me was a horrible revelation and I have never yet heard a scientific explanation of why the majority of dead Confederates on that field had turned black. All the bodies had been stripped of their valuables and scarcely a pair of boots or shoes could be found upon the feet of the dead. In most instances, pockets had been cut open and one of the pathetic sights that I remember was a poor Confederate lying on his back, while by his side was a heap of ginger cakes and bologna sausages, which had been tumbled out of the trousers pocket cut by some infamous thief. The unfortunate man had evidently filled his pocket the day before with the edibles he'd scavenged but he had been killed before he had had the opportunity to enjoy any of his spoils. There was something so sad about this that it brought tears to my eyes, which was strange considering that I'd succeeded in choking back the tears when I had learned of my father's death. Everywhere the corpses, both the blue clad and the gray clad were mingled together. It was no uncommon thing to see the bodies of federal and Confederate lying side by side as though they had bled to death while trying to aid each other. As I pushed onward to the front, I passed the ambulances and the wagons bringing back the wounded and talked with the poor bleeding fellows as they hobbled along toward the river. They all spoke of victory. Toward the evening, I found myself back in the vicinity of the old Shiloh Church but could get no news specifically of the 70th Ohio Regiment. Night came on and I lay down and miraculously fell asleep at the foot of a tree, so exhausted I did not mind the discomfort. It rained all night. As I found in many of the battles that I witnessed thereafter, somehow rain tended to follow heavy fighting. The battle which would of course become known as Shiloh had pretty much ended by early evening. The enemy had withdrawn toward the city of Corinth. There's a small epilogue to Stanley's tale that compels me to break from the first person narrative. Stanley's story at Shiloh ends in 1891. After he was taken prisoner, he defected from the Confederacy and joined the Union so his comrades in the Southern Army had no idea what became of him. One friend from his regiment, James Slate, who was fondly referred to as Old Slate, sent him a letter on March 28th, 1891. The letter read, quote, Dear sir, I'm anxious to know if you enlisted in company E. Dixie Gray's Sixth Arkansas Regiment. On the 6th of April, 1862, the Confederates attacked the Yankees at Shiloh. Early in the morning I was wounded and I never saw our boyish looking Stanley no more but understood he was captured and sent north. I have read everything in newspapers and your histories believing you are the same great boy. We all loved you and regretted the results of that eventful day. This is enough for you to say and reply that you are the identical boyish soldier. You have wrote many letters for me. Please answer by return mail. Very truly yours, James, him, Slate. I think this letter is worth including because it can remind us of the lasting effects the war had on the people who fought in it. 29 years after the battle of Shiloh, James Slate was still trying to find out what had become of his comrades. In the Civil War, it wasn't uncommon for friends and family members to never learn what happened to their loved ones. After three decades, you would probably assume that they were what John Cockrell called dead and unknown. But a lot of people spend years, perhaps even the rest of their lives, looking for information on their missing loved ones. Presumably, one would assume that if somebody still hadn't shown up for years after the war, it would be easy enough to accept that they'd been killed. But the lack of closure left a permanent imprint on many of those who survived, including, apparently, James Slate. Drew Gillip and Faust wrote a book titled The Republic of Suffering about how Americans handled death during the Civil War. I don't actually think the book is very good, but what Faust was trying to bring attention to is certainly worth thinking about when we talk about the Civil War. How did people handle death? She even devotes a chapter to the evolution of how people and the government dealt with the unknown soldier. It was following the battle of Shiloh that the War Department issued orders to ensure efforts were made to provide for the identification of soldiers. Privately, civilians hired investigators and wrote to journalists to try to get any information they could about loved ones who, in some cases, had already been missing for several years. But Slate's letter illustrates something that is probably difficult to fully comprehend in a modern age. Even for those who have lost people to war, the procedures for identifying and accounting for soldiers today is far more sophisticated than it was even by the end of the Civil War when a number of private and governmental organizations had been formed for the purpose of identifying and finding missing soldiers. 29 years after the battle, James Slate was still desperate for closure about a friend he had served with. A couple of episodes ago, I mentioned the woman who had wandered into the battlefield, likely searching for sons she knew were fighting. Slate's letter and his impassioned plea for information after 29 years for a man he'd only known for a short time may help us understand why a woman would risk her life in the middle of a battle looking for the bodies of her children, hoping not to find them dead. But if they had been killed, hoping to at least find them at all. This ends the story of Henry Morton Stanley at the Battle of Shiloh. The John Cockrell story has one more chapter that still has to be told. The next morning, I learned that my father's regiment had been sent in pursuit of the enemy and nobody could tell me when it would return. I found their camp and oh, what desolation reigned there. Seemingly every tent had been pillaged by the rebels when they had come through the area. I remained there during that day and late in the evening, the 70th came back to its deserted headquarters after three days and two nights of the most terrible fighting and campaigning. At its head rode my father, pale, haggard and worn but alive and unscathed. He had not seen, mean or heard from me for 60 hours. Who knows what he must have thought during the battle? Surely more than once he had thought that I had likely been killed. I of course had been sure that he had been. He dismounted and taking me in his arms, he gave me the most affectionate embrace that I've ever experienced in my entire life. And I realized in that moment how deeply my father loved me. That night we stayed in his now bullet shredded tent and we traded stories of our experiences in the battle. And then the next day I had the pleasure of hearing General Sherman himself compliment my father for his bravery in the battle saying, Colonel, you have been worth your weight in gold to me. Many years afterward, when I had a chance to speak again to General Sherman, I asked him, what do you regard as the bloodiest and most sanguinary battle of the civil war? Shiloh was his prompt response. And I could not agree more. Historical controversies is a production of the Ludwig von Mises Institute. If you would like to support the show, please subscribe on iTunes, Google Play or Stitcher and leave a positive review. You can also support the show financially by donating at Mises.org slash supportHC. If you would like to explore the rest of our content, please visit Mises.org. That's M-I-S-E-S dot O-R-G.