Henry Stanley Fights With The Dixie Grays At Shiloh
by Sir Henry Morton Stanley
The Autobiography of Sir Henry Morton Stanley
Dorothy Stanley, editor
Published in 1909
|Battle of Shiloh Civil War Map
|Shiloh Battlefield Map
ON April 2, 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 Hindman's brigade, Hardee'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 buoyant at dawn of Sunday, the 6th April, as they ought to have been for the serious task before us...
[First Day - Sunday, April 6, 1862]
At four o'clock in the morning, we rose from our damp bivouac, and, after
a hasty refreshment, were formed into 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 the centre; Cleburne's and Gladden's brigades were on our respective
Day broke with every promise of a fine day. Next to me, on my right, was a
boy of seventeen, 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, and arranged 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.
We loaded our muskets, and arranged our cartridge-pouches ready for use. Our
weapons were the obsolete flint-locks, and the ammunition was rolled in cartridge-paper, which contained powder, a round ball,
and three buckshot. When we loaded we had to tear the paper with our teeth, empty a little powder into the pan, lock it, empty
the rest of the powder into the barrel, press paper and ball into the muzzle, and ram home. Then the Orderly-sergeant called
the roll, and we knew that the Dixie Greys were present to a man...
Before we had gone five hundred paces, our serenity was disturbed by some
desultory firing in front. It was then a quarter-past five. "They are at it already," we whispered to each other. "Stand by,
gentlemen,"--for we were all gentlemen volunteers at this time,--said our Captain L. G. 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 nearer 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 pinged sharply by our ears, pattered through the treetops, and brought twigs and leaves down on us. "Those are
bullets," Henry whispered with awe.
At two hundred yards further, a dreadful roar of musketry broke out from a
regiment adjoining ours. It was followed by another further off, and the sound had scarcely died away when regiment after
regiment blazed away and made a continuous roll of sound. "We are in for it now," said Henry...
"Forward, gentlemen, make ready! " urged Captain Smith. In response, we surged
forward, for the first time marring the alignment. We trampled. recklessly over the grass and young sprouts. Beams of sunlight
stole athwart our course... Nothing now stood between us and the enemy.
'There they are!" was no sooner uttered, than we cracked into them with levelled
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 spurtive quickness, from a long line of blue figures in front; and simultaneously,
there broke upon our ears an appalling crash of sound, the series of fusillades following one another with startling suddenness,
which suggested to my somewhat moidered sense 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!...
Though one's senses were preternaturally acute, and engaged with their impressions,
we plied 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! I knew how Captain Smith and Lieutenant Mason looked, how bravely the Dixie Greys' banner ruffled
over Newton Story's head, and that all hands were behaving as though they knew how long all this would last. Back to myself
my thoughts came, and, with the whirring bullet, they fled to the blue-bloused ranks afront. They dwelt on their movements,
and read their temper, as I should read time by a clock. Through the lurid haze the contours of their pink faces could not
been seen, but their gappy, hesitating, incoherent, and sensitive line revealed their mood clearly.
We continued advancing, step by step, loading and firing as we went. To every
forward step, they took a backward move, loading and firing, as they slowly withdrew. Twenty thousand muskets were being fired
at this stage, but, though accuracy of aim was impossible, owing to our labouring hearts, and the jarring and excitement,
many bullets found their destined billets on both sides.
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
his best for the emergency. The Federals 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 feelings, and transmitting encouragement along the attacking line.
I rejoiced in the shouting like the rest. It reminded me that there were about four hundred 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 energies to the utmost.
"They fly!" was echoed from lip to lip. It 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 drew up in the enemy's camp, panting and breathing hard. Some precious minutes were
thus lost in recovering our breaths, indulging our curiosity, and reforming our line. Signs of a hasty rouse to the battle
were abundant. Military equipments, uniform-coats, half-packed knapsacks, bedding, of a new and superior quality, littered
the company streets.
Meantime, a series of other camps lay behind the first array of tents. The
resistance we had met, though comparatively brief, enabled the brigades in rear of the advance camp to recover from the shock
of the surprise; but our delay had not been long enough to give them time to form in proper order of battle. There were wide
gaps between their divisions, into which the quickflowing tide of elated Southerners entered, and compelled them to fall back
lest they should be surrounded. Prentiss's brigade, despite their most desperate efforts, were thus hemmed in on all sides,
and were made prisoners.
I had a momentary impression that, with the capture of the first camp, the
battle was well-nigh over; but, in fact, it was only a brief prologue of the long and exhaustive series of struggles which
took place that day.
Continuing our advance, we came in view of the tops of another mass of white
tents, and almost at the same time, were met by a furious storm of bullets, poured on us from a long line of blue-coats, whose
attitude of assurance proved to us that we should have tough work here. But we were so much heartened by our first success
that it would have required a good deal to have halted our advance for long. Their opportunity for making a full impression
on us came with terrific suddenness. The world seemed bursting into fragments. Cannon and musket, shell and bullet, lent their
several intensities to the distracting uproar. If I had not a fraction of an ear, and an eye inclined towards my Captain and
Company, I had been spell-bound by the energies now opposed to us. I likened the cannon, with their deep bass, to the roaring
of a great herd of lions; the ripping, cracking musketry, to the incessant yapping of terriers; the windy whisk of shells,
and zipping of minie bullets, to the swoop of eagles, and the buzz of angry wasps. All the opposing armies of Grey and Blue
fiercely blazed at each other.
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 fifteen inches in diameter, with
a narrow strip of light between it and the ground. Behind this 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 us shrink and cower, despite our utmost efforts to be cool and
collected. I marvelled, as I heard the unintermitting patter, snip, thud, and hum of the bullets, how anyone could live under
this raining death. I could hear the balls beating a merciless tattoo on the outer surface of the log, pinging it 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 rap 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 a 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 centre of his forehead, and he fell heavily on his
face. But his thought had been instantaneously general; and the officers, with one voice, ordered the charge; and cries of
"Forward, forward!" raised us, as with a spring, to our feet, and changed the complexion of our feelings. The pulse of action
beat feverishly once more; and, though overhead was crowded with peril, we were unable to give it so much attention as when
we lay stretched on the ground...
Our progress was not so continuously rapid as we desired, for the blues were
obdurate; but at this moment we were gladdened at the sight of a battery galloping to our assistance. It was time for the
nerve-shaking cannon to speak. After two rounds of shell and canister, we felt the pressure on us slightly relaxed; but we
were still somewhat sluggish in disposition, though the officers' voices rang out imperiously. Newton Story at this juncture
strode forward rapidly with the Dixies' banner, until he was quite sixty yards ahead of the foremost. Finding himself alone,
he halted; and turning to us smilingly said, "Why don't you come on, boys? You see there is no danger!" His smile and words
acted on us like magic. We raised the yell, and sprang lightly and hopefully towards him. "Let's give them hell, boys!" said
one. "Plug them plum-centre, every time!"
It was all very encouraging, for the yelling and shouting were taken up by
thousands. "Forward, forward; don't give them breathing time!" was cried. We instinctively obeyed, and soon came in clear
view of the bluecoats, 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 double-quick retreat. Again we felt the "glorious joy of heroes." It carried
us on exultantly, rejoicing in the spirit which recognises nothing but the prey. We were no longer an army of soldiers, but
so many school-boys racing, in which length of legs, wind, and condition tell.
We gained the second line of camps, continued the rush through them, and clean
beyond. It was now about ten o'clock. My physical powers were quite exhausted, and, to add to my discomfiture, something struck
me on my belt-clasp, and tumbled me headlong to the ground. 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
The desperate character of this day's battle was now brought home to my mind
in all its awful reality. While in the tumultuous advance, and occupied with a myriad of exciting incidents, it was only at
brief intervals that I was conscious of wounds being given and received; but now, in the trail of pursuers and pursued, the
ghastly relics appalled every sense. I felt curious as to who the fallen Greys were, and moved to one stretched straight out.
It was the body of a stout English Sergeant of a neighbouring company, the members of which hailed principally from the Washita
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 centre 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 a battle-field. 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...
It was the first Field of Glory I had seen in my May of life, and the first
time that Glory sickened me with its repulsive aspect, and made me suspect it was all a glittering lie. . . . Under a flag
of truce, I saw the bearers 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...
I overtook my regiment about one o'clock... 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. 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 din; but, with 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 gun-boats, which hurled their
enormous projectiles far beyond us; but, though they made great havoc among the trees, and created terror, they did comparatively
little damage to those in close touch with the enemy.
The screaming of the big shells, when they first began to sail 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...
As it drew near four o'clock...several of our company lagged wearily behind,
and the remainder showed, by their drawn faces, the effects of their efforts. Yet, after a short rest, they were able to make
splendid spurts. As for myself, I had only one wish, and that was for repose. The long-continued excitement, the successive
tautening and relaxing of the nerves, the quenchless thirst, made more intense by the fumes of sulphurous powder, and the
caking grime on the lips caused by tearing the paper cartridges, and a ravening hunger, all combined, had reduced me to a
walking automaton, and I earnestly wished that night would come...
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...
[Second Day - Monday, April 7, 1862]
An hour before dawn, I awoke and, after a hearty replenishment of my vitals
with biscuit and molasses, I conceived myself to be fresher than on Sunday morning. While awaiting day-break, I gathered from
other early risers their ideas in regard to the events of yesterday. They were under the impression that we had gained a great
victory, though we had not, as we had anticipated, reached the Tennessee River. Van Dorn, with his expected reinforcements
for us, was not likely to make his appearance for many days yet; and, if General Buell, with his 20,000 troops, had joined
the enemy during the night, we had a bad day's work before us. We were short of provisions and ammunition, General Sidney
Johnston, our chief Commander, had been killed; but Beauregard was safe and unhurt, and, if Buell was absent, we would win
At daylight I fell in with my Company, but there were only about fifty of
the Dixies present... Regiments were hurried into line, but, even to my inexperienced eyes, the troops were in ill-condition
for repeating the efforts of Sunday... In consequence of our pickets being driven in on us, we were moved forward in skirmishing
order. With my musket on the trail I found myself in active motion, more active than otherwise I would have been, perhaps,
because Captain Smith had said, "Now, Mr. Stanley, if you please, step briskly forward!" This singling-out of me wounded my
amour-propre, and sent me forward like a rocket. 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 twenty paces ahead, I made a dash for it, and plied my musket with haste.
I became so absorbed with some blue figures in front of me, that I did not
pay sufficient heed to my companion greys... Seeing my blues in about the same proportion, I assumed that the greys were keeping
their position, and never once thought of retreat. However, as, despite our firing, the blues were coming uncomfortably near,
I rose from my hollow; but, to my speechless amazement, I found myself a solitary grey, in a line of blue skirmishers! My
companions had retreated! The next I heard was, "Down with that gun, Secesh, or I'll 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, incontinently. Two men sprang at my collar, and marched me, unresisting, into the ranks of the terrible
Yankees. I was a prisoner!
Reading: Seeing the Elephant: RAW RECRUITS AT THE BATTLE OF SHILOH. Description: One of the bloodiest battles in the Civil War, the
two-day engagement near Shiloh, Tennessee,
in April 1862 left more than 23,000 casualties. Fighting alongside seasoned veterans were more than 160 newly recruited regiments
and other soldiers who had yet to encounter serious action. In the phrase of the time, these men came to Shiloh
to "see the elephant". Continued below…
the letters, diaries, and other reminiscences of these raw recruits on both sides of the conflict, "Seeing the Elephant" gives
a vivid and valuable primary account of the terrible struggle. From the wide range of voices included in this volume emerges
a nuanced picture of the psychology and motivations of the novice soldiers and the ways in which their attitudes toward the
war were affected by their experiences at Shiloh.
Recommended Reading: Shiloh--In Hell before Night. Description: James McDonough has written a good, readable and concise history of a
battle that the author characterizes as one of the most important of the Civil War, and writes an interesting history of this
decisive 1862 confrontation in the West. He blends first person and newspaper accounts to give the book a good balance between
the general's view and the soldier's view of the battle. Continued below…
enlightening is his description of Confederate General Albert Sidney Johnston, the commander who was killed on the first day
of the battle. McDonough makes a pretty convincing argument that Johnston fell far short of the image that many give him
in contemporary and historical writings. He is usually portrayed as an experienced and decisive commander of men. This book
shows that Johnston was a man of modest war and command experience,
and that he rose to prominence shortly before the Civil War. His actions (or inaction) prior to the meeting at Shiloh -- offering
to let his subordinate Beauregard take command for example -- reveal a man who had difficulty managing the responsibility
fostered on him by his command. The author does a good job of presenting several other historical questions and problems like
Johnston's reputation vs. reality that really add a lot of
interest to the pages.
Reading: The Shiloh Campaign (Civil War Campaigns in the Heartland)
(Hardcover). Description: Some 100,000 soldiers fought in the April 1862 battle of Shiloh, and nearly 20,000 men were killed
or wounded; more Americans died on that Tennessee battlefield
than had died in all the nation’s previous wars combined. In the first book in his new series, Steven E. Woodworth has
brought together a group of superb historians to reassess this significant battle and provide in-depth analyses of key aspects
of the campaign and its aftermath. The eight talented contributors dissect the campaign’s fundamental events, many of
which have not received adequate attention before now. Continued below…
John R. Lundberg
examines the role of Albert Sidney Johnston, the prized Confederate commander who recovered impressively after a less-than-stellar
performance at forts Henry and Donelson only to die at Shiloh; Alexander Mendoza analyzes the crucial, and perhaps decisive,
struggle to defend the Union’s left; Timothy B. Smith investigates the persistent legend that the Hornet’s Nest
was the spot of the hottest fighting at Shiloh; Steven E. Woodworth follows Lew Wallace’s controversial march to the
battlefield and shows why Ulysses S. Grant never forgave him; Gary D. Joiner provides the deepest analysis available of action
by the Union gunboats; Grady McWhiney describes P. G. T. Beauregard’s decision to stop the first day’s attack
and takes issue with his claim of victory; and Charles D. Grear shows the battle’s impact on Confederate soldiers, many
of whom did not consider the battle a defeat for their side. In the final chapter, Brooks D. Simpson analyzes how command
relationships—specifically the interactions among Grant, Henry Halleck, William T. Sherman, and Abraham Lincoln—affected
the campaign and debunks commonly held beliefs about Grant’s reactions to Shiloh’s aftermath. The Shiloh Campaign
will enhance readers’ understanding of a pivotal battle that helped unlock the western theater to Union conquest. It
is sure to inspire further study of and debate about one of the American Civil War’s momentous campaigns.
Reading: Shiloh and the Western Campaign
of 1862. Review: The bloody and decisive two-day
battle of Shiloh (April 6-7, 1862) changed the entire course of the American Civil War. The
stunning Northern victory thrust Union commander Ulysses S. Grant into the national spotlight, claimed the life of Confederate
commander Albert S. Johnston, and forever buried the notion that the Civil War would be a short conflict. The conflagration
at Shiloh had its roots in the strong Union advance during the winter of 1861-1862 that resulted in the capture of Forts Henry
and Donelson in Tennessee. Continued below…
The offensive collapsed General Albert S. Johnston advanced line in Kentucky and forced him to withdraw all
the way to northern Mississippi. Anxious to attack the enemy,
Johnston began concentrating Southern forces at Corinth, a major
railroad center just below the Tennessee border. His bold
plan called for his Army of the Mississippi to march north and destroy General Grant's Army
of the Tennessee before it could link up with another Union
army on the way to join him. On the morning of April 6, Johnston boasted to his subordinates,
"Tonight we will water our horses in the Tennessee!" They
nearly did so. Johnston's sweeping attack hit the unsuspecting Federal camps at Pittsburg Landing
and routed the enemy from position after position as they fell back toward the Tennessee River.
Johnston's sudden death in the Peach Orchard, however, coupled
with stubborn Federal resistance, widespread confusion, and Grant's dogged determination to hold the field, saved the Union
army from destruction. The arrival of General Don C. Buell's reinforcements that night turned the tide of battle. The next
day, Grant seized the initiative and attacked the Confederates, driving them from the field. Shiloh
was one of the bloodiest battles of the entire war, with nearly 24,000 men killed, wounded, and missing. Edward Cunningham,
a young Ph.D. candidate studying under the legendary T. Harry Williams at Louisiana
State University, researched and wrote Shiloh and the Western Campaign of 1862 in 1966. Although it remained unpublished, many Shiloh
experts and park rangers consider it to be the best overall examination of the battle ever written. Indeed, Shiloh
historiography is just now catching up with Cunningham, who was decades ahead of modern scholarship. Western Civil War historians
Gary D. Joiner and Timothy B. Smith have resurrected Cunningham's beautifully written and deeply researched manuscript from
its undeserved obscurity. Fully edited and richly annotated with updated citations and observations, original maps, and a
complete order of battle and table of losses, Shiloh and the Western Campaign of 1862 will
be welcomed by everyone who enjoys battle history at its finest. Edward Cunningham, Ph.D., studied under T. Harry Williams
at Louisiana State
University. He was the author of The Port Hudson Campaign: 1862-1863
(LSU, 1963). Dr. Cunningham died in 1997. Gary D. Joiner, Ph.D. is the author of One Damn Blunder from Beginning to End: The
Red River Campaign of 1864, winner of the 2004 Albert Castel Award and the 2005 A. M. Pate, Jr., Award, and Through the Howling
Wilderness: The 1864 Red River Campaign and Union Failure in the West. He lives in Shreveport,
Louisiana. About the Author: Timothy B. Smith, Ph.D., is author of Champion Hill:
Decisive Battle for Vicksburg (winner of the 2004 Mississippi
Institute of Arts and Letters Non-fiction Award), The Untold Story of Shiloh: The Battle and the Battlefield, and This Great
Battlefield of Shiloh: History, Memory, and the Establishment of a Civil War National Military Park. A former ranger at Shiloh,
Tim teaches history at the University of Tennessee.
Recommended Reading: Shiloh: The Battle That Changed the Civil
War (Simon & Schuster). From Publishers Weekly: The bloodbath at Shiloh, Tenn. (April 6-7, 1862), brought
an end to any remaining innocence in the Civil War. The combined 23,000 casualties that the two armies inflicted on each other
in two days shocked North and South alike. Ulysses S. Grant kept his head and managed, with reinforcements, to win a hard-fought
victory. Continued below…
general Albert Sidney Johnston was wounded and bled to death, leaving P.G.T. Beauregard to disengage and retreat with a dispirited
gray-clad army. Daniel (Soldiering in the Army of Tennessee) has crafted a superbly researched volume that will appeal to
both the beginning Civil War reader as well as those already familiar with the course of fighting in the wooded terrain bordering
the Tennessee River.
His impressive research includes the judicious use of contemporary newspapers and extensive collections of unpublished letters
and diaries. He offers a lengthy discussion of the overall strategic situation that preceded the battle, a survey of the generals
and their armies and, within the notes, sharp analyses of the many controversies that Shiloh
has spawned, including assessments of previous scholarship on the battle. This first new book on Shiloh
in a generation concludes with a cogent chapter on the consequences of those two fatal days of conflict.