Shiloh by Shelby Foote Page A

downstream to where they could wade or swim the creek
and get away. "I killed as many of them as they did of me," some
said, and laughed. All the time there was this thumping of guns and this
ripping sound of rifles from up above, and every now and then the rebel cheering
would get louder when they took another camp.
    We were all ranks down here, though you couldn’t tell just
which in most cases because they had torn off their chevrons and shoulder
straps and all you could see was the broken threads that had held them on. In
some cases you couldn’t even tell that, for they’d even picked the threads out,
those that had the time. But that didn’t work either because you could still
see the darker patches where the sun and rain had weathered the cloth around
the place where they’d been sewed.
    They made a complaint, blaming their officers and telling
how the lieutenants and captains didn’t know any more about soldiering than the
privates. When they first came down they would keep their backs turned, not
speaking to anybody, still trembling from the scare. But after a while they’d
look around and begin to feel better. Then they would start talking, just a Little
at first, sort of feeling the others out, then all together, every man trying
to tell his story at the same time. They collected in groups of anywhere from
three to thirty, hunkered up side by side and talking or just sitting there
looking to see who they could recognize in the crowd. When they saw somebody
they knew, their eyes would say : If you won’t
tell on me I won’t on you , but not out loud.
    There were five in the group I joined, not counting the dog.
The man that had him said he was a Tennessee hound, a redbone, but he looked
more like a Tennessee walking-horse. At first I thought he was shot up bad:
there was clotted blood and patches of torn skin all over his hide. But the
fellow said he wasn’t even scratched. "He's demoralized—like you," the
fellow said, grinning. Then he told how it happened.
    "I was on Guard last night," he said. He had that
Ohio way of talking, bearing down hard on the R's. "We come off post at
four and went to our bunks at the back of the guard tent. Just before dawn my
Tennessee quickstep signaled me a hurry-up call for the bushes, and when I went
out I saw the officer of the day (Captain Fountain, from up at Regimental)
sitting at the table out front, writing a letter by lamp-light. The dog was at
his feet, asleep, but when I went past he raised his head and looked at me with
those big round yellow eyes, then dropped his jaw back on his paws and went to
sleep again. When I come back he didn’t even look up. He was our mascot, knew
every man in the 53d by sight. We named him Bango the day he joined up. —Well,
I woke up it was daylight and all outside the tent there was a racket and a
booming. 'That’s cannon,' I said to myself, still half asleep; 'we're attacked!'
and grabbed my gun and started for the front of the tent. But there was a
terrible bang and a flash before I got there, smoke enough to blind you. It
cleared some then and I saw what had happened. A rebel shell had come through
the tent fly and landed square on top of Captain Fountain. It went off in his
lap before he had time to so much as know what hit him. There wasn’t much of
him left.
    It blew blood and guts all over the dog, scared him so bad
he wasn’t even howling—he was just laying there
making little whimpering sounds, bloody as a stuck hog, trembling all over and
breathing in shallow pants. I went out and formed with the others. But soon as
Colonel Appier seen the johnnies coming across the field, he got down behind a
log and hollered: 'Retreat! Save yourselves!' Well, I know a sensible order
when I hear one, and if anybody asks me what I'm doing back here, I'll say I'm
where my colonel sent me. Which is more than most of you can say.—On the way to
the rear I passed the guard tent again and there was Bango the same as before,
laying