His attack would be later than planned — but other than that it seemed to be going as well as could be expected. During the winter he had assembled an army even larger than Grant’s, which had been judged by the cavalry scouts to be over 35,000, and he meant to strike first, before Don Carlos Buell’s 30,000 men arrived to reinforce Grant. For three days now his raw recruits had been marching the muddy lanes and back roads of Mississippi, their weary columns converging on Pittsburg Landing. Now it was time for a final meeting with his officers.

They filed in one by one, drawing up chairs, pouring themselves coffee when he waved to the pot. He waited until they were all there before he spoke.

“There will be no more delays. We attack at daylight tomorrow, Sunday morning.”

His second-in-command, General P.G.T. Beauregard, was not quite so sure. “There is no longer the possibility of a surprise. They’ll be entrenched to the eyes. And our men, they’re just raw recruits and most of them had never heard a gun fired in anger.”

“We know that — but we also know that tired as they are from the march they are still filled with enthusiasm. I would fight the enemy even if they were a million. The attack goes on.”

“Do you have the time, Thomas? My watch has stopped,” General Sherman said. His orderly shook his head and smiled.

“Could never afford no watch, General,” Thomas D. Holliday said. “I’ll ask one of the officers.”

Brigadier General William T. Sherman and his staff were riding out in front of their camp, near Shiloh Church, on the banks of the Tennessee River. The morning mist had not lifted, so little could be seen under the trees and hedges. But the rain had stopped during the night and it promised to be a fine day. Sherman was worried, not happy at all with Grant’s decision not to have the troops dig in.

“Their morale is high, Cump,” Grant had said, “and I want it to stay that way. If they dig those holes and hide in them they are going to start worrying. We best let them be.”

Sherman still did not like it. There had been reports of movement on their front which had not disturbed Grant in the slightest. Nevertheless Sherman had led his staff out at dawn to see if there was any truth in the reports of the pickets that they had heard movement in the night.

Holliday turned his horse and trotted back to the general’s side.

“Just gone seven,” he said. And died.

The sudden volley of fire from the unseen Confederate pickets hit Holliday, blowing him off his horse and killing him instantly.

“Follow me!” Sherman shouted, turning and galloping toward their own lines. A Union picket burst out of the thicket ahead and called out.

“General — the Rebs is out there thicker than fleas on a hounddog’s back!”

It was true. They were three battle lines deep and were attacking all along the front. A victorious Rebel yell rose up as they crashed into the unprepared Northern positions, forced them back under a withering fire from their guns. Caught out by the surprise attack the soldiers wavered, favoring retreat to standing up to the hail of bullets.

Then, riding between the enemy and his own lines, General Sherman appeared. He seemed oblivious to the bullets now streaking past him as he stood in his stirrups and waved his sword.

“Soldiers — form a line, rally on me. Fire, load and fire. Stand firm. Load and fire!”

The General’s fervor could not be denied; his cries inspired the soldiers, who moments before had been about to run. They stayed at their positions, firing into the attacking troops. Load and fire, load and fire.

It was desperately hard and deadly work. This was the most exposed flank of the Union army and the heaviest attacks hit here. Sherman had eight thousand men to begin with — but their numbers withered steadily under the Confederate attack. Yet the Northern line still held. Sherman’s regiments took the brunt of the attack — but they did not retreat. And the general stayed in the midst of the battle, leading them from the front, seemingly oblivious to the storm of bullets about him.

When his horse was shot from under him he fought on foot until another mount was found and brought up.

Within minutes this horse was also killed while the general was leading a counterattack, and later on a third one that he was riding was shot dead as well.

It was a hot, hard, dirty and deadly engagement. The green Confederate troops, those who survived the bloody opening of battle, were learning to fight. Again and again they were rallied and sent forward to attack. The Union lines were driven back slowly, fighting every foot of the way, taking great losses — but still they held. And Sherman was always there, rallying the defenders from the fore. Men fell on all sides but still his troops held their positions.

Nor was he immune from injury; later in the day he was wounded himself, shot in the hand. He wrapped a handkerchief about the torn flesh and fought on.

A fragment of shell took off part of the brim of his hat. Despite this, despite the casualties, he stayed in command of his troops and managed to stabilize their positions. Three hours after the battle had begun Sherman had lost over half of his men. Four thousand dead. But the line held. Their powder and ball were so low that they had to plunder the supplies of the fallen. The wounded, who had not stumbled, or been carried, to the rear, loaded weapons for the men who fought on. Then, during a hiatus in the battle while the enemy regrouped, Sherman heard someone calling his name. The captain on the exhausted horse threw a rough salute.

“Orders from General Grant, sir. You are to fall back to the River Road.”

“I will not retreat.”

“This is not a retreat, sir. We have dug in on the River Road, positions that can be better defended.”

“I’ll leave skirmishers here. Keep them firing as long as they can. In the smoke they could slow the next attack some. Tell the general that I am falling back now.”

It was a fighting retreat. Disengaging from a determined enemy can be as difficult as holding them at bay. Men fell, but almost all of the survivors reached the River Road through the smoke and thunder of cannon.

“Them’s our guns, General,” one of the soldiers cried out.

“They are indeed,” Sherman said. “They are indeed.”

This was the first day of the Battle of Shiloh. The carnage was incredible. Despite their mounting losses the Confederate advance continued, slow and deadly. It wasn’t until five-thirty in the afternoon that the Union left was finally penetrated — but by then it was too late. General Grant had managed to establish a defensive line, studded with cannon, just before Pittsburg Landing. With the help of cannon fire from the gunboats tied up at the landing the last Confederate attack was thrown back. As this was happening Grant’s defenders were reinforced by the fresh troops of Don Carlos Buell who began to arrive on the other bank of the river.

The Confederate forces were bloodied and exhausted and no match for the strengthened Northern divisions.

The counterattack began the next day at dawn and by afternoon all of the lost ground had been recaptured.

If there was any victor in this carnage it had to be the North. They were now reinforced and back in their original defensive positions — but the cost had been terrible. There were 10,700 Confederate casualties, including their commander General Johnston, who had been shot and had bled to death because the doctor who might have saved him was treating the Union wounded. 13,000 Union troops were dead as well. Despite the courage, despite the sacrifices and the dead, the South had proved itself incapable of breaking out of the ring of steel that was closing around them.

Grant and Sherman were the heroes of the day. Sherman who had held the line despite his personal injuries and the terrible losses his troops had suffered.