Table of Contents
title
license
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Author
RIVER OF BLOOD
Book 4 of the Shiloh Series
Phillip M. Bryant
River of Blood
© 2015 Phillip M. Bryant. All rights reserved.
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, SC
Cover photo:
Caisson and limber, interpretive marker Chicago Board of Trade Battery (Stokes’ Battery), Stones River National Battlefield, Murfreesboro, TN
Cover photo © Jennifer Bryant 2013
Cover design by Anna Dykeman
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, to any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 978-1508824688
ISBN-10: 1508824681
LCCN: 2015904316
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Chapter 1
Christmas in Nashville, 1862
Philip Pearson stood by the fire with his hands palm out, feeling the numbness of early morning melt from his fingertips as the blaze cast its heat about the officers’ mess, a camp table crudely set with tin plates and beat-up tin cups. The morning was crisp and cold, and the damp of the night frosted tents and camp equipage like light sugaring on a pastry. The fire crackled pleasingly, and the coffee steamed at its periphery. Morning in camp was always the same: stand by the fire and wait for the coffee to finish heating to a boil. Morning happened to enlisted man and officer alike, the wake-up and the wait.
Philip’s toes were just starting to thaw, his shins overly toasted, and his hands still useless when the coffee was finally ready. He cradled his musket with clumsy thumb and forefinger as the cook, a black man named Lucius, poured black liquid into his cup. Lucius had been up an hour earlier tending the fire and getting the breakfast prepared for the regimental staff officers. Around the fire this morning stood the chaplain and two lieutenants by the names of Parker and Simms. Colonel James Neibling, in command of the regiment, was still in his tent, as well as Major Samuel Strong and Surgeon Daniel Young. Both of the latter men had just recently been promoted and were indulging themselves in a bit of privilege. The two lieutenants were more concerned with keeping the shivers from overtaking them than who was present for mess.
Fresh bread had been sliced and laid out along with a portion of corn cakes fried in fat and bacon. The bacon was canned and not very palatable; frying the cakes in its grease was the main reason to use it at all. Bread came in daily from bakeries in the city, and the army consumed it as fast as it cooled.
It had been the same breakfast for weeks, ever since the regiment returned from the picket and defensive cordon around Nashville. Rifle pits and barricades had been thrown up in a five-mile radius outside the city limits, and the enemy was never far from reach, so time spent out of camp brought special danger from cold and enemy sharpshooters—but at least it was something to do. Otherwise it was drill and sitting idly by in camp while time crept past.
Philip was young for a chaplain. He’d held his first circuit while still twenty-five and had his first run-in with the bishop of Dayton before his twenty-seventh birthday. The war and other unpleasantness had disrupted what might have been a fifty-year stint around the Methodist churches of Germantown, Ohio. War had brought him away from Ohio, and now his brother as well, and the cold Nashville mornings were becoming all too familiar.
“You started this war as a private, right?” Lieutenant Simms asked as Philip got settled at his place. There was a distinct tone of distaste in the question.
“Yes, I volunteered as an enlisted man,” Philip replied evenly. There was a pause as Simms looked at Philip curiously.
“Why would you go an’ do that? If you could get a commission, why not?”
“Long story,” Philip replied evasively. “I wasn’t a minister at the time . . . anymore. It gave me an idea of what it was like to be a common soldier anyhow. Now I know what these men need in the way of ministering to.”
“You weren’t always a preacher, then?” Lieutenant Parker asked.
“No, I give it up for a time at the beginning of the war. Volunteered, and it was at Shiloh’s field hospital that I found my calling once again.”
As a private, Philip had marched hundreds of miles in the ranks, fought in skirmishes, and been scared to death for agonizing moments facing enemy lines of battle. Early mornings and pitch-dark sentry duty, cooking one’s own meals, and standing in the rain or suffering under a relentless sun—life as an enlisted soldier was one of hardship, and he knew it well. He’d had seen Nashville before too. Buell’s Army of the Ohio had taken Nashville earlier in the year, at Christmastime and New Year’s to be exact, before slowly pursuing Confederate A.S. Johnston out of Tennessee. The enemy had not put up much of a defense, having other plans that soon bore fruition with their attack on General Grant’s army encamped at Pittsburg Landing—an attack that nearly cost Grant his army and cost Buell dearly in reinforcing him.
“Rolling stock’s been coming into Nashville nonstop all month,” Simms was saying between sips of his coffee.
“Could just be preparing for a long winter,” Parker replied.
“Cavalry been active too, headed out of the picket lines and scrapping with the enemy. We won’t be spending the winter in Nashville.” Simms added, glancing at Parker over the rim of his tin cup.
“Chap’in,” Lucius said, and handed Philip a plate of bread and hoecake.
“Thanks, Lucius.” Philip took a seat on the ground Indian style. Feeling was returning to his fingertips thanks to the hot coffee.
Lucius bowed and gave him a quick nod. The other two officers accepted their breakfasts without a word to the man, and he returned to his preparing of more food for the others.
“You hear anything, Chaplain?” Simms asked between eager bites of hoecake.
“No, nothing about a movement in particular.”
Philip moved about more freely than these two officers, whose duties were either to Neibling for currier chores or keeping tabs on the other companies in the regiment. He regularly made the rounds of the division hospitals, where men of the 21st who were ill with disease or wounds from the picket line were to be found. It was almost a sin really—to be able to up and go as he pleased while these men had duty and responsibility to attend to. His friend Captain Canfield certainly couldn’t up and mosey along any which way he pleased. Though truly, visiting the ill didn’t please him much. It was expected of him, but the experiences of Shiloh and Corinth, with their acres of wounded and dying, had produced in him a growing revulsion toward the task and a distance between him and his charges in the 21st.
As it was Sunday, he had other things to attend to today, and his mind turned to what he was to preach upon. For some, l
istening to a sermon was an escape from detail duty. Neibling allowed for time on a Sunday for the men of the regiment to attend services but would not go so far as to make it mandatory. Some of the brigade chaplains had full attendance with the entire regiment marched to services. It always felt better to have a full gathering, that the time spent preparing a word for these soldiers was not wasted. But Neibling wasn’t of the mind to make his command attend, nor did he bother much with attending himself. Neither did the company officers as a whole. Captain Canfield and a few others came on occasion, and once in a while they would even choose to march their whole company to and from each service when they were not on a detail.
This morning would be a chilly outdoor service, and Philip expected few to leave the comfort of their fires to sit cross-legged and shiver under the sound of his voice.
“You leadin’ service this mornin’?” asked Simms as he wiped his hands on his pant legs.
“Yes, as always.”
“If we be moving soon, might do you some good to hear the good word,” broke in Parker. He nudged Simms wickedly.
“No offense, Chaplain, but got better things to attend to this morning.” Simms glanced at Parker darkly.
“Your choice. It’s not the fate of the soul in the balance, but the state of the heart in fellowship and obedience to God. I’m here to minister to those who want it,” Philip replied graciously. “A man needs to be reminded now and again that there’s more to this life than work.”
“Down by comp’ny street as usual, Chap’in?” Lucius asked.
“Yes—at eleven o’clock once the sun is well and up,” Philip replied with a smile. “Too cold this early. No one will leave their cook fires.”
The camp servants were usually all in attendance, seated away from the soldiery either out of fear or respect or just to be by themselves. They were always the best singers and most grateful hearers regardless of the weather. There were several churches nearby, within an easy walk of the camps, but the Southern attendees were not that keen on Union soldiers occupying the pews, and few from the army ventured out—though a warm building would do wonders for attendance if it were open to the army’s chaplains. A few had tried to get into some of the churches of their own denominations, but the local leadership would not have it. If Nashville was to be an occupied city, the Yankees could see to their own spiritual needs out of doors.
Philip finished up his repast and set aside his dishes. The fire was finally melting away his lethargy, and its heat and crackle were too inviting to leave. More officers were rousing themselves from the slumber and warmth of blankets to venture out of tents, and the smell of coffee drew even some of the company officers toward the mess.
“Morning, lieutenants, Chaplain Pearson,” Captain Canfield said as he slapped his gloved hands together several times in a muffled clap and exhaled a puff of misty breath.
“Sir,” Parker and Simms said simultaneously, Simms neglecting to stand as Parker shot bolt upright.
“Good morning, Captain,” Philip said, keeping his seat. Two of Canfield’s squad leaders, lieutenants, took their seats after nodding toward Parker and Simms.
Canfield regarded Simms for a moment and then turned his attention to the fire, squatting down to get his gloved hands as close to the flames as he dared.
Following on Canfield’s heels was Lieutenant-Colonel Neibling, who looked hard at the seated Simms.
“Lieutenant Simms, your legs frozen?” Neibling asked crisply.
“Sir, no sir.” Simms stood up quickly, jostling Parker who had to wobble to keep balance.
“Then mind higher rank when it approaches,” Neibling snapped. He took a moment to regard Canfield closely, then continued on to his own tent.
Captain Silas Canfield was a man of principle and a staunch Republican in a regiment of divided political sentiments, a good Ohio man of the kind of western stock that did what he wanted and felt was right regardless of regulations or command dictate. Philip respected him, though his abolitionist opinions about the contraband slaves in camp and what should be done with them differed vastly from others in the regiment. After the ruckus in Huntsville, Alabama where Canfield and Neibling stared one another down over returning runaways to their masters, Neibling had stayed his tongue. Faced with the cabal of officers joining Canfield in his protest, he had quietly kept his opinions to himself. The other officers, however, had not.
Philip nodded. The mornings were going to get colder. “The lieutenants say there’s a movement on.”
“That’s been my feeling with the activity abouts,” Canfield replied. He was thin in the face, with a sort of narrowing of the features. Slim cheekbones drew his mouth and chin into a narrow, rounded point and gave his mouth a thin opening that looked too small. This he covered over with a mustache and goatee that obscured his delicate-looking lips. He was a man of even temper unless he was pushed too far by a superior who liked to throw his weight around.
Lieutenant Colonel Neibling was the opposite of Canfield in appearance, having a rough, broad face, a protruding lower lip, and high cheekbones. His chin was almost square and covered with a scraggly growth of whiskers. He kept his own fire and his own chosen man as his body servant, a corporal who didn’t mind not missing any of the fatigue details. He was true to his principles, however, in not retaining a contraband as a servant as most of the other officers did—even those who might have stood with Neibling when it came to returning the slaves to their owners.
Bundled up in his greatcoat and wool muffler, Canfield stared into the fire some minutes before digging into the plate that Lucius set before him. Everyone wanted to get warm enough first before expending any undo energy lifting a plate.
“I need to see to some details before service this morning,” Philip said as he tried to stand, his legs unrelenting in their stiffness. If there was to be a movement soon, would that make a difference in what he spoke about this morning?
With vacant nods, Canfield and his two lieutenants returned to their meals, and Philip took a few ginger steps to get his blood flowing again. The ground was just now beginning to melt into a paste, turning the well-worn paths into muddy tracks. Company cook fires burned at the heads of each company street, and those who were not on guard duty were sitting around them chatting and making their breakfasts. Philip went from fire to fire, standing a few moments and making small talk, reminding the men he would be leading service in a few hours and then moving on. He was younger than their last chaplain, a man almost twice his age who, though having a good heart for seeing to his men, had been unable to suffer the rigors of campaigning through Tennessee and Alabama and was finally forced to resign. He was more personable than Philip, getting to know every man’s name, and had often been found keeping the men company around their cook fires in the evenings. It was an example Philip found hard to follow. After a single week of enthusiastic glad-handing and interpersonal camaraderie when he first arrived, Philip was faced with two quick deaths from wounds and a man stricken with the ague who wasted away before his eyes. The more he knew of a man, the harder it was going to be to watch him die. He was becoming guarded with how much he allowed himself to know.
“Well, Chaplain, a brisk Tennessee morning, isn’t it?” The voice caught Philip off guard. It was Captain Wofford, Canfield’s ideological opposite and a staunch Democrat, who was standing at the head of Company I’s street, hands on his hips.
Deep in thought, Philip hadn’t noticed Wofford standing there. “Captain, you startled me!” Philip exclaimed. “Yes, it is.”
Philip and Wofford had developed a grudging respect, born no doubt in the adventure of getting to Nashville by way of the Tennessee River, the march to Corinth, a battle, and finally the march back in the right direction. Wofford didn’t see the need for a chaplain per se but had found Philip to be a steadying influence among the fresh fish from Ohio—new volunteers of whom Philip’s own brother was one.
Paul Pearson had landed in Wofford’s company when they rejoined
the 21st Ohio in Nashville and distinguished himself enough to be promoted to corporal. Further, he was recommended for General Rosecrans’s experiment of an all-volunteer Pioneer Brigade, made up of the best soldiers from all of Rosecrans's command. Paul had spent a month and a half with the 21st before serving with the 3rd Battalion Pioneers. Philip had gotten used to seeing Paul every day and liked having his brother near. Now it felt like Paul was back home and Philip somewhere else.
“Your brother liking the Pioneers?” Wofford asked.
“He seems to be getting on. Hardly see him, as they are always out beyond the lines or just on them. He says they’ve had some scraps with enemy cavalry.”
“Since all signs point to a big move soon, you ready for a change of pace? The men have gotten careless of late—bound to happen when you’re just sitting around waiting.”
“Seems to be what’s on the horizon. I rather like the routine, keeps things regular.”
Wofford sniffed. “Too much time for mischief and for the old troubles to rile the men up, especially with the darkies always wandering through the lines or trying to. Had it not been for them, I’d imagine we might all be in a warm house today instead of freezing in a tent.”
“You mean secession and slavery.”
“No, I mean the darkies. Without the question about them, the secession would never have happened, and we would not be here to put an end to the foolishness of it,” Wofford replied evenly.
They’d had this conversation before—Wofford belonged to the camp of those Union men who would rather the Negro be returned to the state he was in previous to the war and all of the noisy Eastern abolitionists be shipped to Africa instead.
Philip chose his words carefully. “I can see that point; it is the question of slavery that has pitted the two sections against one another for sixty years or more. No one forced South Carolina’s hand. I think the Union needs to be preserved and that the entry into it was a pact, not a breakable contract. That’s why I’m here.”
“For a preacher, you are more in line with most of us than you are with the other Black Republicans in the regiment,” Wofford said with a smile.
River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4) Page 1