River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4)

by Phillip Bryant

  Philip didn’t necessarily agree with that either, but he was in no position to alienate anyone if he wanted to retain any influence.

  “I don’t stand on politics, Captain. God created all men equal in standing before him, and that includes the Negro. I’ll not judge another’s servant.”

  Wofford’s eyes followed Lucius, who was hovering around the officers’ mess. “Well, you can afford to stand on ceremony and the office, but these darkies continually coming into our lines is causing more strife within the ranks, and those of the abolitionist opinions are at odds with the rest of us. Personally, I’d move them all out of camp and let them fend for themselves—if they be equal before God, he can protect them. It is not enough that we have to keep the men to their duty when they are constantly being riled by these people.”

  Rosecrans’s directive that all contraband within the army’s sphere of control should be employed by the army when possible, and the others sent to regional cooperatives like the ones in Corinth, Memphis, and now Nashville, meant that Colonel Neibling had to put up with more Negroes in his camp than he wanted. For officers like Wofford who saw their presence as an irritant to good discipline, the old rivalries and conflicts were born anew each day.

  Philip could not wholly disagree with Neibling’s wanting to be rid of the Negroes. His own encounter with Chaplain James Alexander of the 66th Illinois at Corinth’s contraband camp had convinced him that it was probably better to have the escaped slaves under one roof, with their own kind and away from the passions of whites, for the simple reason that many abuses were to be had even in the camps. An edict from General Grant, parroted by Rosecrans for his own army, had designated a superintendent for contrabands in the Department of the Tennessee to see to the protection and governance of all of the contraband camps being organized in cities under Union control. Chaplain Alexander had been organizing the contrabands in Corinth into a small village, meant to be self-sufficient from the army if at all possible. He had undertaken no mean task.

  “I suppose I’d rather see them working for the army that liberated them than languishing in some camp without supervision,” Philip replied as he too watched Lucius serving breakfast. The man was energetic and skilled at food preparation as well as with tools. “It is a question of what will happen when the army leaves Nashville.”

  “They will go back to the contraband camp here in Nashville,” Wofford replied, “and out of our camp. It will be good to be rid of the distraction.”

  Wofford wasn’t keen on contrabands or chaplains as a whole, but Philip always knew where the man stood, and for that Wofford had his respect.

  Wofford continued, “Canfield and the others is paying a price defying Neibling’s wishes about them darkies in camp. It don’t do to run cross with the colonel.” He looked Philip over accusingly. “You’ve taken to keepin’ a nigger too.”

  “Canfield may pay a price, but I’ve no promotion or office to attain to. I do find Lucious to be a help, yes. But it’s chaplain or it’s nothing for me. I’ve no ambitions to lose.”

  “Well, followin’ Canfield’s bad example is not going to get anyone far, notably himself,” Wofford stated flatly. “And Neibling can put the whole regiment on duty every Sunday just to spite you. He’s not a man who lets things go.”

  “Neibling has put the regiment on parade a few Sundays, but if it was to spite me he didn’t make it clear. He hasn’t made a habit of it. But I do not see what the fuss is with having contrabands in camp.”

  “Neibling’s not running a crusade to save the niggers or give them employment; Canfield set a bad example.”

  Philip nodded, silent a moment as his thoughts returned to sermonizing. “I’ll have service here in the company street,” he said. Wofford wouldn’t take the time to attend himself, but he wouldn’t prevent his company from attending either.

  “Fine morning for it,” Wofford said, looking up at the sky. It was clear for once, and the sunshine was melting the frost. “You’ll have some sun to warm you by.”

  Philip took his leave of Wofford and finished doing his rounds of the company cook fires, reminding the bleary-eyed soldiers when service was to be. Often it was the same lie of “I’ll be there,” or the opposite response of “No thank you, Chaplain” from a person who would show up every time.

  A supply of prayer books and testaments had been received and delivered by the US Sanitary and Christian Commissions, two new organizations that raised funds to see to the common welfare of the Union soldiers wherever they might be. The testaments were new and crisp in their bindings, but cheaply done, so few would survive hard campaigning or constant use. But Philip had enough for each man in the regiment, and he delighted to see some of them out even this morning as the men went about their routines.

  The songbooks and prayer books were in shorter supply. The US Christian Commission focused on getting Bibles into the hands of the soldiers rather than on getting songbooks printed en masse. Philip did not like a service without singing—it left too much time for him to speak, and he’d rather keep his addresses short lest he run out of things to say. The contrabands seemed to know more songs than the white soldiers and had been his saving grace so far in leading or having some form of psalm to sing. If he had any musical ear he would form them into a choir, but he hadn’t the slightest ear for music or for leading off in the right key. There was no instrument to set a key anyway, so songs eventually drifted into a minor key that also trended down in tempo, making every attempted hymn into a funeral dirge. A songbook would at least allow those who knew how to read music to keep the others from dragging the thing into an ear-grating torture. He still hadn’t solved that problem, but with a move eminent, the matter would have to wait.

  With the sun up and the time come, Philip staked out his place in the center of the company streets, signaled with a friendly wave of his hand that it was time for service, and waited. Who or how many would show up? It was like this every Sunday—would So-and-so’s company be on detail and thus unavailable? Would Captain So-and-so allow his company time off this morning and relent to Philip’s constant needling?

  Philip stood with his hands behind his back and watched.

  At his signal, a crowd of men stepped out of their company streets and headed toward him, a few at first and then tens, so that by the time the soldiers had gathered around in a semicircle there were several hundred in attendance. The contrabands, to a man, gathered a few feet behind him, ever the enthusiastic attenders.

  Since this was the last Sunday service he might have for some weeks, Philip had chosen to read the story of Gideon and his army. It seemed appropriate for the occasion. After thumbing through his Bible to get to the right spot, he looked up to see what looked like half the regiment gathered around, as well as some faces he’d never seen before sitting near his brother—whose presence was another surprise.

  Smiling, he started in. The message this day was simple: God chose to use Gideon and whittle down his army so that the power of the Lord might be manifest, not the strength of Gideon’s numbers. Likewise, God had whittled down each regiment of this Union army to those who had the strength to continue and who had avoided hostile fire to this point. The war was still in doubt, but God knew the end from the beginning.

  The singing this morning was on pitch and well sung, the voices of so many adding to the camp noises and attracting even more soldiers so that the entire company street was soon filled with men seated on their gum blankets. Even Wofford was drawn in.

  Gratified at the showing, Philip gave what might have been his best sermon. At least it felt good to speak to his largest crowd yet. No doubt the knowledge of the commencement of another campaign had motivated most into attending.

  Saying a final prayer, Philip dismissed the service and waited for anyone to approach for last words of encouragement. A few men, the same few, always came up to shake his hand and say the same things about the message. Philip could have read from a newspaper and would still hear the same thing
s from the same men. Their compliments were nice to hear, but he often wondered what it was they thought he’d said.

  This morning the receiving line was long, as a procession of those who’d never attended a service before paraded past to shake his hand and say a word or two. It seemed they’d been encouraged. He’d have to do this more often in the midst of a campaign.

  Once the well-wishers had gone past, Paul stood off to the side with a few unfamiliar men.

  “Brother, a pleasant surprise!” Philip exclaimed as he grasped Paul warmly by his shoulders.

  “We was back from the outskirts with the battalion and thought we’d catch your service. The Pioneers’ chaplain is a Catholic.” Paul shrugged as he motioned over his shoulder to the five men behind him.

  “He not a bad preacher, but ’less you is a Catholic, you don’t take the sacrament,” one of the men chimed in. He was burly with a long goatee and bright blue eyes. “John Revender, sir, 90th Ohio.”

  Philip took the man’s offered hand in a hearty shake. The other men were from all over the Western states, and each had chosen to volunteer for the Pioneers. Paul didn’t look the worse for wear, though the Pioneers had been active from the moment they were formed with digging rifle pits and defenses all around Nashville.

  “Yes, sir, we needed to hear some proper Protestant preaching before we get to marching,” another of Paul’s fellows added. He was a smaller man in stature and thin.

  The men were standing in the middle of the company street and looking conspicuous. “If you men do not have to be somewhere, come by my tent and have some coffee and tell me about the Pioneers,” Philip said. He did not usually entertain, if that was what you could call it while in camp. He was usually bored after a service, his duty done for the day, and left to his own devices unless someone wanted a quick word with him about some problem.

  As Lucius stoked the fire that served as Philip’s and Surgeon Young’s living space while in camp, Philip settled himself down in a folding chair and accepted a brimming cup of coffee fresh from the officers’ mess a few yards away. He invited the privates to take some coffee as well. The men found whatever logs or seating they felt comfortable with and sat around the fire. They were dressed in Illinois and Ohio shell jackets of various cuts and trims, and but for the nuances, they could have all been from the same regiment.

  “Captain Clements commands our battalion, and they got lieutenants commanding each company, but we rarely all together at once,” Paul related as they passed around the coffee. “They send us off to do this or that, mostly lately to repair the roads and bridges nearby for use.”

  “Yeah, it ain’t like a regiment. We don’t have to do any duty neither,” Revender added. “Each battalion is almost the size of a regiment. We just come back from working on the Murfreesboro Pike about five miles from La Vergne, so we suspect we headed down that way soon. The enemy holds a bridge across Stewart’s Creek into La Vergne and one leading into Triune that we might have to repair if they fire it.”

  “Any of you boys ever done engineering work before?” Philip asked. Men like General Rosecrans had spent their military and civilian educations and careers as planners and executors of bridge projects and road building, but for the rank and file it was usually just shovel work.

  “No, never,” the thin one said. “They wanted volunteers, and it seemed a way to get out of having to do detail or get shot at. We ain’t so far avoided getting shot at. We always seem to be getting shot at.” Paul had introduced him as Willow—because he was tiny and light on his feet like a will o’ the wisp.

  “More dangerous than picket duty?” Philip asked, alarmed.

  “More dangerous than skirmish duty,” Revender said.

  “It ain’t been that bad,” Paul replied. “Half of the battalion is on picket or other detail while the other half is working, but the sharpshooters have kept up a constant fire on us whenever we out.”

  One of the others broke in. “Ever’one does they duty, and the work is backbreaking. We joke that we should march out with shovels on our shoulders instead of muskets. We get someplace and the muskets get stacked, and we carry the shovel around with us the rest of the time.”

  Revender said, “Clements seems to be a good man, fair. He come from the 69th Ohio. We even got our own artillery battery, men what volunteered from the Chicago Board of Trade. They out with us sometimes in case the enemy cavalry that always seems to be hovering about takes a liking to charge us.”

  “So you think the army is about to march south?” Philip asked.

  There were nods all around.

  “With the work the battalions have been doing, yeah,” Paul said with finality. “They only build corduroy roads for one purpose, and the 3rd Battalion has been doing that solid for several days, cutting a path through the cedar brakes and laying corduroy for several miles. The army is going to be moving soon.”

  Chapter 2

  Allen’s 1st Alabama Cavalry

  It was Christmas Day, 1862, and the men of G Troop were in the saddle and moving north along the Murfreesboro and Nashville pike on another frosty morning. Unless the troop was assigned some camp detail, the morning always started before the sun, with stiff arms and legs seeking the temporary warmth of a fire and coffee, and then a canter down the Nashville pike with the bite of morning watering the nose and numbing the cheeks. With fingers too cold to feel reins and toes too cold to feel the toes of boots, the troopers made time and watched the ice form on the edges of mufflers wrapped tightly about their chins. Nose, fingers, toes. Indispensable parts of the body that defied protecting from the cold no matter how one covered them.

  The enemy had been active all along the perimeter around Nashville, and to the men of G Troop that meant one thing: that there would not be a quiet winter in camp but an active campaign. The men were weary of the daily forays, and the weather had been disagreeable. Thick fogs, freezing rain, bone-chilling mornings, and late-night vigils in the open had been their lot for the last two weeks.

  Will Hunter was bundled up this morning in a new red-and-green muffler sent from Huntsville as his Christmas present from Mary. The ends and tassels hung garishly down his front in an unseemly display of unmilitary brightness against his dirty gray woolen greatcoat, which was doing little to keep the shivers at bay. His nose was annoyingly cold and running, the sniffles coming every few moments lest the stream be allowed to freeze on his mustache.

  Riding next to his old friend Mitchell, now a captain, Will led his troop along the roadside in the dark of the early morning. Much had changed in the regiment since his return. Old faces were absent. Colonel Clanton was gone, promoted, and his old benefactor Major Wade Allen—who had tried to buffer the more egregious offenses of Will’s old commanding officer, Jackson Kearns—was now colonel. Kearns was dead, moldering in a grave in Ohio somewhere, the victim of an overzealous Federal trooper sent to track him and his escaped fellow prisoners down.

  Mitchell and Peters were now captains of their own troops, leaving Will behind in rank and command. He had used to curse Kearns for bringing about both of their captures, but since Kearns had gotten his, there was little use heaping ill on the dead. Allen was not interested in giving Will his own troop or a promotion. Though Allen had backed him on numerous occasions when Kearns tried to have him arrested for some infraction, he knew Will too well to trust him just yet.

  Will had found his riding legs easily enough upon his return to the regiment, the loneliness of the journey gladly surrendered to being back with his command. He had spent months in captivity and weeks in wandering from point to point following Bragg’s army to Murfreesboro, Tennessee.

  The trip from deep Mississippi to deliver the corpse of Stephen Murdoch to his family had been but a diversion. Murdoch had been only a mile from making it safely across the Crum’s Mill bridge when he was mortally wounded in the rear-guard action of the bungled retreat from Corinth. Will had tried to get the boy to the army hospitals in Ripley, but Murdoch hadn’t surviv
ed the long trip. The extra ride to Carthage, Mississippi, was of Will’s own choice. The Murdoch family could at least know where their son was buried. Many would not even have a name on their marker, just an “Unknown” to note that a nameless soldier rested here. Some might never be found.

  After the morose trip to Carthage, Will had the choice to continue on to Montgomery and his wife or head north to find his command. Recuperating at home had its allure, but it warred with ambition. Will had not yet accomplished making a name for himself, and that would not be accomplished at home. Anxious to get back and into command, he’d struck north.

  Instead of a cheer and a command, he’d found an icy reception. The 1st Alabama had been hard on the saddle and looking forward to a quiet winter camp as Bragg’s army limped back from Kentucky. Peters and Mitchell were exuberant when he rode into camp nine months after disappearing into the mouth of Camp Chase and then the deeps of Ohio, and they shared some whiskey ration with him, but soon the business at hand was to figure out what in the world to do with Will Hunter. Others had been elevated to command, new lieutenants had been commissioned from the ranks, and the whole regimental command structure had shifted. Will was the odd man out.

  His first interview with Allen was an eye-opener. Will had taken the steps leading to the front door of the comfortable house in La Vergne where Allen was situated with a lively spring, ready to be greeted with open arms.

  “Sir, Lieutenant Hunter reporting,” Will had said with a big smile.

  “Hunter?” Colonel Allen asked in surprise, though not with a happy note.

  “Yes, sir. Escaped prisoner of war reporting back.”

  “Hunter, why didn’t you report to the parole camp?” Allen dropped the pencil he’d been twirling between his fingers and let it roll off his desk. He sat regarding Will with distaste and a cockeyed, sideward glance. Shifting his gaze to the floor, he bent over and retrieved the pencil, turning his glare to the now-broken tip and irritably setting it in the groove at the top of the desk.