River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4)

by Phillip Bryant

  Will ran as fast as he could manage over the slippery ground, thanking Mitchell for having the troop ready to bound forward. The missiles were becoming more numerous, and several whistled fairly close to his head as he sped along and nearly crashed into Mitchell firing his side arm into the trees.

  Will slowed his clip enough to come abreast of Mitchell’s mount and had just looked up, a big grin on his face, when Mitchell’s return glance suddenly became a grimace. Will dug his heels in and grabbed on to Mitchell’s halter to stay his momentum. A bloody patch had already begun to spread on his friend’s overcoat on the left side. Mitchell dropped his arm and nearly lowered the pistol on Will’s head; it instead fell into the mud and landed on Will’s boot.

  “Oh, God, that hurts!” Mitchell gasped out as he doubled over in his saddle.

  Will grabbed the reins of Mitchell’s mount and turned the horse around. “Fall back, fall back to the horse picket!”

  His party on foot were still making their way to their mounts, which were now visible in the haze. More accurate fire was falling on them now, and a few of their horses cried out after getting hit. Will quickly counted noses. All of the troopers were still in the saddle as he led Mitchell’s mount by hand at a run. With the whole area now awakened to their presence, the captured Yankees would have to ride double with their captors, and no one left behind. Getting them to the horses was no problem: the captives ran for their lives just as much as did the troopers. No one wanted to get shot in the back.

  The line of mounted troopers turned and made another brief stand, returning fire before turning once more. Will was breathless by the time he and Mitchell’s mount made it to the horse picket. Mitchell was trying to keep his balance and stay in the saddle, but the side wound made it hard to keep up a good pace.

  “Sergeant, get the troop faced about and put the prisoners in the middle of the column. The captain’s hit,” Will called out. The fire from behind had slackened off, the cavalry just enough out of range to make hitting anything unlikely, and the fog still obscured accuracy.

  “You make it to La Vergne?” Will asked Mitchell.

  “I reckon so,” Mitchell said listlessly.

  Will grabbed his mount and rode forward to catch up with the troop’s first sergeant. The ride back to La Vergne would have to be up pace. No one else was wounded, but several of the mounts were bleeding from flanks or hindquarters and might not make a slow trot back.

  Mitchell was in a bad way as they pushed quickly into La Vergne, clattering across the Stewart’s Creek bridge and entering their encampment. Hardee’s corps was camped all along the village, with outposts facing those of the enemy at Nashville and Triune, Tennessee, across the Nolensville pike and Shelbyville road, as well as picketing and in force around La Vergne along the Murfreesboro pike. Only eighteen miles separated the two armies, with the 1st Alabama providing the bulk of the picketing and patrolling between La Vergne and Nashville.

  Mitchell’s troop arrived just as other troops were about to move out on other errands.

  Colonel Allen was conferring with his staff when Will rode in at the head of the troop, dragging a sagging Mitchell slumped over the neck of his mount. A crimson stain led down the horse’s side. Mitchell was peaked and white, barely conscious.

  Their old friend Captain Peters, attending to his breakfast, watched the troop enter the camp and ran up to Will.

  “Bad?”

  “Bad.” Will nodded.

  “Sir, five prisoners and only Captain Mitchell wounded,” Will reported to Allen.

  Colonel Allen took a step forward as he watched two men lift Captain Mitchell from his horse and onto the ground. Allen had that “What did you do this time?” look on his face.

  “What happened?” Allen snapped.

  “Crept up to a picket post, but fog so thick we couldn’t know where they were until we was spotted. Grabbed who we could and skedaddled, but not before their whole line was alerted. Captain came up to provide cover but was hit.”

  “You lead?” Allen asked.

  “Yes, sir. Captain had the support element ready should we need it, which we did.”

  “You take any long chances?”

  “Sir?” Will asked.

  “You know what I mean, Lieutenant. Did you take any long chances?”

  Will hesitated a moment. He had known Allen would take this tack—that he would assume any problem or casualty was because of Will’s impetuousness and not just the way things go. No matter how cautious or careful he was, Allen would always assume the worst. Yet, even after rehearsing his answer to hypothetical questions on the way back, the tone and question still set Will’s teeth on edge.

  “No sir, just bad luck is all. Fog hid us pretty good in our approach, but they was awake. Fog did us more good than harm.”

  “Take command of the troop, Hunter,” Allen said after a brief pause. “Get the troop fed and send someone to escort the prisoners to General Hardee.”

  “Sir,” Will said and saluted. There was a moment of rapturous joy that might have leapt from Will’s throat into a shout and a clap of the hands had he not subdued it with effort. The thought of the cost to Mitchell’s well-being helped.

  “Damn,” Peters said while the regimental surgeon removed Mitchell’s traps and coats to get at the wound. “That’s not a good wound.”

  Will shook his head in agreement. If there were such a thing as a good wound.

  “Had to kill a man this morning,” Will said.

  “Pardon?” Peters turned to look at Will.

  “A man came up from the picket’s post as the boys was hightailing it out. He come up an’ startled me. I had to either shoot or get shot in the back runnin’. I shot him, least I think I did. I just fired and then run.”

  “Should have that trigger finger looked at. Gets you into trouble,” Peters said.

  Will looked at his hand. “Didn’t have time to grab the man, but don’t know that he would have shot at me either. It was just to get out of there, and shooting him was the only way. Never killed a man up that close before.”

  “Maybe you didn’t,” Peters added.

  “Maybe I did.”

  “Well, if it bothers you so much, go find the chaplain.”

  Will wouldn’t do that and Peters knew it, so there was little use in mentioning it. But Will was haunted by the memory of the man—the blanket, the unsuspecting shock on his face, and the sickening thud into the dead leaves that followed on Will’s heels.

  “We’ve shot plenty of Yankees or injured them in melees, but something about this . . .” Will halted.

  “Him or you. He’d have shot you if you left him alone and run. Put it from your mind.”

  The prisoners were being herded into La Vergne, and the troop saw to their mounts as the first rays of the morning sun peered over the cedar tops surrounding the camps. Several of the wounded horses were being looked at by the surgeon after getting Mitchell into an ambulance headed for Murfreesboro. It was going to be an expense for the troopers if they lost their mounts. Horseflesh was at a premium, and horses fit for cavalry service more so. Having to take something at your own expense into harm’s way was a tough call. Shooting one’s mount to save it the agony of a slow death was mercy, but it also meant being relegated to the shameful dismounted ranks. Not much use can be made of a trooper without a mount.

  Will saw to his own horse, relieving the beast of saddle and blanket and giving it a good brushing. It was just a horse, one he’d had to buy, and though he’d given it a name, he didn’t have the same sentimental attachment to it as the horse he’d ridden into Michie’s before Shiloh—the one he’d had taken from him when Kearns arrested him. That beast was who knew where by now. This was a sturdy Federal horse, captured and given to the quartermaster and then requisitioned for his use. Perhaps detachment was best if a battle was in the offing. No sense in becoming attached if he’d have to put the animal down in the end. Like that Yankee he’d shot—it was just an act of the war.

/>   A rumbling in his stomach told him it was time to find the officers’ mess. It hit him suddenly, as if he’d forgotten or been too distracted with getting his friend back to the camp: he was now in command of the troop. He gave the orders now, he didn’t follow them. And he’d gained the position not by chicanery or by politics but just because he was next in line. Mitchell might return in a few months or never. It would be better for them both if he didn’t.

  Like the nagging feeling that he’d done that Yankee wrong by shooting him, Will felt he’d do his friend wrong by hoping Mitchell would stay away. He shook the thought out of his head and found a spot near the fire of the officers’ mess. He accepted a brimming cup of hot liquid that passed for coffee. For the moment, he’d enjoy a desire fulfilled.

  Chapter 3

  The Worm Turns

  Morning—a peek of the sun over the tops of barren tree limbs and a gradual lightening of the dark, bluish hues of night into dawn bringing another day’s labor into sharp relief. Before the cold extremities could loosen and seek warm fires or the sun fully brighten the eastern skyline, a bugle cracked the crisp morning air in sharp, grating tones to sound the start of a new military day.

  Reveille in the 3rd Confederate Infantry sounded as it did most mornings, though a soldier had better be out of his blankets before reveille if he wanted to enjoy some quick coffee and breakfast before morning call and inspection. In most regiments and companies, the morning roll call was a formality, just to get a count of who was to be assigned fatigue detail or how many noses would be carrying a musket if the enemy should appear.

  In K Company it was different. It had always been different. For John Meeks and his Arkansas friends, roll call was for their superiors to keep an eye on him and the other former members of the Arkansas Peace Society—all of whom had been deemed a danger to the local secession movement back home. Company K, made up of all those men rounded up for their opposition to secession and the war was a handcuffed volunteer company. It had been a year, over a year, since they were forcibly drawn into the 13th Arkansas Infantry. All but John Glenn had been rounded up one by one and marched away in chains. Glenn was dragged into their company camp one frosty December morning after being rousted out of his hide in the northern Arkansas mountains, tracked down by locals who wanted nothing to do with a traitor but to slap raw leather against his backside. He and several others had held out the longest but they had been given the same ultimatum John Meeks, David Grover, Phillip Leach, and James Holly had been given: volunteer to serve or rot in prison.

  As the company lined up in two ranks for the morning roll call, the soldier-prisoners stumbled into their places in the line.

  John Meeks had long ago given up on the idea that this was just a really long and horrible dream. John wasn’t tall or squat, rotund or lanky—not a standout in any way, except that he was a natural leader and owned land where he and his compatriots could meet in secret to contend with the drive to secede from the Union. Thirty years old, John had a weather-beaten face that was not unpleasing to behold but told of hours in the sun working his land. With brown hair and dark brown eyes, John had a quietude about him that had gathered other likeminded men to the cause of protecting their property from those who did not share their dislike of secession. Like the others, he had left wife and children behind to make do on land that was too big to be worked alone. They had put up with the war so far to keep those they had left behind safe—their last vision as they were led away bound and bloody that of wives and children upon doorsteps and yards, screaming and crying.

  There had been talk and attempts to get away even on the day they were informed of their “choice.” But they had been watched closely, too closely to do anything brash. As the days and weeks wore on and the companies comprising the 13th Arkansas were sent to drill and become soldiers, the chance to walk away never came. Even after they marched from Arkansas to Corinth, Mississippi, they had no opportunity to run. By then most had resigned to just getting the war over with. That could only happen if they helped defeat the Yankees. They weren’t Northern sympathizers or closet Yankees; they just didn’t want to go to war over a trifling. But it seemed it didn’t matter what they wanted.

  The 13th Arkansas was never fully filled to become a regiment, so another 13th Arkansas was organized, and with the addition of several companies of Tennesseans, the designation of 3rd Confederate was conferred upon them. The Confederate government took charge of the regiment in pay and in supply. They were no longer the burden of the Arkansas government—much to the chagrin of those who had thought they were at least going to serve and fight for their state.

  In the end, Company K were still just a company of reprobates in the eyes of all other companies of “loyal” Arkansans, who would just as soon have them around to do all of the onerous detail and fatigue duty. Hardee’s corps had been in the vicinity of La Vergne and Triune for a week, and when they should have been building winter quarters for themselves, they were still sleeping under canvas. The weather had not cooperated in making for a comfortable existence either, with sleet and freezing rain being the daily fare.

  Meeks’s archenemy—the archenemy of many—was now their squad leader: Lieutenant James Campbell. In the act of rounding up the Peace Society membership, Campbell had failed to procure Meeks’s homestead as he had expected to do, along with Phillip Leach’s. The choice of volunteer or prison had taken him as much off guard as those accused: he had thought these traitors would just be stripped of land and title and sent to prison, not be given a chance to become soldiers. Even the acts of arson that he tried to pin on Meeks in particular did not lend to his plans to become a wealthy landowner. For his trouble, all he got in the end was his lieutenant’s commission.

  By now, however, it was clear that as an officer Campbell was also a failure. He should have been a captain by this time, in command of his own company, but his lack of intelligence and industry had kept him on the long list when it came time to fill vacancies and promote. Campbell blamed his poor luck on always having to keep an eye on the traitors in the company. Desertions and illness were high in Company K compared to the other companies, and all Company K officers blamed their poor luck upon their hapless privates. Those who should have had opportunity to shine at Shiloh found themselves instead threatening death to anyone who tried to slip away before the attack started, and indeed, several did manage to get away in the confusion of battle. Because Company K was the only one with so many missing from the rolls who could not be accounted for as killed, wounded, or captured, it was assumed they had deserted. The regimental command took it out on the company command staff, and they in turn vented their frustrations and embarrassment upon their men.

  Now it was over a year later, and Campbell was still just a second lieutenant, the lowest of the commissioned ranks. His hopes of a land empire in Arkansas dashed, he still had a full gullet of rage to impart upon his charges, Meeks being but his favorite.

  “Private Meeks, Leach, Grover, Glenn, and Holly, report to Sergeant Wade for sink detail,” Campbell called out after the roll was tallied and sick call announced. No one ever answered sick call; if he did he would come back to find his belongings rifled through or missing, punishment for shirking. Campbell always assumed a man was not ill at all but looking for a means to slip away.

  With the formation dismissed, Meeks and the others reported to their second favorite person on earth, Sergeant Thomas Wade. Wade had risen through the noncommissioned ranks easily enough to become second sergeant. Campbell’s lackey before the war, Wade continued in that role now, with little love for the Peace Society conscripts and more than willing to just go along with whatever Campbell wanted.

  “You niddering malconents, go draw shovels an’ dig out the company sinks,” Sergeant Wade said with a grin. Sink detail was the most onerous of all fatigue detail: the digging out of the common trench that served as the toilet for the company. The stink was bad even in the cold, though it was worse in the summer if the company
was stationary for long. Wade loved to assign and supervise the duty.

  Today’s detail was just another in a string of things that had to be done about a camp, and someone had to be sent to do it. Why not the reluctant soldiers of Company K?

  “Holly an’ me is going to go on liberal,” Glenn whispered to Meeks as the group trudged toward the sinks with shovels on their shoulders.

  “What?” John Meeks whispered in return. “Liberal leave” was the soldier’s euphemism for being absent without leave.

  “We going to slip away. We all should,” Glenn repeated.

  “Shhh, keep it down,” James Holly said.

  “When?” John asked.

  “Soon,” John Glenn said as the group stopped in front of the steamy trench. “If the enemy’s going to go on the offensive, we slip away in the confusion. We do it when the enemy’s close.”

  Heaving a sigh and taking a deep breath, John covered his nose with his neckerchief and went to work. Sergeant Wade stood off at a distance to keep away from the smell, leaving the five of them free to talk.

  “We shoulda done it on the retreat from Kentucky after Perryville,” Holly said, digging his boot into the soft earth to extend the trench.

  “They was watching us too close,” John replied. At Shiloh, no one had wanted to test whether the army would hold to their threats to throw any man’s family in jail if he should not report to roll call. It had seemed that they might be drawing the war to a close, and no one wanted to be labeled as a deserter, or worse, a traitor, if they were about to win the war. But the reversals of fortune in both theaters of the war—Robert E. Lee’s army bested at Antietam and Braxton Bragg’s at Perryville; Sterling Price and Earl Van Dorn’s army at Corinth not just bested but nearly routed—told a different tale of how the war was turning for the Confederates. They weren’t winning the war or probably going to. And they hadn’t lost their desire to just be left alone to farm their land back home. Their impressment into the military was now not only a burden on the conscience but also an aiding in the slow death of the Confederacy.