“Neibling said no transport would be set aside for the camp servants. Abe here will march just like me,” Canfield replied.
Abe, walking behind the captain, smiled a big smile.
“Thought you would,” Philip replied as he caught up with the captain. Silas Canfield was not unimposing in his best uniform, but there was a disarming softness to his eyes that set one at ease. Other than the supposed mutiny in Huntsville, Canfield always followed orders and regulations. To a point.
“Safest place to be is with the army,” Canfield added.
“There might be some danger to them if we close with the enemy,” Philip said.
“Neibling just doesn’t want to let me have the satisfaction of winning, but I can’t prevent Abe from following along if he wishes to. If he wishes to march along behind the company or alongside the road, what is it to Neibling?”
“I suppose it beats begging in the contraband camp,” Philip replied.
They reached the regimental wagons, and Abe loaded the chest he was carrying while Canfield handed an armful of folding chair and cookery to the quartermaster overseeing the loading of the officers’ baggage.
“Abe is not going to choke the regimental rear with his presence,” Canfield stated.
“Lucius here is also coming along. Right, Lucius?” Philip asked.
“Uh, yes, Chap’in,” Lucius replied uneasily.
“And I suppose Neibling has told you not to bring him?” Philip asked Canfield.
Canfield grinned a little, whipped a gloved finger under his nose, and sniffed. “Don’t suppose I do it with that much forethought. Just seems to be the right thing to do, so I do it. Never was much for suffering the presence of pigheaded men.”
“I’m sure there are those who’d like to see you cashiered.”
“Quite a few,” Canfield admitted with a laugh. “What Neibling did in Huntsville was morally wrong, and he had no authority but what he gave himself to turn those runaways back over to the planters. He appropriated the jail for that purpose, and I released those men. I didn’t volunteer to return runaways back to men who had no right to own other men in the first place.”
Philip nodded.
“What about you, Chaplain? You believe we should return them or keep them?” Canfield asked as Abe loaded Canfield’s crate of possessions into the wagon bed.
“I don’t believe we should return them, no. They are free men just as we are free in God’s eyes, just as all of us are or were born for death. There is no color in the kingdom, just what we insist there is here on earth.”
Canfield looked pleased at the answer. “Good, then we agree on something. Chaplain Skinner, the man you replaced, couldn’t give a damn about the contrabands and even participated in returning them to those they were escaping from. I never had much use for the man.”
Philip paused, unsure of how to react or comment. He shrugged it off. “There’s no agreement in ecclesiastical circles on what a slave is or isn’t in the eyes of a man, but in the eyes of God he is a man of equal standing. The soul knows no discrimination in eternity.”
As the baggage was inventoried and loaded, Canfield started back to his company area. Philip followed along beside, Abe trailing at a one-pace distance in the rear. They were all used to this deference, though for Philip it often felt queer to allow it. If he was really to treat all men as equals before God, should that not mean doing so in all things?
“Well, if the men of God can’t come to a consensus on the treatment of the former slaves as men, who by no fault of their own are now retarded by generations of shackles and the whip, then I’ve little use for the whole lot. Present company excluded, of course.”
“Oh, of course,” Philip replied wryly.
“Abe understands that his safety is his own. He can come and partake of my portion of rations and other chores, but he and the others are on their own when it comes time to face the enemy.”
They drew abreast of Philip’s packed gear. With a nod to the chaplain, Canfield and Abe continued on.
“Well, Lucius, might as well pack up for a march,” Philip said.
Lucius nodded and was silent some moments, his eyes darting to and fro, taking in all of the activity marking the end of another aspect of his freedom.
“I’se be able to ride?”
“You’ll have to march like the rest of the privates. But as I can’t ride all day without a need to stretch my legs, you can ride my mount when I dismount to walk.”
To Philip, that seemed to be highly generous. After all, an officer’s horse was an officer’s horse. Lucius didn’t quite seem to register the generosity, his brow still furrowed by worry.
“I’se be able to cook fer de oder officers?”
“If you wish to, you can share in my rations as before.”
“I’se can come if Chap’in wants it.”
Philip quelled a sigh. “You’re free, Lucius. That means you are free to choose to come, free to choose to go, free to choose to follow. I’ll count it a personal favor if you choose to come. I’m sure you’ll find yourself needed. I’ve valued your help in my ministry so far to the regiment.”
Lucius stood a moment in thought before slowly nodding his head. “I come.”
“Good man. Just don’t decide to take a rest and let the regiment get too far in front—don’t want to be gobbled up by partisans or cavalry. Go collect what you have and be back here in an hour.”
Philip eyed him critically. “You should make up a bundle, and we’ll fix that to my horse. No sense in having you carry everything you need.”
“Yes, Chap’in,” Lucius said and turned slowly back toward his own meager belongings.
A new voice interrupted, blaring and brash. “You not bringing on the whole nigger camp, are you?”
Philip turned to find Neibling approaching him.
“Didn’t realize that one man constituted a whole camp,” Philip replied dryly.
“You and Canfield and some of the other officers think this regiment is your private abolitionist arm. I tolerate the niggers hanging about the camp as long as they serve a useful purpose, but I won’t tolerate them getting in the way when we on the march. You mind that you don’t get in the way either.”
Neibling turned on his heel and strode off. Philip stood watching him some moments before turning away. Was it charity, or was it lording it over someone to have a servant attend to you? There were certainly advantages to having help, and he’d never lived before with any such luxury as a manservant. But the contrabands were always hovering like a cloud around the army wherever it was, exchanging duties for protection or clothing or food or all of the above. If they had the authority, even privates could have had a manservant to carry their loads for them while on the march. A whole regiment could duplicate itself—but this was where the flight of fancy became farcical. Why not arm them and let them go off and do the fighting too?
He shook his head. He would let the thing rest. If help was good for the other officers, it was good for him too.
But his flight of fancy turned his thoughts a more serious direction. To arm the Negroes and let them fight—Major General Benjamin Butler had supposedly done just that in New Orleans, and Colonel Thomas Higginson in South Carolina, and former senator and famous Kansas jayhawker James Lane in Kansas. None of these had the blessing or order of the War Department, but they were arming and training colored volunteers to fight. It did seem fantastic—marching former slaves or even free blacks into the guns of their former masters.
With feet frozen and fingers chilled to the bone, Philip made his way to the horse picket and retrieved his mount. It would be a long day in the saddle, and his own provisions still needed to be packed in his kit. Food had been prepared the evening before, and supper would be cold. They would march up the Nashville turnpike and out into country held by the enemy.
The command staff of the 21st was gathered around acting Colonel Neibling when Philip joined the group. It was an informal gathering, just a semi
circle of shoulder straps listening to the commanding officer relate instructions. A few pipes were lit and protruding jauntily from several mouths. The pleasing aroma of pipe tobacco was unfortunately spoiled by Neibling’s cigar, which he waved on occasion as he pointed out individual officers. His adjutant, two lieutenants, the major, and the quartermaster sergeant stood around Neibling, plus Philip and the surgeon.
“The enemy is concentrated along the Nashville pike at La Vergne and at Triune along the Franklin pike. Stewart’s Creek cuts across both pikes, and that is where we can expect to have a lively time of it. If we are deployed, I want the wagons well back, and I want Surgeon Young following the main line. Chaplain Pearson, I want you to see to the baggage and be ready to help Young and Detweiler with the wounded. If we have the companies ground their packs, you’ll stay behind to watch them.”
Philip nodded. He had never paid any attention to where the chaplain of the 24th was during their engagements with the enemy, so knowing what to do now was new to him. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out what to do, but all the same he felt a little better knowing he had orders to do something.
“Also, I’ll not have any of the niggers tagging along with the battle lines. They stay with the equipment. I’ll not be responsible for any of them getting their throats slit by guerrillas or shot at by the enemy.”
Philip nodded. Canfield seemed to know what he was doing, and his tagalong wasn’t too worried about what they were headed into.
“You’ll take up line of march in the van,” Neibling addressed Philip directly. “Surgeon Young will be in the rear element. If anyone falls out, ignore them. Order from the commanding general is no straggling, so anyone left behind will be at the mercy of guerrillas. Prepare to fall into the road once the 74th Ohio passes.”
Neibling nodded and handed the reins of his mount to his adjutant, taking up a position in the middle of the company street.
The companies had already been forming, each in its place after the color company took its position in the center. Standing now in front of each company, the company commanders waited for Neibling to call the whole order to attention. It was just becoming light enough to see faces amidst the formations, and the soldiers had bundled up as much as they could do and still march. Scarfs and heavy mufflers adorned necks and overcoats crisscrossed with the straps of knapsacks, cartridge boxes, belts, haversacks, canteens, and bayonets.
Philip waited a distance behind Neibling with his mount. Lucius appeared next to him, a worried look on his face. He had with him a sparse bundle wrapped in a blanket of whatever it was he’d collected since appearing at the contraband camp and considered important enough to carry along. He himself looked like one of the soldiers of the 21st, bundled up in an overcoat and a beat-up knapsack and haversack. The blanket roll was fixed to the hindquarters of the mount just behind the saddle. Philip looked at it, then back at the horse.
“Not room for both,” Philip whispered.
“I’se march,” Lucius said.
“I’m in the van with the command staff; you’ll have to march alongside.”
“I’se keep an eye on you.”
“I drew extra coffee; when we halt, build a fire and brew coffee. I want to keep the men warm, an’ a coffee will do just that. Whoever comes by, give him a pour.”
“I’se do dat,” Lucius said with a nod.
Philip felt glad to have a plan. If he couldn’t be of use on the battle line, he’d be of use where it counted with the soldiers. A prayer for a man might lift his soul a little, but a hot cup of coffee after a long and cold march would lift his spirits.
Philip waited patiently for the next order with a long overdue confidence. He was finally going to see what it was like to be a chaplain under fire.
* * *
It did not prove long before the first cavalry were spotted. The morning dawned and the fog was thick, leaving the fields and roadsides covered in a dense vagueness of shapes that defied discernment. Tree trunks loomed suddenly out of the mist, fence lines appeared from nowhere—one step forward was enough to reveal their presence with a suddenness that left the forward skirmish line making cautious progress. Then there was the enemy, who waited and watched just as intently, peering into the fog and equally afraid of being trampled suddenly by an enemy infantryman.
A few scattered shots an hour after the march began heralded the first encounters. The 21st was in the middle of the column, having contributed a few companies for flankers. The sun was belatedly making appearance through the gloom, the horizon just taking shape, when the first cannon fire drew everyone’s attention.
Somewhere, the enemy was making a stand.
Philip was in his place in the column, in the van of the regiment with Neibling and his adjutant and staff officers. Lucius was walking alongside. When the first cannon echoed, he looked nervously up at Philip.
“If the brigade deploys, stay well back,” Philip said. “We’ll take position in the rear of the line and just wait.”
Lucius nodded. The experience must have been very new, as Lucius seemed alert and ready to spring, each new report of noise sending him into a near crouch. Then there was a moment when the sounds of firing became general, not just the random fire of a skirmish line but of a pitched battle. Several cannon reports in succession and the firing of a volley of musketry said it all. The enemy was in line of battle and forcing the lead brigade to deploy, along with supporting artillery.
Several riders raced up and down the road, and one stopped in front of Neibling—General Miller’s staff officer. Philip halted next to Neibling’s horse to listen in.
“Sir, Miller’s compliments. The 21st will maintain its place in line, but be prepared to form on the left of the Nashville pike, forming the reserve of the brigade in rear of Colonel Hull’s 37th Indiana. The enemy is in force about La Vergne and in front of Stewart’s Creek.”
The brigade column was still in motion up the road and the noise of fighting still a mile or so away. There did not seem to be any panic or concern in the man’s demeanor as he pushed his mount out of the march column and rode easily down to the next regiment in line.
Philip breathed a little sigh of relief. Being the brigade reserve meant they might possibly avoid any action at all today. Perhaps the enemy would choose to abandon La Vergne and pull back before the brigade was called upon to form line, he thought to himself. Gone were the days when he hoped he would see the enemy up close. Any day without forming line of battle was a good day. Maybe this might be a good day.
Cannon fire boomed in the distance as the regiments continued to march toward the sounds of conflict. Philip shook his head. Whatever his day might prove to be, someone ahead wasn’t having a good day.
Chapter 5
Boots And Saddles
Will Hunter had little time to pay his respects to his friend before the ambulance where Mitchell lay suffering started for Murfreesboro. It would be an easy ten-mile ride over fairly even road. He likewise had little time to reflect upon his sudden fortune. He could tell that Colonel Allen didn’t like it, but Will wasn’t going to dispute the chain of command’s falling into his hands. The whole troop, not a squad or a detachment but the troop, was his. His at least until Mitchell’s return to duty . . . if he returned. The wound was serious, though not itself life threatening. It was pneumonia or gangrene or something else that usually did a man in if a round didn’t do it first.
Boots and Saddles had been sounded early this morning—before four o’clock—and the troops were dispatched up the road accompanied by artillery batteries and an infantry brigade. This was to do more than just watch over the enemy in his camps: it was to receive his approach.
Allen’s instructions to the commanders were simple: delay the enemy and fall back; get him to deploy his brigades into battle line and then fall back. Protect the batteries and work in concert with the infantry on the flanks; no heroics and no risk. Enemy cavalry appears, fall back and protect the retreat of the batteries and
infantry.
The troop was in the saddle and forming by five, coffee gulped hurriedly. Will’s friend Captain Peters gave him a friendly pat on the back.
“You ready to take command? I know’d you wanted a command, but are you ready for it?”
“No worries, won’t pull some surprise on you. The men is ready to follow orders, and we’ll be in our usual place,” Will replied. This had suddenly become more than just a game or personal bravado. He didn’t have to watch his back for a scheming and jealous troop commander waiting to throw him in irons now. He could get used to this.
“Better not. No bullheaded charging out in front and exposing my flank,” Peters added.
“I’ll be the soul of caution.”
“Ballocks!” Peters huffed.
“I’ll be just shy of dangerously overconfident?” Will shrugged.
“That’s more believable,” Peters laughed.
Banter aside, Will could feel the responsibility of fifty men all dependent on his quick decisions, his practiced eye for advantage, and his just plain good luck. It would be something just shy of overconfidence he’d have to rely on—now that he was no longer in need of doing something to be noticed by the high command. He could just do what he had to do to keep the command he had now.
It was becoming light when the troops dismounted and fanned out behind the rows of fence rails and stones denoting the forward position. The barricade was little more than knee-high, but even a thin split-rail fence provided some obstacle for a flying minié ball. Several more fallback positions were in the process of being staged behind them, artillery batteries finding commanding ground and the infantry regiments fortifying along the roadway. The sole infantry brigade divided to occupy each position. The cavalry split in two, four troops to the right and three to the left, and spread out for three hundred yards and more from the road, taking positions along cedar brakes and fence lines. Each troop dismounted, and the troopers set to work pulling down fence rails. It took but fifteen minutes to construct a decent cover.
River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4) Page 6