“Yes.” Allen gave Will a look of mock reprimand. “Wiggins moved Brave Bryant forward already. Head down the pike and you should find his section deployed on the right. You deploy to protect his flank.”
Will stifled a snicker, then realized it was he who would have to deal with the lieutenant. “Sir.” Will saluted.
It was quite dark when Will’s troop had sorted themselves out and moved off down the pike, the darkness as thick as the morning’s fog had been. Despite the pitch-blackness, the noises coming from the battery’s horses and teams were unmistakable. To the left a fire was burning, illuminating the other section of Wiggins’s battery a good distance from the pike—further than Will would have thought advisable. If there was going to be a rush to get back to the bridge, they would have to get there under fire with the enemy pushing down the same road they would need to use.
Will directed his troop off the road and into a field where Bryant had situated his three cannon. They were on a hill that would probably have a good view of the surroundings if it were light enough to see them. Will halted his command and rode into the center of the guns.
“Lieutenant Bryant, we’re here to support. I’ll put my troop at the base of this hill and off to your right,” Will said and saluted.
“General Wheeler said someone would be about to post on our right; had me worried when it grew dark and no one showed. Kept sending men off to the right to see if someone hadn’t come by,” the lieutenant said with a look of concern. He counted his Will’s troopers, his lips moving each unspoken number. “Where’s the rest of you?” Bryant asked, an incredulous look on his face.
John Paul Bryant was a tall man, six foot and not very hard to pick out from a crowd of gray. His friends called him J.P. and though he was well liked by his section of the battery, he had the reputation of being a martinet when it came to dealing with Wheeler’s troopers. His carefully trimmed mustachios were a little unkempt at the moment, but his uniform was immaculately clean despite the many days they had all been in constant movement. His thin lips and delicate chin gave Will the impression of a man who’d chosen the wrong line of work. Bryant was a hen, and like a hen, he was about to peck Will to death over details neither could control.
“Just us, G Troop from the 1st Alabama,” Will replied, inwardly groaning at what he assumed was to come .
Bryant was silent for a moment or two, looking this way and that as if trying to decide something. “I tell you, it isn’t proper to post less than a few companies in support of a section of guns. What if our mounts are disabled and the guns have to be moved by hand? Could a troop of cavalry handle that and security?”
Will bit his lip and only nodded. He had learned what to expect from Bryant when it came to anything that smacked of too little security. His men had taken to calling him Brave Bryant behind his back. He realized why Allen had ordered him to post his troop in support—punishment for being tardy.
“The boys’ll keep a good handle on things,” Will said, trying to change the subject. “What are your own orders? I seen a fire up a ways on the left. Who else is out here?”
“Out there is Calloway’s section and some two or three troops from the 51st Alabama in support. From here we’ll cover Calloway’s section as they fall back toward the creek and leapfrog until we’re over the bridge and it’s fired. We hold here until Calloway is well past and is going into battery.”
“And if the enemy don’t let us?” Will asked.
“We cover Calloway’s retreat as long as possible. Your job is to keep the enemy from my guns. A fair piece of work it would be if they’d sent three troops instead of just one!” Bryant replied bitterly, his delicate lips now screwed into a pucker, his hands planted firmly upon his hips.
“I’ll post pickets out on the right two hundred yards to cover our flank and keep the rest of the boys close at hand at the base of the hill. You just keep an eye out for me when you pullin’ back,” Will replied. The countryside was open along the roadway, and Will supposed Bryant had picked this spot because it commanded the ground.
Will headed down the hill. The reverse of the slope was no mean drop, but the elevation probably looked more impressive to an artillerist than it did to a horseman—about ten feet gave the guns the ability to see and engage targets further afield. Bryant’s guns didn’t need a whole battalion for support, no matter what the lieutenant thought; the whole 51st Alabama Partisan Rangers were out by Calloway’s guns in front of them and would be the first to meet the enemy in the morning.
Will gave his troop their instructions, and a third of them led the mounts to a growth of cedar to establish the horse picket, melting into the dusk. The rest began collecting fence rails to build a crude breastworks at the base of the hill, moving in the dancing firelight from Bryant’s campfires.
Still mounted, Will decided he’d make contact with the 51st and let them know his boys were behind them. A wind had picked up, rustling the limbs of the cedars and biting at his nose and ears. All was quiet save for the occasional calls of his men behind him and the soft clopping of his mount’s hooves in the soft earth. This was why he’d become a cavalryman, he thought: freedom. The infantry were holed up and shivering in their lines of battle or knee-deep in muck and mud, moving slowly and slowly toward their destinations. Always under command. Always under the eyes of someone. The cavalry? They were out, scattered in troops of two or three and always in motion. They were meeting the enemy and riding around his flanks, finding holes in his lines or moving slowly on foot to snipe and take potshots at him before running for their mounts to make a quick change of position. A few men on horse could do the job of several companies of infantry if they were led properly. Will breathed the free air gladly and felt how hard he had earned it.
Cutting through the open field on the left of the Jefferson pike, Will made sure he was coming in from a safe direction so as not to be confused with some fool on horseback wandering into the enemy lines. Calloway’s section of guns were situated in an arc of four, with the majority covering the approaches to the pike. His gunners were gathered around several fires warming their hands.
“Looking for Colonel Webb,” Will asked the first man to acknowledge his presence.
“Out yonder somewheres in front,” the sergeant replied. “The cav’s got pickets out two hundred yards an’ some men off to the left. Colonel Webb’s out there somewhere.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Will nodded to the man and stepped his horse out and away from the guns, looking and listening for the horse picket that had to be nearby enough so the troopers could quickly rally and mount. After a few steps, the telltale signs and smells told him he was near—a snuffling and stomping and musk confirming that the horse picket was off to his left. The colonel would be close to the artillery, the pickets, and the center of his regiment’s line.
Heading toward the sounds of horses brought him face-to-face with a startled camp guard, who jumped when Will cleared his throat.
“Lieutenant Hunter, 1st Alabama. I’m looking for Colonel Webb.”
“Sir,” the startled man managed to get out. “The colonel’s over there by that copse o’ cedars.”
“Permission to enter your line and speak with him.”
“Corporal of the guard,” the man said in hushed tones, so quiet that Will wondered if anyone but he heard the man.
“What is it, Press?” a voice called out, and then a face appeared out of the black.
“A lieutenant from Allen’s regiment to speak to the colonel.”
Will was ushered by the corporal of the guard to where Lieutenant Colonel Webb rested against a growth of cedar trees, his legs stretched out upon the ground. The 51st had been raised a year earlier by Colonel John Tyler Morgan, who was now off on an excursion into Kentucky with a brigade of cavalry, his command devolving upon James D. Webb. Rumors said Morgan and Webb did not get along and the 51st had been left behind because of it.
Webb was a smallish man but animated by a spritely step and
an penchant for berating anyone and everyone with a stream of vituperation that would make an old salt proud to be in his presence. He did not fit the cavalier profile of chivalry, nor of gentlemanly honor.
“Sir,” Will spoke up after a moment or two of silence from the man lounging upon the ground. “I’ve got my troop in support of Bryant’s guns three hundred yards to your right and rear. I understand that his guns are to protect your line of retreat.”
“And we Calloway’s,” Webb responded and stirred slightly from his perch against the tree. “You from Allen’s 1st?”
“Sir, Lieutenant Hunter.”
“Can your troop spread across the pike?”
“No, sir. We got enough to cover the right of the guns and the front of the hill he’s perched on. We not enough to cover a large front.”
“We spread out, got up to the pike with a skirmish line only. When we fall back, we gonna have to go all the way to the bridge. You say you just a single troop?”
“Yes sir, just my troop.”
Webb was silent for a moment. “We gonna have our hands full at first light, so you boys best be prepared to light out quick when Bryant moves his guns. I’ll extend to my right as we fall back, but I’m not going to risk my command if the enemy forces my hand.”
“Sir, I just figured you should know who was on your right and what our dispositions was.”
“Very well, Lieutenant. Ol’ Brave Bryant ain’t going to risk his guns, so I shan’t think you in much danger.” Though the darkness covered over his grin, Will could hear the sarcasm in Webb’s voice.
The lieutenant colonel added, “Heard tell they was a scrap at the bridge; we was too far off the right at the railroad tracks to do much but fend off the enemy cavalry. Would have been nice to see it burn.”
“Fed’ral cavalry got the drop on us—we was cut off for a time an’ had to make our way cross-country back to Jefferson. We almost had the bridge back when they brought they infantry,” Will said with a sigh.
“Now we hold up here an’ wait for the enemy to push down the pike again. Wheeler’s orders are to keep falling back on Murfreesboro, so if we leapfrog the guns again, you best be ready to be mobile.”
Webb tilted his hat down below his eyes and settled himself into the crook of the tree he was calling his bed. Will took the hint and left the man.
Only sunrise would tell if the enemy was going to push hard down the road or not. With his possession of the bridge, there was little reason to suspect he wouldn’t.
Chapter 9
Misery
December 28, 1862, dawned cold and brittle upon the 21st Ohio bivouac along the line established about La Vergne, Tennessee. The closeness of Stewart’s Creek added to the already damp atmosphere and chill. No tents had been raised, but the men crowded around the fires they had been allowed to build away from the firing line where sharpshooters were feared to be aiming at picket fires.
Still in bed, Philip had bundled himself up as best he could manage with a blanket, his poncho, and his overcoat laid out on top, but the cold still turned his feet into ice and his nose into a numb appendage that ran incessantly.
Yesterday’s fighting had brought plenty of casualties to the line as the enemy cavalry and artillery impeded the advance down the Jefferson pike and the bridge crossing at La Vergne. Philip and Lucius did what they were supposed to do: help those who were lightly wounded find the brigade aid post and assist those who couldn’t walk on their own to the nearest ambulance. The weather had been disagreeable and wet, making the suffering of those stricken all the more pitiful. It was Nashville under Buell all over again. Marching and skirmishing and marching and skirmishing. When the brigade deployed in line of battle, Philip took a position in the rear and just waited for someone to fall out. Lucius helped carry extra water and some foodstuffs. Once the canister fire started to fly, there were much safer places to be, yet Lucius wanted to be there, close behind the line.
Noting Lucius’s hesitation at times concerned Philip, but the man was proving invaluable. Better serving Philip here than serving some general coffee back in Nashville. Once the men started falling out with wounds, Lucius was another hand to aid them in their journey to the rear instead of using two or three healthy soldiers to a wounded comrade. Already Philip’s frock was stained with blood.
This morning the brigade roused itself to be prepared to march, but no call was made. The cook fires burned invitingly as the soldiers moved about upon stiff legs and held out numbed fingers to the flames, and an eerie silence reigned—an oddity given the numbers of men gathered about the outskirts of the fought-over town. Those with means and shoulder straps sporting stars had found warmth and comfort in the acquisition of homes in the town while the rest slept in the open. The fog was thick this morning, covering everything with a blanket of white, and visibility reduced to a few rods.
Philip rolled out of his blankets and gingerly stood, his feet numbed by cold and uncertainty. His double socks did little to keep out the cold, and his boots were soggy. There was only one way to get dressed on a morning like this: quickly. The fight to put on layers was entertaining as he dropped each article of clothing at least twice upon his blanket roll, his fingers fighting with each other to lay hold of vest, then frock, then overcoat. He dispensed with tying his shoelaces, his fingers just too clumsy.
A fire with other staff officers around it called his name, and with tin cup in hand he had only one thing on his mind: coffee. Something new had been introduced with the final storing of supplies before the big movement, issued in little round tins and looking like the worst-tasting thing one could imagine. Sludgy, black as sin, and this morning unfortunately also frozen solid, Essence of Coffee was still an object of curiosity.
Around the fire, everyone was shivering and few were talking. The energy needed to move the jaw was just too much. Chattering teeth were the only means of communicating, and no one needed to say how cold it was.
Surgeon Young and the staff lieutenants were in their places gingerly cupping their tin cups in both hands, stealing warmth from their coffee. A corporal was slowly attempting to prepare the officers’ mess of potatoes and salt pork, with bricks of hard crackers already soaking in the water to be transferred to the grease left in the skillet by the salted pork. They would make a crude sort of dumpling when finished in the grease.
As Philip sat and poured water into his cup, Surgeon Young passed him the tin of Essence. The tin was hot, almost too hot to touch, and Philip fumbled with the lid. The fire was already rimmed with cups. Only a scoop full of the sludge needed to be added to the hot water for it to magically become coffee.
While Philip waited for the water in his cup to boil, the corporal of the mess tended to the now-frying salt pork and cracker. There were only so many ways the army ration could be prepared. Adding fresh vegetables could make the same repast something different, if one had the energy to be that creative with it. Add some sugar or apple slices to the frying mixture, and it might even become something one would look forward to. Philip noted that this morning, neither was the case.
If Neibling wasn’t around to protest his presence, Lucius would be preparing something tastier. At least Neibling was suffering the same cold and privation the rest of his regiment was this morning. His tent and baggage were somewhere in the rear, away from possible depredation by enemy cavalry.
Neibling was last to enter the mess fire and take his seat next to acting Lieutenant Colonel Stoughton. Neibling himself was still the official lieutenant colonel, as Colonel Norton had not yet resigned his commission.
Puffy eyes and frosty beards nodded common greeting to their chief as he took his seat, a cup of already prepared coffee handed to him by one of the lieutenants. Neibling had been up before anyone and was the only one fully dressed.
“We wait for the order to move down the Jefferson pike . . . we was expected to have done so already, but the damn fog has delayed McCook’s right wing,” Neibling said slowly, the same cold that was ho
lding everyone else’s tongue slowing his.
Nods all around.
“Call the men to fall in at seven o’clock and prepare to march. The brigade will be behind Spears’s brigade and prepared to form up should the enemy give battle again.”
Major Strong nodded. He would have the bugler sound officer’s call and relay the day’s orders to the companies. On the march or in camp, army routine was inviolable.
“The division ambulance train hasn’t arrived yet from Nashville; we’re short on some supplies,” Surgeon Young stated. “I’m going to request of Medical Director Gross additional whiskey and quinine.”
Two of the most useless medicinals in the surgical supplies, thought Philip, for men who were cold and shot. Whiskey to dull the pain but for mere moments. Quinine that didn’t cure anything but the fevers and shakes from malaria—and it wasn’t malaria season. Whiskey was probably being doled out to whoever faked a need. Philip wasn’t against the use of spirits for partaking or settling the nerves, but to have been out in the field for only two days and already be in need of more whiskey was a different problem. No one had been found drunk yet, but that didn’t mean Young wasn’t playing loose with the ration. Whiskey wasn’t in the commissary or in the quartermaster’s stores while on the march. Those addicted to the bark juice knew who to hit up for more.
Neibling nodded, though Philip suspected from his manner that he didn’t totally believe the actions of the last two days necessitated a refill of the surgeon’s store of the kegs. He didn’t seem to care either way.
Philip shivered, thinking about the nip of watered brandy or port that could be had from his haversack and waiting for the recalcitrant water to boil in his cup. He looked from face to face. Young’s face said he was still thinking of how he was going to swindle Gross out of another keg of whiskey. Neibling was always a closed book, the scowl that marked his features an omnipresent mask that closed out every glimpse into the man’s contemplations. The young subalterns were busy trying to soak up as much of the fire’s warmth as they could before Neibling sent them off on one of the hundreds of errands they would do before the day was done. This was just another morning in the army, and the men acted like they were on just another morning’s routine. Nothing momentous about yesterday’s fighting on the creek and over the bridge. Men had been killed and maimed, and those who could be helped were managed off the field while the regiments moved on. The enemy stood, fired, and then retired. It was almost old hat.
River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4) Page 13