River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4)

by Phillip Bryant

  Will waited impatiently in front of his troop, his first sergeant at his side. He’d been too tired to think straight only an hour before, but now he was all pins and needles.

  “Ain’t that a sight, sir?” Sergeant Chambers asked.

  “Keep a tight rein on the troop, Chambers. We wade into them wagons, likely to get the men into a mess if the enemy pops up,” Will said.

  They were too far away to make out details: an enemy force could be anywhere. Allen and Wheeler were nearby, scanning the plain and the nearby trees with their glasses for any sign of supporting infantry or cavalry.

  “Pity they leavin’ all that fer us to scoop up,” the sergeant continued.

  Will nodded. “Get the men divided into squads once we get there. We’ll need men to drive them wagons an’ some to burn the rest. We look fer food an’ ammunition an’ burn the rest.”

  Colonel Allen, making the rounds of his troops, rode up to Will to impart instructions.

  “Lieutenant, form your troop along the roadside when we sweep down. Prepare to receive enemy cavalry if they are near as the other troops fan out and collect the wagons. That’s an immense park; we going to have to burn most of it.”

  “Sir,” Will replied, a bit crestfallen. Someone else was going to have all the fun after all. But someone always had to provide security while others got into the action. It was perhaps just his turn.

  “Someone else gets the fun,” Sergeant Chambers muttered as Allen’s horse drew to a safe distance.

  “Looks like it,” Will agreed, still disappointed. Being a worrisome thorn in someone’s side was not enough to lose his command. An officer needed to make one large mistake for that to happen. It appeared that Allen was not going to give him any lead to act brashly. That meant boring detail compared to rustling up booty or harassing what enemy might be nearby under arms. There were plenty of Union soldiers milling about the plain, but these would be lightly armed and disorganized, teamsters and drivers and not fighting men. Still, it seemed to Will that the enemy must have forces somewhere close by for such a large supply park.

  Colonel Allen gave the command to move, and the regiment trotted forward in line of troops, with the wings peeling off to their blocking positions and the center headed straight for the immense wagon park. What few Union soldiers were present scattered immediately, scampering left and right to escape being captured or summarily cut down with a saber, and all with the fear of God in their eyes.

  Will directed his troop to a position along the Jefferson pike and ordered the men to dismount, looking wistfully at the other troops as they quickly surrounded the wagon park and started collecting prisoners.

  It was a marauder’s dream come true. Equipment, tools, and quartermaster stores of uniforms, blankets, overcoats, gloves, and more importantly food and ammunition. There were officer’s baggage, personal belongings, mail, tents, cooking utensils, and bags and bags of real coffee beans—and the best prize of all, tins of Essence of Coffee.

  Whoops and hollers sounded from the overexcited men as they tore into the wagons looking for things to carry off. After fifteen of the most trying minutes Will and his troop had endured to date, watching the fun and fretting about getting into the looting action, it was with relief that they beheld a troop, clad entirely in blue overcoats and loaded with bags of loot, come happily trotting up to relieve them from overwatch.

  “Boys, have at it!” Will shouted and waved his men forward. No other order was required. They leapt into saddles and spurred toward the wagons as if the opening to heaven itself was about to close, and devil take the hindmost.

  The troop that replaced them busily settled themselves and their booty as Will trotted toward the excitement. A gaggle of prisoners watched helplessly as the Confederate troopers ransacked each wagon. A pile of edibles and ammunition had been set aside for their own supply train, and the rest was for taking—whatever an individual could carry on his person. A supply of gum blankets was the great prize, vulcanized canvas material that was impervious to moisture on one side and made for an excellent body-heat retainer or ground cloth. These were going fast. Though souvenir hunting on the battlefield was frowned upon, this was sanctioned looting at its best. Anything was fair game when it was deemed to be an aid to the enemy. Officers’ personal effects were scattered about as individuals looked for enticing items to save from the flames.

  Will dismounted and grabbed a gum blanket, adding it to his own blanket roll tied to the rear of his saddle. Tin cups lay everywhere as if by some odd happenstance it had happened to rain tin, and many a ceramic or badly dented Confederate cup was discarded for a brand-new shiny Yankee one. The Confederacy lacked its own tin supply, so the quartermaster department had issued contracts for ceramic cups that were universally disliked for their weight and fragility. Though they were superior at holding in heat, one could not strap a ceramic cup to one’s haversack while on the march, and they were big and bulky, weighing as much as a pound. The experiment was not well received by the men, not when a tin cup could be lifted off a Yankee prisoner or a supply wagon.

  Will kicked a deformed and blackened tin cup with his boot. Ratty and threadbare blankets were tossed to the ground, and old and dirty overcoats soon joined the litter. Someone found a cachet of cigars that soon made the rounds.

  “Post a guard round that whiskey ration,” Allen was saying as Will led his horse up to where the command staff and troop commanders watched their men enjoy a second Christmas. “We burn it with the rest of the wagons.”

  Allen paused a moment as a rider trotted up, saluted, and handed him a piece of paper. Reading it quickly, he returned the man’s salute and turned to his commanders.

  “Also, get the men to horse; Wheeler’s ordered us to replace the 51st Alabama,” Allen said to his officers. “The boys ain’t gonna like it, but it’s their turn to rifle the wagons.”

  A little more than twenty minutes had gone by since the brigade came across the supply park, and they had thoroughly ransacked it. Standing several hundred yards down the Jefferson pike, the 1st Alabama watched as the canvas and everything else that could not be carried was torched, creating a mass of flame and acrid smoke smelling of burning wood, cloth, foodstuffs, and heated iron. The prisoners were paroled and left to their own devices as the brigade headed down the pike before cutting cross-country once more.

  Will, high in the saddle, recognized this countryside. He’d cut across it himself a few days ago after the fight at Stewart’s Bridge. They were headed back that way.

  * * *

  Captain Frank Mix and his troops of the 4th Michigan Cavalry were bored. Now that the army had arrived before Murfreesboro and the enemy had retreated, there was nothing left to do but guard the long supply line between Nashville and the army. Those few hours when the cavalry had been able to act like cavalry and face the enemy on equal terms, horseman to horseman, were over, and the 4th Michigan was ordered up and down the Nashville pike to make sure the supply wagons coming and going were allowed safe passage. Rumor suggested the enemy was still operating in their rear, hence the need to keep the mounted arm mounted and in motion, though the 4th had seen neither hide nor hair of the enemy since the 27th of December—only long and tired-looking lines of soldiers marching by or bored drivers falling asleep on the wagons.

  Minty’s brigade, at least the 4th and the 7th Pennsylvania, were back in their camps in front of Nashville after having escorted an ambulance and wagon train filled with wounded back to Nashville. The army was still fighting its way forward, and the casualties were not insignificant—hundreds perhaps.

  The troops had just settled in to brew some coffee when a breathless rider charged up to the camp with orders.

  “Sir, Colonel Minty wishes you and the 7th to ride to Triune, where the enemy is threatening a supply park,” the man said excitedly, more excited that the enemy was nearby than about the danger to the supply wagons. His eager expression showed delight.

  “Bugler, sound to horse,” Mix o
rdered and rushed to get his own kit in place. Several companies of the 7th Pennsylvania had been placed under his command, and the combined force hurried to remount. Horses were in the process of being fed and watered, saddles off and the groomers starting their duties, when everything was thrown into confusion.

  Getting excited troopers into the saddle was not a hard task to accomplish, not if it meant that the enemy might be encountered. Getting into the saddle himself, Mix quickly motioned for his lead element to peel off at the quick march, and the hundred and fifty troopers filed onto the Nashville pike with an hour’s march to take. Mix hid his conviction that his men would not meet excitement today after all. If the enemy was smart, he would be long gone by the time they arrived.

  * * *

  At La Vergne, Wheeler’s horsemen struck pay dirt. This park was larger than the one the 1st Alabama had incinerated at Jefferson. More wagons, more animals to corral, more soldiers protecting it. General Wheeler took his time preparing his troopers and regiments to take the park, but someone had sounded the alarm too early. The 1st Alabama was to swoop in from the west, having moved an additional twenty minutes cross-country to put themselves behind La Vergne and guard the road from Nashville for any enemy approach; the 1st Tennessee sent toward Stewart’s Creek bridge were to do the same; the rest of the command intended to take the supply wagons en masse. Confidently, the cavalrymen moved into position and waited for the signal to close in.

  A single pistol shot sounded the signal to move. Will spurred his mount forward, and with a cheer the troops of the 1st and 3rd Alabama charged down upon the plain. Though the day had been bleak and frosty, though the cold wind brushing his cheeks was made colder by the gathering momentum of his horse, he felt the heat of passion burning his face and neck. The ground was solidly frosted, the white of it covering every rise of ground and lip of turned earth. His beard and mustache were tinged with breath that froze as the wind whipped it back upon his face.

  As the wild charge beat the sounds of hundreds of hoof falls, those Federals in and around the wagons and tents spent a few moments in frozen disbelief. The thunder rolling toward them was no natural tempest. Far to the rear and with no inkling of being in danger, those still anticipating a day of boredom fell into confusion at the sudden outbreak of noise. Their lethargy finally broke as the first riders bore down upon them. Then came the panic. Pandemonium ensued as the drivers and infantry loitering around the field found themselves between the wagons and the charging horsemen brandishing sabers and howling like mad.

  Several of the drivers were black, men in Federal kit who now fled. They were all equally ignored, to be rounded up afterward; everyone wanted to get at the wagons and be the first to claim a prize.

  In a flash it was over. The few infantry occupying a camp near the wagons surrendered without thought of retrieving their arms, their muskets still stacked and within easy reach.

  “No going through the wagons this time, Sergeant,” Will ordered. “Just get the men torching every wagon within reach.”

  With a decided lack of the joyous atmosphere that had attended the earlier ransack of the supply train, the men were calm and professional and their movements calculated. Troopers headed toward the corralled horses and began selecting the choicest ones to carry off while others moved wagons closer together. Already, within minutes, the first of the wagons were being fired.

  As Will watched, an unwelcome sound rushed overhead—a whoosh of air and something heavy barreling past at a speed one did not want to be in the way of. To the north of the other troops of the 1st Alabama, on the roadway ran a high ridgeline, and atop it sat two pieces of Union artillery—heretofore unnoticed. The shell landed far to the east of where the action was taking place, but it was enough to wake everyone up to danger.

  A scattering of rifle shots followed, also from the ridge. The zip and zing were no mystery; small-arms fire was rapidly descending upon Will’s jubilant men. Troopers stopped dead in their tracks, looking dumbfounded toward the ridge. It was the Confederates’ turn to freeze in disbelief.

  “Sergeant, get the troop mounted!” Will shouted. He turned to look for Colonel Allen. Allen was back with the rest of the regiment, already sending a troop up the ridge to challenge the artillery. The rifle fire increased as more infantry appeared in the trees further down the slope.

  Will’s troop was still scattered, some men trying to lead horses out of the corral and others moving wagons. Another loud boom was followed by a crash as a cannon round rattled against a nearby tree, sending limbs and twigs flying. Will was unsure of what danger to face first: the cannon on the ridge or the gathering infantry making their way down the hill.

  “Fall in on me, fall in!” Will shouted. He cursed. They had been careful, even vigilant this time, and yet had been surprised despite themselves.

  Troopers ran for their mounts from every direction, horses carefully chosen for appropriation now left to wander around. To Will’s eye, the infantry bearing down on them was the primary threat. The other troop that had joined his was also trying to get mounted and draw in their scattered command.

  “Form company, front!” shouted Will’s first sergeant as the troop formed a two-rank front.

  “Forward!” Will shouted and spurred his mount ahead. The best way to confront a scattered line of infantry was to bull his way into them with speed and shock. Standing off and trading shots with them was just going to allow them to coalesce and shoot his men down. “Keep your lines, into the trees!”

  Will led the way, and the sounds of horses straining at their bits followed. A rough skirmish line was forming at the base of the tree-covered hill, and the Unionists were sheltering behind tree trunks, with still more men slipping down the slope. It would be a rough contest with several tons of charging horses bearing down upon the scattered infantry.

  An officer tried to form his men into a solid rank to confront the cavalry, but Will was moving too fast. Despite the ragged fire coming from the Yankees, none of his troopers had suffered a scratch, and in a moment more their charge carried them into the tree line and the midst of the enemy, who didn’t wait to be sabered but began running back up the hill.

  Will tried to force his mount through the trees and up the slope as the enemy scattered. Here and there a trooper landed a strike of his weapon upon yielding flesh, but the enemy broke in disarray before most could close in. Carbine fire chased the Yankees back up the hill, motivated now to a greater errand: on the top of the ridge were the cannon, a prize indeed if their protection was now scattered to the wind.

  Coaxing their mounts up a steep incline covered by trees and into an unknown reception should have given Will pause. But his blood was up, and many of his troopers were already ascending in pursuit of the hindmost of the enemy as they struggled for distance.

  “Forward, up!” Will shouted and motioned with a sweep of his saber. Will’s horse balked as he tried to lead it around the trees that grew thickly on the slope, which increased in incline by the step. In their enthusiasm to get after the fleeing infantry, their mounts were becoming impediments, even useless. Others of his men slowly wended their way up as the last of their prey vanished from sight, the feet of the unmounted Yankees surer than the troopers’ horses on the uneven ground.

  “Fall back, fall back,” Will belatedly shouted. Many of his men had gotten ahead of him, and most were out of sight, having chased the enemy wherever they had run, some far and wide.

  Those who were near enough to hear turned about and headed back, but Will could see others still moving upward. Spurring his mount up, Will continued to move and call for those ahead of him to halt and reverse course. Too late he knew this was a gamble not worth the risk. Some had made it so far that they had run into the enemy infantry, now reorganized and waiting. Several of his men had already become prisoners instead of captors, to their surprise. Will’s bugler was nowhere to be seen, and a volley fired from up above clipped into the intervening trees angrily. Horsemen began to quickly de
scend. Will moved his horse laterally to try to get near to those off in the distance who might not have heard his calls as his troopers whisked by. He flushed angrily at his own brashness.

  When it seemed that he had gotten the attention of most of his men, the forms moving about the trees from above having passed him, Will moved back down the hill to count noses.

  His troopers were coming out of the trees still, some from several hundred yards away and others in a disorganized mass of men and horses whose attention was drawn toward the wagon park two hundred yards away.

  As Will came out of the trees, he reined back, thunderstruck. Swirling around the wagons were horsemen.

  Horsemen in blue.

  * * *

  Captain Mix had not really expected to arrive in time to do anything but perhaps chase the rearguard of the enemy supposedly threatening the supply park. Nevertheless he’d driven his command hard, riding at a near gallop for fifteen miles and taking most of an hour to cover it.

  He’d heard the booming of cannon while they were still several miles away, and the 4th Michigan had scattered the dismounted enemy holding a position across the roadway, who only stayed long enough to fire a hurried volley before remounting and riding pell-mell back down the pike.

  Surprised to encounter the enemy after all, Mix was dubious that the troopers with him were going to be able to do anything against Wheeler’s whole command, if that was indeed what he had in front of him. Sending one hundred and fifty men against six hundred didn’t strike him as a recipe for success.

  As his 4th Michigan men raced down the road after the fleeing 3rd Alabama, the supply park came into view, several wagons already aflame. Mix called a halt. All was a a confused mass of flames and horseman riding helter-skelter. There were enemy on both sides of the pike, filling the open field of the park and another open field across the pike and wheeling two artillery pieces into position. It was too late to withdraw.

  Mix barked an order. Two companies would continue down the road. Giving his mount a quick spur and tug at the reins, he led the rest into the supply park at a gallop.