“Well, you seen for sure now, an’ provost cavalry has been combing the back areas sending men back to the fight. You lost whatever chance you had,” Meeks replied evenly. “They not lettin’ anyone get far alone.”
Glenn looked stony and kept silent, his mind clearly working over how else to slip away before it was he who was being carried back to some dead line.
“Just as well, the Yankees is on the run,” Meeks added. “You like to be recaptured if you had made it to they lines.”
They halted to let Leach down.
“Hey, Pard, you get that looked at soon,” Meeks said to Phillip. Fresh blood was flowing in rivulets down Phillip’s hand, staining his whole arm.
“If we could have gotten them horses . . .” Glenn began and halted as the very same emerged from the trees, led by the artillerists of the Warren light artillery. Guns abandoned by the enemy were being sorted out and members of the brigade debating who had officially captured them, each claiming the honor as its own.
Glenn looked wistfully at the mounts one last time before turning his attention back to the wounded Leach.
“You’d better get on back to the 3rd; they been arresting anyone they find separated from they commands and sending them back to Murfreesboro,” John Meeks said, laying a hand on David Grover’s shoulder.
The general and his staff pushed into the cedars on horseback, and Meeks sighed. “Come along, looks like the general is moving. You seen Holly?”
“He was still in the line. We just sort of stopped when we charged into the trees an’ let the formation go by,” David replied.
“You ain’t changed your mind, has you?” Glenn asked Meeks, looking sharply at him.
“No, but can’t see how we gonna all go off now. Have to wait for a better time.”
“No better time than during an engagement,” Glenn replied. He was silent a moment and then said bitterly, “Think Leach had the idea after all—just go off. Mebbe we should have all jus’ gone off on our own.”
“If you do get a chance, don’t look back. Maybe don’t wait for anyone else to decide to go or not,” Meeks said.
The three dodged between trees and around the low-lying rocks. They were getting closer to the fighting again, the air tinged with the discharges of hundreds of muskets and the noise of fire growing. Wounded Confederates were limping through the trees and slipping on the rocks.
John Meeks was a realist, and it wasn’t real to think any longer that all five of them could desert at once and not be seen or noticed as missing. He didn’t like it, but that was that.
David Grover nodded sadly. John Glenn merely pressed his lips tightly together in a grimace. Divided and scattered might be the only way to cut loose from the chains of their service and get away.
The general and his staff emerged from the other side of the cedar brake and into another open field, a fallow cornfield with decaying stalks still standing here and there, the ground now well trampled and a new crop of dead lying at irregular intervals. The cedar brakes were thick or they were light; the farmers who cleared and plowed the fields had cleared irregular-shaped portions of their land for planting, allowing the cedars to take over everything else. The enemy was forming behind another line of fences and growth of cedars four hundred yards away, as well as at the Wilkinson turnpike at their backs.
The Wilkinson pike cut a jagged path across the landscape, running southeast before crossing Stone’s River and connecting with the Nashville pike a mile northwest of Murfreesboro. The pike was lined with trees and a sturdy split-rail fence on both the northern and southern sides.
Into another open field the 3rd Confederate marched. The early morning frost was burning off the ground, a steaming vapor that rose to calf level and turned the field into a misty vision of what hell might be like. In clusters, men in blue gathered around battle-torn banners or undulated in uneven battle lines, firing into the advancing Confederates. No organized front existed, just disparate Federals making brief stands. Adding to the steam rising from the ground were the white gunpowder discharges settling to earth, which was now a bloodied and scarred mess of blue and gray forms.
“If you make another go of it, God’s speed,” John Meeks said in a low tone as they caught up with the general.
David Grover took John’s hand and shook it warmly. There was a longing in the look he gave Meeks that told John his best friend would probably not go it alone—not without him.
John Glenn nodded curtly and turned on his heel to head back to the regiment.
David Grover gave Meeks a nod, and with a final clasp of the hand, he turned to catch up with Glenn. Meeks watched the two go. He had done all he could to keep the small group together and even to get away together. If it was not to be, it was not to be.
* * *
Despite the bloodshed and carnage Philip Pearson had witnessed at Shiloh and Corinth, nothing compared to what he was witnessing now. The long roll had sounded early as the noise of battle emanated from their left and then slowly drew north until it was clear from the sounds of cannon and small-arms fire that fighting was happening beyond either flank. The 21st Ohio had moved into a cedar thicket while the rest of the brigade occupied a ring of small hills in an arc, the middle confronting a tree line and fences. Their artillery ranged in the spaces between and wherever the gunners could find advantage.
Men were down all over the place, and though the trees offered some protection, the wounded were piling up amidst the rocks, whose surfaces were tinged red and slippery. Philip did what he was supposed to do, ranging back and forth between the rear and the firing line to carry or help wounded men find shelter. Surgeon Young was busily clearing wounds and making dressings, but he couldn’t keep up. His two assistant surgeons were overwhelmed. Philip counted sixty men already lying about with all kinds of ghastly wounds, and they had only been fighting fifteen minutes.
Lucius too was helping whomever would allow him to help, and most were not of a mind to object to a sable arm giving them support. The trees obscured his view of the rest of the brigade’s predicament, but it seemed likely that the other regiments were not faring any better. In the thicket, the 21st might be occupying the safest portion of the line.
A constant rain of twigs and dead leaves fell, the twigs and branches dropping to earth and giving the impression of a light rain. Philip had to look skyward several times to remind himself that what he felt hitting him was not water but debris. Those wounded who could walk were sent off toward the rear, but most, hearing the sounds of fighting from that direction, stumbled back to report there was no rear to go to. They were in the rear now.
As Philip and Lucius carried a man shot through his leg, a commotion drew their attention to the front. Loud cheering erupted from the Confederate line, which had been advancing steadily. The 21st Ohio had planted its colors and was not going to leave.
Lieutenant Colonel Neibling stood coolly in the center of the regiment, watching the enemy break into a run straight at them. The enemy entered a portion of the thicket, the cedars now being chipped away by the incoming fire. The sudden charge forward would threaten the left of Miller’s brigade if the 21st were forced to fall back.
Neibling looked unperturbed, calling out to those who could hear him to be steady. Several company commanders were down, but Philip was gratified to see that both Canfield and Wofford were still standing. There was little to do but watch helplessly as men fell and to carry those off who could still stand. Calls for more ammunition became frequent as men gathered what they had left from their lower tins and quickly opened packages of rounds into their upper tins. For most it was the last ten. Colonel Hull’s 37th Indiana withdrew from the line as Philip made his way down toward the right of the 21st’s formation, which extended slightly out into the open field to connect with Colonel Moody’s 74th Ohio. There was little doubt in his mind that the 37th was after more ammunition and that every regiment in the brigade was in the same circumstance.
In the center, upon a sligh
t rise, sat the nine guns of Captain Marshall’s battery, doing their best to support the brigade. Several of the guns had already fallen silent. On the down slope of the little hill a hundred yards back lay wounded and dead horses, many still in their traces, attached to the caissons and limbers of the battery. Scattered around the guns were the dead and dying gunners. Artillery fire swept every part of the line from enemy guns atop a ridge four hundred yards in front, and the enemy advanced from his breastworks, a portion of which he still occupied. Cruft’s brigade of Palmer’s division stood to the right of the 21st, helping to secure their position in the dangerously exposed thicket.
The Rebel columns advancing as far as the eye could see were double-stacked, one row of infantry behind another waiting to take its place should the front rank fail to burst through. Miller’s brigade supply wagons were struggling to negotiate the uneven field. As calls for ammunition became more frequent, Philip kept a watch on the rear.
“Lucius, come here. Let’s meet those wagons coming forward and grab some crates,” Philip called to the man. The other camp servants were doing what they could, running messages for their captains or helping bring the wounded off. “Get whoever else can come.”
There was no safe area behind the brigade line of battle, and fire was now coming from far to the right as the enemy artillery pounded both infantry and Marshall’s battery alike. Running across the field was not going to be easy.
“Look, see?” Philip pointed to the wagons being drawn up after cutting through a hastily prepared road through the cedars, made only the day before. “We’re going to those wagons to draw rounds, Enfield rounds. Don’t take no for an answer.” Philip looked at the group of five Negroes gathered around him. These were all stalwart men: though wild-eyed and scared, they were nonetheless willing to cross the fields of fire to get to the wagons.
“Let’s go!” Philip called. He ran, his sword slapping at his side. A chaplain rarely has to run, and the device of command, a ceremonial object for a man of God, was more an impediment to motion than a useful weapon.
The cries of horses from Marshall’s battery sickened Philip. Tens of horses were struggling to stand while others lay motionless where they had fallen. Philip and his little group had to run by them to get to the wagons. Men of the battery were trying to free those horses still standing and cut the dead and dying ones from the traces. Limber boxes, the two-wheeled ammunition storage connected to a caisson, were emptied rapidly, and a few lay broken after shrapnel had carried away a wheel or an axle became fouled. Every shot sent a man back to the limber chests to retrieve another round and rapidly run back to his gun. Through this Philip ran.
The 37th Indiana had halted by several of the wagons, and sergeants were opening boxes of .69 caliber buck and ball when the other wagons suddenly turned and drove off, panicked teamsters deciding they were not going to be shot or captured no matter what their duty was. As Philip and his group approached, the one remaining wagon had just been emptied of its cargo. Colonel Hull of the 37th, swearing a blue streak at the cowards, angrily ordered the ammunition redistributed. The wagons’ retreat had left only a few rounds per man.
Thwarted in his mission, Philip gathered the Negroes about him. Through the thicket and beyond, he caught sight of the movement of Ellseworth’s battery, who had anchored the 21st’s left with Grose’s brigade on the right. The Ellseworth battery was being drawn off, and Grose’s brigade was in rapid retreat. The enemy would soon push beyond the 21st Ohio’s left flank.
“Run—run for the rear!” Philip shouted. “Things are going to get rough, an’ the enemy’s going to be following close behind. If you run now, you might make it. If you stay, you'll be captured.”
Philip knew there was little chance that a contraband slave falling into the hands of the enemy would be treated as anything but a slave once more. He would be returned or worse—if caught in Federal uniform, he might be executed as inciting servile insurrection.
“Our line’s not gonna hold long; best be thinking of saving your own skins,” Philip added as the servants hesitated. The men were all clad in Federal overcoats and clothing, and though none carried a weapon, they all wore other equipment that made them appear to be enemy combatants. Any Rebel infantryman would summarily shoot them just for the impertinence of being on the field of battle.
Philip’s eye fell on his own friend and help, who was hesitating like the others. “You too, Lucius.”
Two of the men took a quick look around and decided to take the chaplain up on the suggestion. They ran the direction the panicked drivers had taken, leaving Philip and Lucius and two other Negroes whom Philip recognized as working for Captain Canfield.
“I’se stay, Chaplain,” the man called Abe replied. “Captain Canfield a good man, I stay wif him.”
Lucius nodded as if to say “what he said,” though he seemed less sure of the decision.
The sounds of marching feet drew Philip’s attention to the right as Sirwell’s 78th Pennsylvania marched in battle line toward the cedars that lined their rear.
There wasn’t time to argue with them. “It’s begun; Miller’s pulling the regiments back. Now’s the time to go,” Philip said urgently. The other regiments were still in place. The 74th Ohio still waited at the fence in the center, and the 37th Indiana had returned to its former spot to the left of the 74th. Only the 78th Pennsylvania was out of place and moving to the rear. The 21st still held the thicket.
The men didn’t chance the run. “Well, come along then; let’s get back to the 21st.” Philip motioned toward their regiment. The gunners of Marshall’s battery were dragging the pieces they could save down the hill toward the caissons and limbers with enough horses left standing to haul them away. The 78th Pennsylvania halted and turned about, their move to the rear stayed. They had not been there long before the regiment was moved forward once more, back to where they had just come from.
Artillery rounds were bursting in the air, great claps of sound followed by a cloud of smoke that dissipated into nothingness just as quickly as the sound rocked the ears. There did not seem to Philip to be a front any longer. Soldiers were being struck down from the front and from the rear; there was no place that was safe to be. Even the skulkers who sought out the rear whenever there was a fight were hanging close to the official regiment front.
General Miller and his staff were in constant motion, riding across Philip’s path as he and his two charges jogged back across the retreating battery. The general looked harried and under pressure, the strain showing on his face as Philip passed him. Philip did not envy the man. He had rank. He had title, and he gave orders that had to be followed. But he also had the lives of a thousand souls riding on his every decision. As he passed, Miller was berating someone about the 78th Pennsylvania’s move to the rear, which had opened up a wide hole in the right flank of the brigade.
The 74th Ohio was fighting it out behind a fence that was more or less still a fence, though many of its posts and beams had been splintered and toppled by the constant strikes of minié balls and canister fire. As Philip and Lucius ran toward the rear of the 21st, Philip saw Colonel Moody go down. The fighting Methodist preacher had been doing what he’d wanted to do: joining the thick of it.
Philip changed course and ran toward the spot where Moody was surrounded by his staff. To Philip’s relief, Moody had only been struck by a spent shell in his side, but he looked in considerable pain.
“Colonel.” Philip knelt down by the man, who was being propped up by a lieutenant and grimacing.
“Chaplain, I’m in one piece,” Moody replied. “Get me back up. The men can’t see me down. We can’t break now.”
Philip helped hoist his friend back to his feet. “Colonel, you take better care. Methodism can’t lose you.”
“God will use me or call me home, Chaplain Pearson. You see to these three men.” Moody nodded to Lucius and the others. “The enemy can’t get their hands on them. They are why we are fighting.”
�
��God’s speed, Colonel.” Philip saluted. As he started to jog away, the 21st Ohio was backing out of the thicket in an irregular line, some companies backward marching and others turning about and moving to the rear. A cloud of wounded hobbled away as fast as they could go. The hapless 78th Pennsylvania was again moving to the rear.
As he witnessed the impossible happening, the collapse of the line and the harried retreat almost certain to come, Philip suddenly got the message: loyalty was one thing, but sparing the contrabands a fate worse than death should be his focus.
“Grab anyone falling behind, help them to the trees,” Philip shouted to Lucius. He relieved a perfectly healthy man of his burden in supporting a wounded comrade on his shoulder. “Fall back in line!” Philip shouted to the man when he ignored the interference. The man was intent on getting out of the fight, helping his comrade just for the sake of not totally looking the coward.
“I’ve got this man, fall back in line!” Philip repeated angrily. The man still had his musket and was uninjured as far as Philip could see. Lucius and his friend were each helping badly wounded men off the ground and to the rear. Soon all was motion around Philip: companies running across the field as the hard-fought ground was yielded to the enemy, who came crashing through the remnants of the fence held by the 74th Ohio. Colonel Moody quick-marched his regiment in spurts, turning and firing before retiring once more. The 21st was more or less in disorder as the enemy pressed close behind the retreat. Many of the wounded had to be abandoned as the regiment passed over them.
Philip hurried as fast as he could, but the man whom he’d chosen to help was unable to use his left leg, and now he wished he’d not sent the other man back. They were falling behind.
“Almost there,” Philip said to the man, though slowly he was becoming a dead weight, his one good leg taking smaller and smaller steps. Shouts from behind told Philip that the 21st was about to nip at his heels; they were several steps behind and gaining. Another ringing volley at close range brought the disagreeable sound of angry hornets whipping past the ears, plucking against bodies, and sweeping Philip and his charge off their feet as Philip felt himself dragged downward in a tangle of limbs. The only thing more disagreeable than being knocked down was the rock they both landed upon—a hard, flat, and disagreeably cold slab that he only felt but a second before he blacked out.
River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4) Page 22