River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4)

by Phillip Bryant

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  The brigade’s stand in the cedars was brief. The enemy was already pressing in closely as Miller tried once more to halt their progress, but with both flanks in the air and finally an order from division commander General Negley to retreat, General Miller gave the command to fall back, ceding the field to the enemy with the prize of four cannon and a crop of dead and wounded to be gathered up.

  Lucius and his friend made it to the trees in time to rest but only a few moments before the regiments began to backward march through the cedar brake. Others of the camp servants were also there, having helped white soldiers to safety. Soldiers who were indifferent or even hostile to their presence in camp had been helped along without prejudice. The regimental surgeons had tried to set up a place to work on their men, but all had to be abandoned once more and the regiments moved. Tens of lightly to seriously wounded were walked to the rear once more, but as Lucius and the others exited the cedars into another open field, the enemy closed in from the rear, his columns pressing other brigades further back and leaving the field an open shooting gallery with plenty of targets.

  There was no safety to be found when Lucius walked his man into the open, only an intensifying fire that cut across their paths, striking the ground and taking more men down as they tried to negotiate the deadly space.

  Men fell as if suddenly tripped, and formations of Rebels blithely fired into the masses of scampering Federals as the race to reach safety became a rout. Lucius hurried as fast as he could with his wounded man, but there were hundreds of yards to cover, and the other regiments of the brigade emerged from the trees and began to run, some by order and some by instinct.

  For the first time in a long time, Lucius was scared. As scared as he had been when he and his fellow slaves were first abandoned by the family who decided it was better to live homeless than in the midst of the Yankee horde, leaving him alone to fend for himself. He had known real fear that even the Yankees would do little to protect these homeless blacks suddenly cast upon freedom’s shores. There were certainly those who had let it be known that he and the others were burdens, useless burdens.

  Now his was a fear that if the Rebels caught up it would be worse, and he was in Federal uniform. Captain Canfield’s servant was struggling a few feet away with a man whose arm had been taken off by shrapnel, blood pouring down his uniform and his head thrown back as if in a faint. The rest of the 21st Ohio burst from the trees at the double-quick and ran through Lucius and anyone else moving too slowly to keep up. It was every man for himself.

  The mass of blue made for another growth of cedars, but the wide open space before it was crowded with Rebels as far as Lucius could see. Some were halted and firing furiously into Federal formations while others were moving and firing into the mass of targets retreating along with Lucius. If the Rebels won, would he make it back to Nashville and safety? Miller’s regiments were turning and firing a few rounds before moving again. Anyone caught in the middle ground between the foes was unfortunately in the way.

  Canfield’s servant and his man went down, shot by their own or the enemy—it was hard for Lucius to tell as the pursuing enemy emerged from the trees in solid battle line and gleefully fired into them as they marched. Lucius gripped his man tightly and gave all his effort to run.

  Pushing hard, willing his feet and those of the man he was supporting to move faster, Lucius managed to get in behind the halted line of the 74th Ohio as they stopped to fire at the oncoming Rebels. Colonel Moody was leaning on one of his officers for support and shouting encouragement to his men. The Rebels were not going to be held at bay; the army of Federals was licked and running. Lucius saw an end to his freedom: if the Union army did not stem the tide, the Rebels would sweep back down the pike toward Nashville and onward. The Union army would be unable to collect itself long enough to prevent the slavers from finding their property amid the miserable lot of contrabands sheltering in the once-great city of the South.

  The open fields were a crowd of men running, in small groups or singly, all flowing toward the Nashville pike, back to the place the army had marched and fought their way across two days before and now had to fight across again, this time while fleeing for their lives.

  The infernal colors—the red, white, and blue banners that spoke of the tyranny of the ownership of humans, or near-humans as Lucius had come to understand—marched triumphantly over all that stood in their path. The man he carried along might be one of those who cared but little for his presence. It didn’t matter at the moment. It might not even matter that this man wouldn’t stop to give him a hand if he were lying wounded and helpless to get away. These men in blue were undertaking something that he could not, taking up arms for a cause. He would help them as best he could.

  Fear was as thick in the cold air as the lead flying invisible across the fields, striking down men as they fled. Lucius followed the flow, not knowing exactly where everyone was going. Most seemed just to be trying to avoid the missiles.

  “Can you keep goin’?” Lucius asked the man he was helping along.

  Winded and struggling to move his feet, the man only nodded in return. His face was turning pale, and his wound was leaking red fluid in a steady stream. How many miles had Lucius and his wounded man come? One? Two? How many more would the wounded man be able to go? That the walk would be hellish did not matter; Lucius would go to hell itself if it meant staying out of a slaver’s hand.

  Not all were running; there were pockets of Unionists still fighting it out. Batteries were sighting and throwing shells into the masses of Confederates pushing forward, regiments were marching forward and rallying in the cedars, and generals were riding about gesticulating toward the thickest of the fighting.

  Lucius broke through a regiment trying to rally and form a fighting line on the edge of another cedar forest. The noise of battle was eerie in the trees. Directionality was lost. Lucius’s shuffling through the leaves was louder in his ears than the musket and cannon fire. When a musket shot did sound close by, there was no one there, and several times Lucius thought that he was being shot at but found no one shooting. The cedar forest was disorienting. Shouts and orders from behind sounded as if they were coming from in front.

  The rocks here were also impediments, some rising three to four feet from the ground and forming sluices running in even trenches. These were already filling with wounded men, who’d collapsed between the crevices to avoid the fire that rained down. Slowed by the obstacles, Lucius saw hundreds of men in blue either dead or dying, all with the same bloodstained overcoats and drained expressions and the same looks of fear. The rocks were slippery with blood. There were officers, enlisted men, corporals, and sergeants all lying where they had collapsed.

  The fighting seemed far off now, and Lucius got the sense that this was a safe place. He clambered up a tall rise of the odd rocks, hoisted his charge up, and stopped for a moment. Every muscle in his body wanted to stop.

  The man he was helping started to sag downward, obviously taken in by the same thing that had drawn these other wounded men.

  “Rest . . . need to rest,” the man said as he allowed the ground to take his full weight, sliding down Lucius’s side until he was seated. The cedar forest was long, as were the rocks the wounded were sheltering in. More soldiers picked their way through the rocks, and other regiments arrived to take up positions at the edge of the trees.

  “De Rebels come, not goin’ be safe here,” Lucius said to the man.

  The man nodded in the affirmative but didn’t move. Although there were plenty of Unionists forming in their front in the sudden quiet, Lucius was not fooled by the sense of safety. He did not have an obligation to carry the man further, but it did not seem proper to leave him here where no one was to give aid.

  “I fink we needs to keep goin’,” Lucius said. He reached down to take the man up again. At first the soldier resisted, becoming a dead weight and not lifting himself up. Lucius continued to pull, and eventually the man hois
ted himself up. All Lucius could see ahead were more rocks and trees, but something told him to keep going despite the quiet.

  Gingerly, carefully, the two climbed over the rocks that barred the way, occasionally stepping around a mortified soul lying in the crevices. When they eventually broke into the open, out of the trees, a sight that sent shivers down Lucius’s spine came into view.

  Before them lay the Nashville pike and an open field of about three hundred yards across, with a flow of humanity crowding the roadway. Wagons, artillery, horsemen, and fugitives of every command, running or walking or observing the chaos, formed a mass of disorganized humanity—but they were moving toward the battlefield. Artillery, guns of every type, were going into battery all along the road, crowding every high spot in the ground that offered opportunity. Infantry in long lines were forming and others marching forward. Thousands of soldiers.

  Lucius breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps the end was not near. Perhaps he would not face the slaver’s lash again.

  Chapter 15

  Hold at All Hazards

  The Federals had been running all morning long. They would take a brief stand by a fence or in a cedar thicket and then pull back. Chasing them, the 3rd Confederate was getting used to the routine of stop, fire, move.

  Passing over the Federal hospital whose patients lay out in the front yard, covering every square foot of space, the men of Wood’s brigade picked their way around the enclosure, leaving its fence intact. Officers and enlisted men lay side by side as surgeons and hospital stewards prepped those who needed immediate amputations, the sawbones working on the porch whose steps and bannisters were stained crimson. The steps leading up to the porch were slippery. Yankees were everywhere lying in their own filth and blood, some having collapsed before they could drag themselves into the fenced yard.

  Most of the stricken were too miserable to notice they had gone from free wounded to captured wounded, and as the Confederate brigade moved by, they showed little recognition that anything had changed. Each man continued to suffer on his own.

  The brigade reorganized and drew ammunition from several supply wagons bearing the US stencil. Beyond the hospital lay the next obstacle, another cedar wood bristling with Union muskets.

  Moving as if in a dream, Wood’s brigade marched through an opening in the cedars and into a wide field intending to brazenly brush off whatever enemy lay in their front. The enemy had been driven back all morning long, and the force showing itself in the trees, supported by artillery, seemed little different than before. But it was not to be. After several hours of punctuated fighting, perhaps lulled into a sense of invincibility, General Wood had moved forward despite the lack of support on his left and the lagging behind of Johnson’s and Polk’s brigade on his right.

  After a few minutes of trading blows with the Federals, with the enemy showing no inclination to leave, Wood withdrew to the safety of the hospital grounds to regroup and send for aid. John Meeks had been messenger for the general all morning, running to and from his regiment carrying orders and commands and watching the unfolding of the attack from a far different perspective than from the ranks. From the messages coming to the general, the picture of the attack was not good. Though Cleburne was driving the enemy with impunity, Liddell’s brigade had drifted, and instead of two lines of support, the flank attack was only a single line with no supports and no reinforcements. Pockets of Yankees were holding out further to the right, and the divisions of Polk’s corps were not keeping up with Cleburne, opening wide holes which some Yankee brigades had advanced to fill. The enemy was falling in large numbers, but the numbers of their own men who were crawling to the rear were equal. Wood did not have his artillery battery; they had been ordered to the right flank, and the brigade was moving forward without artillery support just when they could use it most.

  General Wood regarded John Meeks briefly before dispatching him on another errand. The internal affairs of the 3rd Confederate with its company of supposed misfit pacifists was not his concern, nor was the possible flight of some of its members. If they were caught, they’d be shot. Simple. The man Meeks was not proving to be any problem at all. His brigade was small and short of rifles, and one more might do more good than one less at this juncture.

  “Private, send to Major Cameron to prepare to advance once more; we will wait for Johnson and Polk to close up on the right,” General Wood said. He nodded. “You may rejoin your regiment, Private. The ranks have been thinned enough without some fool spreading my infantry about on silly pretexts.”

  “Sir, yes sir,” John said.

  “Dismissed, Private. Tell Major Cameron I am sending you back to the ranks.”

  “Sir.” John saluted. The few hours trotting along with the brigade staff and witnessing the flow of battlefield information had opened his eyes. Despite his ever-present wish to be home, the stirrings of what they fighting for rang truer this day than any other. Perhaps it was being out from the gaze of Campbell and Wade, or perhaps being away from his pards, but the longing for something to go right, to feel the thrill of victory, brought forth a sense of pride in John Meeks. He wanted the army to succeed. He wanted to win over the Yankees. He didn’t want to desert.

  Drawing a weapon was easy—plenty of them lay about. The brigade was sheltering in the cedars, sorting out those missing from those who’d gotten lost in the retrograde movement and were just now finding their way back to their spots in the line.

  Lieutenant Campbell was gone, led away by two privates in disgrace an hour before—looking for the world like a frightened child—and John found that his step had that old spring to it, a liveliness that perhaps reflected his new outlook on being a soldier. Seeing his nemesis relieved of command might just have changed his war. He might find he now had something to fight for.

  As John neared the 3rd Confederate, he might have been shocked to see how haggard they looked if he hadn’t been delivering missives to Major Cameron every twenty minutes. Men were slumped over rifles, leaning their heads against trees or seated Indian-style with their chins resting upon their chests, the act of looking up taking too much energy. Stomachs were empty, water bottles were empty. Ammunition tins were full, however, and that meant no reprieve.

  “General Wood sends me back, Sergeant,” John stated to Sergeant Wade as he approached.

  Wade merely motioned with a jerk of his head toward the loose formation of the company in the trees.

  John had been delighted to learn from Major Cameron that all the company officers were down and it was just Sergeant Wade in command. Wade had been a pawn in Campbell’s game of retribution, but by himself, the man was even tempered.

  John found his pards sitting listlessly in a crowded circle, whispering intensely amongst themselves.

  David Grover motioned to John to come over and join the discussion. John suddenly had a bad feeling about what was going on as he read the faces of his pards.

  “What is going to happen?” Glenn asked John as he knelt down.

  “Another charge forward; we waitin’ fer the other two brigades to close up,” John replied. “The Yankees isn’t runnin’ as far on the right, the other divisions not doing well, an’ now we got a tough nut to crack in our front.”

  “Then we do this,” Glenn said. “We throw down our arms an’ move as a group, all of us.”

  Glenn looked at each man in turn, looking for the slightest hesitation or doubt.

  “What?” John asked. “You mean mutiny?”

  “I mean we don’t go forward in this assault. Them Yankees didn’t budge before. We get more of us killed just stepping out of these trees again, and I’ve had enough. One of us turn and run, someone shoot him in the back. All of us run to the enemy, what they going to do? Fire on all of us? Chase the whole company down? I think this our best shot of deserting while most of us still standin’.”

  John shook his head in disbelief and looked over at David Grover. David looked down at his feet, then back at John. It was like John had bee
n gone for several months and returned only to find that much had changed. They’d wanted to desert for a long time—but this? This was madness.

  “You fellas won’t make it a few feet before we all shot summarily for mutiny,” John stated emphatically.

  “You been safe! Behind the lines!” Glenn hissed. “You din’t see the shot and shell tearing through us each mile. We’ve had enough, an’ it’s time to save ourselves while we can.”

  “You do this, an’ they won’t hesitate to round us all up,” John replied. “It’s madness to try a mutiny in the middle of a fight.”

  John suddenly realized how desperate Glenn and Holly really were to get away. He had always approached their plans with a modicum of caution. How to tell them that in these previous days he’d changed his mind? How to tell them of the stirrings of his heart from a few hours ago? He wasn’t just cautioning restraint. This wasn’t the way to proceed—not now, not ever. Not for him. A sudden fright crept up his spine. It wasn’t just Glenn and Holly’s necks on the line if they did go through with this; it was his own too. With Campbell gone and a new outlook on the war, John Meeks couldn’t just let them start something.

  “They no other way,” James Holly said evenly. Of the group of seven men gathered around, six nodded as if this was already supposed. All but David Grover, who looked pale and worried.

  “You either with us or you against us,” Glenn stated. “We only have Wade to deal with; the other corporals and sergeants is more or less with us.”

  “More or less?” John asked. “You better know for sure.” The noncommissioned officers of Company K were all Peace Society men who’d given up on trying to act disinterested in the war and had earned their promotions for bearing and conduct.