River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4)

by Phillip Bryant

  From the point where the conference was taking place, a large rectangular-shaped field intervened between the pike and a dense cedar brake. Across this wide open space moved a hodgepodge of wagons and ambulances, all hurrying across the bumpy fields to the pike. From this melee burst into agonizing view the pride of the regular army: the brigade of Lieutenant Colonel Oliver Shepherd’s regulars, running pell-mell into the crowd of wounded and wagons that were now being whipped into a frenzy of panic. The dark blue colors of the 15th, 16th, 18th, and 19th US Infantry did not march proudly out of the cedars but ran haphazardly toward the group of general officers now looking aghast at the spectacle. Captain Loomis’s 5th US Artillery raced for the high ground across the Nashville pike. Not even the vaunted regulars were making a stand.

  “General, stem that tide!” Rosecrans barked and unceremoniously turned on his heel to remount his horse.

  McCook was too fixated by the renewed pandemonium in the field to notice Rosecrans leaving. Nevertheless, he moved for his own mount and called orders.

  “Reform those brigades by the Widow Burrus’s house along the fence line!” McCook shouted. Artillery batteries joined the mass of humanity now crowding the open field and bumping hurriedly along. The enemy was in sight of the Nashville pike—in sight of his goal.

  Leaving General McCook, Rosecrans hurried back down the pike. The cold was forgotten, a rumbling in the pit of his stomach ignored, the ghastly wounded who had managed to make it as far as the road overlooked. Only the thought of losing the day stood before him, in dark contrast to the clouded skyline and the bright bursting of shells. Fire fell along the pike from enemy batteries upon the crest of a hill beyond the river. Crittenden’s divisions had vacated that area, allowing the enemy to push further toward Rosecrans’s now-vulnerable left.

  Rosecrans ignored the frightened faces of the soldiers rushing westward toward Nashville; those men were already defeated in mind. He had not yet given up.

  “Send to Captain Bridges to bring his 3rd Battalion forward. I want Stokes’s battery posted in that field there to anchor our right as McCook falls back. Bring 3rd Battalion to support the battery. I want all the Pioneers deployed to anchor our right.”

  Captain James Stokes commanded what was familiarly called the Chicago Board of Trade Battery, organized at the beginning of the war and drawn from men who worked for the board and other related tradesmen who wanted to experience the life of an artillerist. The men were veterans of Shiloh and of Perryville, and after the latter campaign, when Rosecrans had ascended to command the army, they had been assigned to his experiment of a specialized brigade of road makers, bridge builders, and fortification layers called the Pioneer Brigade. The battery had not been idle, and though the Pioneers were employed in noncombat duties, they were nevertheless always on the front lines and in need of artillery support. Unlike many of the army’s batteries, the Chicagoans had not been deployed far forward today but had been idling the time along the Nashville pike near the river. The 3rd Battalion had been moved forward before light to repair a bridge and cut a path through the cedars so Crittenden’s corps could begin crossing Stone’s River for the assault upon Murfreesboro. Captain Stokes was there to watch over the work with a little muscle to dissuade any enemy intentions to oppose their process.

  At eight o’clock a.m. a harried staff officer on a lathered horse had charged up to Stokes, ordering him and the whole 3rd Battalion to march to the south along the pike and hold themselves in readiness to support the right of the army. It was into this that Stokes brought his battery through the beginnings of a rout.

  As his lead teams were pushing up the pike, Stokes met Rosecrans and his staff. The general dismounted and hurried on foot to accost the captain of artillery, grabbing hold of the reins of Stokes’s mount.

  “Captain, deploy into the field south of the pike; find a spot and hold there. Second and 3rd Battalion will support you and grab whoever comes your way. You will hold that position as long as possible, understand?”

  Stokes nodded.

  Already enemy banners could be seen flitting amidst the cedar brake four hundred yards away, the fields in front of them swarming with men in blue running for their lives.

  “Captain, you fall back and the enemy reaches the pike, all is lost. You will not fall back.”

  As the captain led his first teams forward, Rosecrans remounted and spurred forward, forgetting perhaps for a few moments that he himself was not a member of the battery. His staff dutifully followed.

  A series of hills rose almost imperceptibly parallel to the Nashville pike, hills unworthy of the title but for the few feet of elevation they might add to the placement of lead-throwing artillery—elevation that might mean commanding a position. As Rosecrans trailed behind, totally taken in by the rush of the caisson teams being driven madly by the drivers, the whip of minié balls overhead became a concern to his staff.

  “General,” cried Garesche from behind Rosecrans. “General, know your place, sir!”

  Rosecrans was himself yelling hoarsely alongside the men of Stokes’s battery as they bounded along the bumpy field, cheering the artillerists but oblivious to any danger. He was not necessarily a lead-from-behind general. At Corinth he’d found his headquarters threatened by the advance of General Price’s Confederates into the town and had personally directed the defense of the buildings and streets, turning fugitive regiments around and directing reinforcements with himself as guide, not allowing for a moment that any failure to succeed should be laid on another’s shoulders.

  As the battery deployed, Rosecrans finally drew up to a halt some yards behind.

  “Sir.” Garesche tried once again to gain his chief’s attention. “General, you are in a bad way; you need to see to other matters!”

  Rosecrans turned to his friend and aide with fire in his eyes and a wide grin. “Bully!” he cried. “Bully for Stokes’s battery!” He called loudly and waved his cap, intending for the men of the battery to hear. Few responded, too busy readying the battery to fire to either hear or reply.

  Captain Bridges of the Pioneers rode up to receive orders, and Garesche tried once more. “General Rosecrans, let us fall back to the road.”

  “Deploy to the right of Stokes’s battery!” Rosecrans was pointing and yelling at the commander of the 3rd Battalion Pioneers with an animation that set the young captain aback. “Grab whoever comes your way and buttress your line. Stop anyone from running beyond or through your line!”

  As enemy fire intensified, Rosecrans seemed not to notice it. Two hundred yards to the right of the position where Stokes’s battery was coming into line lay an open cotton field surrounded by fencing and outlined by thick cedar growth, with an abandoned house almost in the middle of the well-trampled furrows and decaying plant matter. Cotton tufts littered the ground, and adding to that litter was a mixture of blue and blood. Retreating through the field, a brigade-sized force attempted to slow the enemy down, turning and making stands of a few minutes each to fire and reload before marching backward a few more feet.

  The tops of cedar trees splintered as enemy shells sought out the retreating Federals. The cries of horses and mules torn by shot and shell mixed with the shouts of men angrily condemning the enemy and each other and others crying with fright, all commingled into a hideous sound, the sound of Hades itself.

  Everywhere the light blue of the Federal overcoats was running or moving toward the rear and the roadway leading to safety. Everywhere the enemy was appearing in large numbers, seemingly unwitting of the casualties Rosecrans’s men were still dealing out in fresh volleys.

  In these times of excitement and stress, Rosecrans could forget all about his position and where he should be. But as the drama of the situation took hold, he briefly became aware that they were about to become the focus of every Confederate cannon in range as Stokes’s battery opened up with a volley, ripping the already noisy atmosphere with thunderous concussive blasts of canister fire.

  “Sir!”
Lieutenant Colonel Garesche shouted. “You had better get back to the road; you’d better get out of the fire!”

  Garesche looked his chief in the eye, and for the first time in the agonizing minutes of trying to get Rosecrans’s attention, he finally got a response.

  “Yes, yes; quite right,” Rosecrans admitted.

  “Sir, fall back? Fall back to beyond the pike? Sir, get out of range of the guns!”

  Rosecrans nodded. Looking about as Stokes’s guns reloaded and the Pioneer battalions rushed into place to support their battery, he wished he could stay. There were times he wished he were not a general but just a soldier caught up in the thrill of it all.

  A sheepish blush rising to his already rose-colored cheeks, Rosecrans collected his thoughts. “Yes, we must find General Thomas again; I thought . . . I thought that there was no better place to die, no better place to die than right here.”

  “Don’t talk that way, General,” Garesche said and turned his mount to lead Rosecrans’s.

  “My life,” Rosecrans began, but he was halted by the spattering of something in his eyes and the blast of an evil wind brushing his face. Blinking rapidly and rubbing his eyes, he beheld first the crimson staining his gauntleted fingers along with bits and pieces of gray and white—fleshy-colored bits with whiskers and hair. Blinking more, he beheld the astonished faces of his surviving staff and the empty horse in front of his own.

  “Garesche?” Rosecrans stammered.

  Some few of Stokes’s battery stopped what they were doing, men whose job it was to carry each new round the several yards from the limbers in the rear to the gun line.

  At the feet of Rosecrans’s horse lay the headless body of his aide-de-camp, just a torso. The left shoulder and arm had also been carried away by a cannon round that some moments before might have passed harmlessly between the two men.

  Without a word, Rosecrans spurred his mount forward, his cheeks still covered in blood and brain matter. There was little else to say as his staff caught up and others detailed to drag what was left of Garesche behind them on a litter.

  * * *

  Paul Pearson and his pards were too busy aligning themselves as the 3rd Battalion formed line of battle to notice the gruesome beheading of Rosecrans’s chief aide and friend. Captain Clements pushed his way through the fugitives crowding the Nashville pike in order to put the battalion square across it. His line ran from the hill on his right, where Stokes’s battery was letting loose with all it had, across the cotton field, and into a stand of cedar that covered the last two companies on the left of his line. Unfortunately for Paul and his pards, they were out in the open.

  The scenes of Union blue fleeing in panic were reminiscent of Corinth: the same bedeviled expressions in those men who forced their way through the formations; the same exhausted and defeated countenances of those who stumbled along ignoring all appeals to their patriotism.

  Unlike Corinth, however, the fellows with Paul were not green, nor were they panicked—not yet. The battalions were large, almost brigade-sized themselves, and must have looked like an entire division to those streaming out of the cedars in their front. They were a long and solid line of blue making a stand. Their placement was no accident: theirs was a last stand before the enemy overwhelmed the Nashville pike, an irresistible wall drawing those units still intact toward them.

  As the Pioneers impatiently waited for their front to clear, standing at shoulder arms, the veterans from every command in Rosecrans’s army awaited the order to make ready.

  The 3rd Battalion had been up long before sunrise, marching toward a ford in the river to improve its bed so the divisions of Crittenden’s command could cross over at first light. The duty was not unusual—the Pioneers expected to be called upon in any condition and at any time of the day or night. This morning, however, as the battalion had moved toward its objective, the men had discovered that not all was going to plan.

  Not only was the enemy already in possession of the ford when they arrived, but the battalion had to drive them off. Though the enemy scattered when confronted, the work on the riverbed was hampered by constant sniping and skirmishing. Rocks were dug out of the riverbank and laid in the bed by a relay of men standing in the freezing water to their shins. They laid a rough roadway from shore to shore along the each embankment and on through.

  The battalion had worked under fire before, but never under these conditions. A portion of the battalion, several companies’ worth, were thrown across the river to actively skirmish while an occasional minié ball plucked the water uncomfortably close.

  Company officers rarely shouted, as each man knew what was to be done and just did it. Paul was one of the unfortunates in the water, relaying rocks the size of a large serving platter. He’d been in the water for only fifteen minutes before he couldn’t feel his toes.

  When the chance to volunteer for the Pioneers had come, Paul was surprised when Captain Wofford recommended him. His promotion to corporal had also come as a surprise. Philip’s stern words to Paul and Privates Pine and Bushy as the three had attempted to desert before Corinth had made little difference at the time, but Corinth was the turnaround nonetheless. Paul was a different man when the fire falling around him was the heaviest. Most men became excitable, uncontrollable under fire, needing the constant drone of sergeants and officers to keep them in line and firing. It was not that way with Paul. He became quiet, focused, and thoughtless of the danger confronting him. That had not gone unnoticed by Wofford.

  Though somewhat fearless under fire, Paul still had the basic need to survive. When the chance came and he was selected, he was not sorry to say good-bye to the 21st Ohio and his brother.

  Practice had made short work of his hope that the engineers would usually be far from the enemy. They were constantly near the other side, near enough so that someone was daily brought to the rear with a sharpshooter’s wound or killed while working on an entrenchment or cutting a road through the thick cedars. What was worse, working while under fire was more trying than firing back.

  Because their battalions were so large, the Pioneers were frequently used to help them bludgeon their way forward, and the men were frequently in line of battle to secure a position across a river or creek or to push the enemy far enough away to allow for rifle pits and barricades to be constructed. The Pioneer battalions did not have a banner to rally to, only national colors, but each man had volunteered to plant those national colors on all territory in rebellion. Still, life as one of Rosecrans’s Pioneers usually beat being marched into the muzzles of waiting enemy formations. Until today.

  That the army was about to be defeated was clear as the 3rd Battalion quick-marched toward the left of the army. The sounds of fighting rolled from left to right, and on the left it moved toward what would have generously been called the rear of the army—only that rear seemed to be nonexistent now as Confederate forces were popping up where they shouldn’t be.

  Now Rosecrans’s select Pioneers were being thrown into the fray as common infantry. Paul knew without being told that if he and fellows were to be thrust into the oncoming enemy and sacrificed, the whole army’s position was in peril. To cut and run would mean being captured or killed.

  Captain Robert Clements had barely finished the deployment of the battalion when the enemy burst into view from across the cotton field in two lines, one brigade behind the other marching resolutely toward a line of midfield infantry. Solid shot came arching over the treetops from the high ridge and hills overlooking the Confederate side of Stone’s River. Cannon shot plastered the field. As the Pioneers impatiently waited for the order to ready, the Federal line broke in confusion and streamed toward the Nashville pike, giving the Pioneers a clear field of fire.

  There was no cheering on the part of the Pioneers; the men were too scared or concerned about their own fates to feel bravado when the first volley let loose, cutting across the field and into the ranks of the enemy’s leading brigade and stopping them cold as enfilade fire cut d
own the length of the enemy line.

  Stokes’s battery was still firing on the enemy in the cotton field when their own front was assailed by a new brigade forcing its way through the thick trees, leaving the 1st and 3rd Battalions to confront another two brigades on their own. Despite the seriousness of the moment, no one panicked. Each man among them had pride in being picked as one of Rosecrans’s engineers. While men of other regiments streamed by or slowly fought in withdrawal, the men around Paul were grimly determined to move only when ordered to do so.

  The enemy brigades in the cotton field to the battalion’s left halted. Their choice was to either push forward despite the fire from the Pioneers or redeploy and be subject to crossfire from their own side. A thick line of Federal blue was coalescing in what was being called the Round Forest, a singular growth of cedar trees occupying a spot near the Nashville pike and forming a near-perfect circle, having been left to grow around a rocky formation in the ground between the railroad and the pike with two fields of cotton in between. Federal cannon and infantry had been solidly posted to contest the open ground, and unless attacked in a concerted fashion, they would be a problem for those Confederates in the cotton confronting the 3rd Battalion.

  With the way in front now cleared of Union regiments, the Confederates in the cotton fell back, and a stillness settled on the scene. Save for an occasional rumble from their far left and rear, all firing from this side of the field was silenced.

  Two Union regiments who had been harried as they attempted to retreat and make small stands now rallied in the right and rear of the battalion, and the banner of one caught Paul’s eye. With the lull came opportunity for Paul to slip out of the line for a few minutes. He knew the banners before him: one of those regiments was the 21st Ohio and the other the 79th Pennsylvania, both of Miller’s brigade. In the fighting that morning by the ford and now, his tins had been depleted—a good excuse to go and find his brother.