River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4)

by Phillip Bryant

  “Forward, march!” Captain Mix called out, and his battalion moved forward. The ground was strewn with cast-off clothing and lost equipment from both sides in the chase up and down the fields. Pistols, carbines, hats, blankets, and not a few articles of Federal clothing lay in the path. Overcoats of the light kersey blue variety lay thickly, as if a supply train had been ransacked.

  Mix dismounted his men, and with the horse picket established at the edge of the trees, he moved them to the other edge where they had made their earlier stand. Finding a tree to call home for the night, he made himself comfortable. Closing his eyes briefly, he imagined that he was not leaning against a tree with the smell of burnt powder and death wafting by.

  * * *

  The smells were a bit more inviting in Murfreesboro as night descended. Cook fires, alcohol and other liniments applied to gaping wounds, coffee brewing, and salt pork frying gave the night a salty air that fell pleasingly upon James Campbell’s olfactory senses, but the sensations were not pleasing to him. They meant he was still out of the line and under arrest, and he had been for many hours.

  The lonely and dejected march across the fields of victory, across the river at the Franklin pike where the brigade had started the morning’s attack, and down the road to the bridge had been loathsome. Then there were the prisoners, thousands of them herded into the town like a migration of human cattle being poked and prodded along by weary and surly-looking infantrymen in gray. But even the sight of the masses of equipment and prisoners was not enough to make light of what Campbell had been handed and the trek he’d made. The Confederate army could have won the whole war, but if James Campbell was under arrest, what difference did it make to him?

  There were other prisoners in gray to keep him company, and quite a few officers of lower rank sat dejectedly by a corner of a house selected just for these gentleman who had failed to do their duty with the proper alacrity or sobriety. The Yankees looked whipped, but these prisoners looked worse, as if they had surrendered to a victorious enemy. The wounded, too, were being brought into the town and occupying every bed and table. Porches and sidewalks were covered with supine sufferers. Wagons and ambulances were taking many back down the Franklin pike toward Shelbyville, further south, where much of the booty was being carried away. Guns, tens of captured guns, were being inspected on the outskirts of town, some carried back into the fighting while damaged pieces were cataloged for repair or scavenged for parts. The army had never had such a haul of captured booty before, cavalry bringing in wagonload after wagonload of supplies. If the enemy was this beaten, James Campbell needed to be at the forefront of it!

  He cursed under his breath—cursed his army, his luck, himself.

  The other officers under arrest told stories of woe and despair. One man had imbibed too much of the “devil may care” to buck up his courage and was found so tight that he could hardly sit his horse. He blamed his fellow officers for passing the bottle too many times. Another was just an abject coward and even now was not sorry to be away from the line. But these miscreants were not the stuff James Campbell was made of, or at least what he imagined himself made of. He had been just a little nervous, just a little scared was all, and he was being punished for being human! These other men deserved to be hauled away, and good riddance to them. But not he. There was some other agency at work, some other thing that conspired against him. He thought of those who were surely rejoicing at his removal, and his face twisted in resentment.

  Campbell could hardly blame John Meeks and the other Peace Society cowards for his performance in battle, but that wasn’t going to stop him from exacting whatever revenge he might be able to mete out even while under arrest. The fortunes of the 3rd Confederate after he’d been pulled from command were a mystery to him—these other officers were from General Polk’s corps, and no one knew what had happened to Wood’s brigade or even much of the fortunes of the day. From the lack of enthusiasm on the faces of the rear echelon in Murfreesboro, the grand victory had yet to be won, despite the great artillery park of captured guns and the many captured supply wagons with “US” stenciled on the canvas covers.

  The only common tale was that of death and destructive charges into the mouths of fire-belching cannon and stubborn defense by the enemy. The attack had apparently spent itself by two o’clock, and brigades from Breckenridge’s command had been forced to march across the river and down the Franklin pike, parallel to the river, to join in the last desperate attacks on Polk’s front near the wrecked Cowan house and the Round Forest near the river, where the slaughter was said to be terrific. The reinforcements came late and piecemeal and made no headway against the massed cannon and infantry sheltering behind the railway embankment. The fighting had died down near sundown as a horde of prisoners arrived, both enlisted and officers, and a good many from Breckenridge’s command who had turned the white feather or refused to go forward once more.

  That the attack would be renewed on the morrow was all these men knew: another day of slaughter lay ahead. And that, more than anything, made James Campbell depressed. He wanted to be back with the 3rd Confederate so as not to miss yet another opportunity to show the world that he was made of sterner stuff than these cowards and ne’er-do-wells. He would do better next time. If he had a next time.

  Despite his conviction that he deserved a second chance, it came as a surprise when he heard his name being called out from the street.

  Unnoticed by any of the sorry lot of men stripped of their dignity and under guard, a tired and begrimed officer of infantry was standing his horse several paces away as if drawing any nearer would mean becoming infected with cowardice himself. With a look of disgust, the man huffed before calling out to Campbell again.

  “Lieutenant Campbell, come on—you’re reporting back to Major Cameron,” the man said as he motioned with his hand.

  “Captain Dupont?” Campbell said as he reluctantly stood and took a few steps forward.

  DuPont fixed a look of disdain upon the man he had been sent to retrieve. “You’re being returned to the regiment, Lieutenant. Your arrest has been rescinded for the time being.”

  “Sir? I can come back?” Campbell asked. “Major Cameron said I can come back?”

  It was like hearing that John Meeks and his pards had all been sentenced to death—the unbelievable happening.

  “Yes, that is the order, Lieutenant,” DuPont replied tersely, shaking his head.

  “Sir, yes, Captain. Right away.” James Campbell felt the weight of the world fall from his shoulders, and he took a last look around at the sorry individuals surrounding him, many of them peering mournfully at him now. It was true: he was made of better stuff than these cowards.

  “How is the company? The regiment?” Campbell asked as he quickly caught up with DuPont, who had started his mount back down the street. He’d have to walk the whole way, but at the moment he didn’t care. He was just glad to be away from that miserable lot of yellowbellies.

  “You’ll see soon enough, Lieutenant. Major Cameron needs you back to command your company’s niddering toothpicks. Casualties down to just Second Sergeant Wade to command and no more officers to take over. You’ve been given a reprieve, it seems.” Dupont enjoyed using the Arkansas derogative ‘toothpick’ when addressing a lower rank from the former 18th Arkansas.

  Oliver DuPont’s voice dripped with disinterest. DuPont was a Tennessean from the old 15th Tennessee before that company was melded with the 18th Arkansas and both became the 3rd Confederate. He knew of the special nature of Company K and the Peace Society men but didn’t seem to care much for the company of handcuffed soldiers. Perhaps, like others, he saw them as a nuisance who shouldn’t have been in the army in the first place.

  It was a lonely walk back across the bridge and then down the Franklin pike. Lights shone through every window of the Burgess house, and foot and wheeled traffic crowded the roadway, most of it headed into Murfreesboro. Captain DuPont was not in a chatting mood, so after a few moments of
being ignored, Campbell took the hint.

  As the two neared the Wilkinson pike, Campbell was about to head off toward the left flank of the regimental line when DuPont arrested his motion with a sharp command.

  “You’re reporting to Major Cameron first.” DuPont jerked a thumb over to a tent dimly lit by a fire pit out front.

  “Yes, sir,” Campbell said, dejected. The last thing he wanted to do was face his commander at this moment.

  To pass the time on the lonely trek back to the regiment, he’d fantasized about how he’d come strolling into Company K’s formation and make his presence felt, with an evil grin or two thrown in just for Meeks’s sake. It seemed his triumphal return to his company would have to wait.

  The regiment was spread out along the road, third from the right in brigade line. In the darkness, forms were familiar in shape: men with whom you have been in intimate daily contact become as familiar in silhouette, or from just their voices, as they are in broad daylight.

  Major Cameron was seated upon a folding stool before the fire writing something on a flimsy piece of paper held upon his right knee. He was alone and concentrating on what he was writing, and despite Campbell’s heavy footfalls, he did not look up. Cameron was an Arkansas man who had been with the regiment since it was mustered. Campbell had a faint hope that he might find mutual respect from a fellow Arkansan, someone who knew of the special burden of commanding Company K.

  “Lieutenant, consider yourself under temporary reprieve from arrest,” Campbell intoned without looking up from his task. “I can’t have my companies without officers, and as much as I’d like to see you drummed out of camp—” he finally looked up at his subject as if to emphasize that last remark, “—I need you at your post. Once this battle is decided, you will face an inquiry on your conduct today.”

  The weariness in Cameron’s usual gruff and baritone voice did not soften the words as they fell on Campbell’s ears.

  “Sir, I—” Campbell began before being waved off by his commander.

  “Lieutenant, save it for the inquiry.” Looking Campbell square and pointing the stubby end of his pencil at him, Cameron continued, “General Cleburne has ordered all men sent to the rear for infractions back into the ranks unless the offense was grievous. General Wood will look into offenses by his officers once this battle is decided. Until then, I expect you to fulfill your duty to Arkansas and our country. Understood? You might find leniency by performing well tomorrow.”

  As Cameron was finishing, Captain DuPont drew up to the fire and folded his arms.

  James Campbell nodded, trying to look chastened while hiding his elation.

  “Give him back his toad sticker,” Cameron said to DuPont and returned to writing upon his knee.

  “Sir,” DuPont replied. He gave Campbell a look that told James the man was not pleased at all. Some company of allies this was. One more reason to never trust a Tennessee man. Campbell didn’t care if DuPont agreed or not: at this moment life was coming up roses once more. Cameron, on the other hand, should have had more sympathy for his trials with the Peace Society lot.

  No matter, he thought, I’m back now, and it is time to prove what kind of man James Campbell really is. A grin crept across his face as he received his sword from DuPont.

  “Go see to your company. Relieve Sergeant Wade of command,” Cameron said, still engrossed in his writing.

  “Sir, thank you sir,” Campbell said with exuberance. He held out his hand, forgetting the need for protocol.

  Cameron dropped his pencil and looked askance at the offered hand. He waited, his eyes not leaving Campbell’s. The major had a hardscrabble farmer’s complexion, weathered and wrinkled with heavyset eyes, puffy now from lack of sleep. That and his salty-caked temples gave him the appearance of a man who’d lost a fight with a barrel of flour.

  Campbell quickly jerked his hand away and brought it to a crisp salute. Cameron lazily returned the motion and let it fall just as quickly.

  James Campbell breathed a sigh of relief as he left the presence of his commander. He tied his waist sash and buckled his belt over it, taking a few moments to relish the return of his symbol of command and dignity. He’d missed the clang of his sword against his thigh and how it jangled against his heel if he let it swing too easily.

  “Sergeant Wade,” Campbell bellowed as he drew near, “You are relieved!” James Campbell was going to let everyone know he was back and he was in charge.

  * * *

  Thomas Wade had just been seeing to the company pickets when he heard his name. Swirling around angrily, thinking that one of his impertinent privates was taking liberties with him, he was about to let loose some approbation. Seeing the figure of Campbell come striding toward him only increased his foul mood.

  “Sir, you no longer under arrest?” It was obvious to Wade that something was off, but the question begged to be answered even if it was an obvious one.

  “I’ve been returned to command, old friend,” Campbell said with barely contained mirth.

  “I see,” Wade replied.

  “What of the company dispositions? How was the rest of the day?” Campbell asked. He held out his hand, a wide grin on his face.

  Thomas hesitantly took the hand offered. He’d fancied himself up for a field promotion with Campbell out of the way. He may only have been a noncommissioned officer, but he had done what was supposed to be done in the absence of a line officer. For that there were natural expectations.

  “Sir, the company is out on picket and the remainder in place on the line. The company saw plenty of action after you . . . after your absence. We have been here protecting the road junction from cavalry threat until sundown and have been off the line these past few hours.”

  “And Meeks?”

  “Returned to the company,” Thomas replied.

  “Casualties?”

  “Fifteen men, killed and wounded. Three missing but presumed wounded.”

  “Well, my friend, let’s see to those miscreants, shall we?” Campbell said with a toothy grin.

  “Sir, there was—” Wade stopped himself short. Would recounting how Meeks had actually prevented a mutiny only set Campbell off once more? For the first time Wade felt that he was in command of soldiers, not reluctant shirkers of duty. Campbell had not changed any from the day he was foiled at acquiring Meeks’s land before the war. Yet, he needed to report the status of the company.

  “Sir, they was a mutiny attempt, and—”

  “And you arrested Meeks and the others, right? You did something, right?” Campbell asked excitedly.

  “It were Meeks what stopped it, Meeks and Grover and others,” Wade replied, flushing a little.

  “What?” Campbell blanched. “They weren’t leading it?”

  “Holly and Glenn and several others was going to march off when they was a commotion, an’ Meeks an’ others brought them back into line.”

  Campbell looked away, clearly dumbstruck. In the distance the little clusters of the company could be seen in darkened silhouette. It was like coming back into a new world after a long sleep. The world had turned, and he hadn’t moved with it.

  “You didn’t arrest them turnspits?”

  “They wasn’t nothing to arrest anyone for; nothing happened.” Wade was getting angry again, not just at having his command ripped from him but at Campbell’s insistence that retribution be done regardless of what might deserve it.

  “We’ll see to that,” Campbell said and turned on his heels. He stopped and turned. “Coming?”

  Wade stood for a moment, reluctant to fall back into his old habit of following this man around like a pet. He might have his role as a subordinate, but he didn’t have to follow Campbell’s lead in this.

  “Sir, they ain’t nothing to be done. The men is in line an’ following orders. They is no reason to do anything about what happened. It didn’t happen. Just thought you should know that Meeks and Grover helped prevent it.”

  Wade’s voice trembled a little, un
steadied by nervous energy.

  Campbell turned sharply, confronting Wade in a flash of anger. “You-you defending them now? You defending them turnspits?” he sputtered.

  “Now’s not the time, sir. The ones you should be eyein’ is Glenn an’ Holly. They’s the ones what caused the ruckus.”

  “You disappoint me, Wade. You disappoint. Don’t know what happened to turn you soft on them, but no wonder Major Cameron didn’t want you in command longer than you had to be.” Campbell turned once again on his heel and stomped off.

  Thomas Wade stood for some moments watching his friend march off in a huff. Perhaps he had changed, he thought. War and responsibility will do that. They hadn’t changed James Campbell, though.

  As he walked off, Campbell was in a state of confusion. Thomas Wade had always been reliable for any scheme involving their mutual hatred of the Peace Society gold bricks. Perhaps it was a commission he was after now that he’d had a taste of being in command in a clutch situation. That Major Cameron had brought Campbell back seemed to say that Thomas was not going to have such a laurel bestowed. It was true that he himself was only in command because Captain Johnston was down, but he didn’t give that much thought. And he was in command of the whole company, not just another privileged man with stars on his collar.

  Campbell strode self-importantly up to the company line. The stacked muskets were pitifully few, several squads’ worth having been thrown out on picket detail. Meeks and Grover were behind the rifle stacks as well as the other two. What was different was that, just as Wade had stated, Glenn and Holly were not huddled up with their pards. They were off on their own.

  Hands on his hips, Campbell opened his mouth to address the men and stopped short. If what Wade said was true, that Meeks and Grover had stopped the others, how could he use that to his advantage? He would need to think on that awhile.