David Grover looked up and noted that Campbell was staring at him and the others. Nudging John Meeks, he whispered, “Guess who’s back.”
John glanced up and then turned back to his thoughts. They would be sleeping out in the open and had rolled out their bedrolls in company line of battle. The chill was already biting his nose as he huddled under his blanket and wrapped his overcoat snugly over his shoulders. Leaning upon one elbow, he had been lost in thought about home when David nudged him.
Darkness was covering the scenes of carnage around them where the regiment had taken station after refilling their cartridge tins. A dead horse lay not too far away, along with its rider. Anything of value had already been stripped from the corpse. That Campbell was back and in charge was a surprise, but nothing that changed his own outlook for tomorrow. If they were to be killed, it would happen regardless of who was in command of the company.
“What he doing back?” a man nearby asked quietly.
“Someone’s desperate,” another replied.
“Maybe it won’t matter. The Yankees will turn tail an’ run tomorrow, an’ we won’t have to go forward,” David Grover said quietly, still watching Campbell watching them.
“Don’t matter who in command of the company,” John Meeks stated flatly. “If we go forward again, someone gonna die an’ someone gonna live. I’ll bet he live to command another day.”
“You think Glenn try again?” Grover asked after a long pause as Campbell finally wandered away into the night.
“Probably. It weren’t the time or the place earlier. Lots o’ people woulda been endangered had he done it, loved ones back home ’specially. Folks like Campbell who didn’t volunteer is just waitin’ to take our land should we give ’em the opportunity. I didn’t mean to decide for you, though.”
“You din’t. Them other hotheads jus’ not thinkin’ straight. But I agree with you, as do most o’ the others. The right time an’ place, should it come, is the time to do it. I’ll still look for that time an’ place.”
Meeks nodded and lay back down, folding his arms tightly about his chest. Perhaps the greater act of patriotism was to protect his family despite the uniform he wore, performing the duties of a Rebel—something that he’d never considered himself before. He still didn’t. He wasn’t going to do anything to upset his family back home in any way. For whatever reason, he was now convinced that a desertion would do just that. Before, it was the only thing to do so each could eventually get back home or cease to be under the lash of Wade and Campbell in particular. But something had happened in the morning’s charge across the field. Wade had become a decent man, Campbell had been humiliated, and Meeks had become a Confederate and, if but for a little while, no longer a reluctant one.
* * *
Philip shivered uncontrollably, the smell of nearby campfires inviting him if but for a moment to warm up his fingers and toes. It was tempting to try, but he did not dare.
He had managed to stay invisible after the 21st was forced to retreat through the converging fire of advancing enemy brigades to surround the whole of Negley’s division. The Confederates hadn’t done a good job of combing the area for fugitives, with provost patrols more intent on sending lagging Confederate soldiers back into line than looking for Union men hiding out. When Philip woke and looked around, though there was plenty of movement about and all of it Confederate, he found that he was being ignored.
The trees held the ghastly remnants of men torn apart by shot and shell, and he’d found a place to lie down between ledges of the peculiar rocks dotting the cedar growths. With the battle still raging just to the north of him, he had plenty of time to think.
If he stayed and the fighting ever died down enough for anyone to begin combing the woods, he’d eventually be found by burial parties out looking for Confederate dead and wounded. He’d no taste for being a prisoner. There were others in the trees with him—he could hear them moaning or thrashing about in the thick undergrowth. They could be men of his own regiment, or they might be of the enemy. Getting up and moving around would certainly reveal his presence to the enemy, and once he found the suffering souls, what then? He had no water with him, nothing to bind a wound with, and if Corinth had been any lesson, it was that what he would find would be men in the throes of death wanting comfort.
Philip hadn’t felt very giving at that moment. What he felt was fear. The words of Saint John had little meaning here in the woods: “Perfect love casts out all fear.” Who has perfect love? The moaning of the sufferers would go on and on and into the night. No matter how much love Philip might have for those to whom God was calling him, he could make little difference in their final hours on earth. Several times Philip sat up, ready to go and look for a man calling out for aid over and over again, only to hesitate and lie back down.
He’d seen it at Shiloh and he’d seen it at Corinth. He’d bloodied his hands with all manner of wounded men and held on to quivering fingers in their last ounces of strength before saying a prayer for their acceptance of the great truth of life: that a corpse may be left behind, but the soul goes on to something everlasting . . . either torment in the lake of fire or bliss in the presence of God.
His hands were already covered in dried blood. The man he’d been trying to carry away still lay out in the open field.
By nightfall the moaning had mercifully stopped. The fighting, too, had ended just before dusk. Hours of mind-numbing sound were replaced with an eerie peace.
That’s when the cold descended and he started to freeze. His blankets, his bedroll, everything had been lost. Their camp had broken early that morning, and he’d packed everything into his blankets and the oilcloth on his back, but in the fighting the regiment had shed their knapsacks in line a few hundred feet from where they met the enemy. Though one was always reluctant to down his pack when he might not be by this way again, Philip had dropped his bedroll. It was somewhere behind him now, or added to some Confederate’s cache of booty from the field. His testament was in the bedroll. His trunk in a wagon somewhere in the rear. He only had his overcoat, and that gave little comfort: having lain upon the wet earth all day, it was soaked with dew and moisture.
Once it was dark enough, Philip ventured to sit up. Through the dark he could make out motionless heaps lying upon the ground close by. Friendly lines lay to the west. In the dark he might make it through to them.
He stood up slowly, waiting to hear the angry report of a weapon. He heard nothing. He took a step. The clumsy and heavy footfall filled his ears and he froze, waiting again for that shot to ring out. Nothing. Encouraged, he set out, making slow time.
Philip was shivering and stiff. His feet were the worst off, numb and sometimes throbbing. Each step he took as he made his way through the trees felt like he might be stepping on something or might not, his toes barely registering pressure.
His movements, however, were arousing the sufferers who called out for water or mother or both. Once he fell over a form in his path. He’d not seen the telltale outline of a man lying on his back, but his foot kicked something that gave a little, and when he attempted to step over the obstacle, he caught his foot on the man’s chest and tumbled over. If the man were alive, he would probably have woken even the dead with noise. As it was, Philip found himself face-first in putrid waste from several other bodies lying next to the dead man—a mixture of excrement and blood. Cold and slimy to the touch. He’d fallen into the ripped-open midsection of another corpse.
Rattled, Philip tried to regain his footing but only managed to slip once more, his bloodied hands not finding solid ground to leverage himself up. What was worse, the whole area where he was struggling felt sticky with goo and smelled of tin. He knew he was struggling in a pool of innards and blood from several individuals cut down as they retreated. The more Philip struggled to regain enough footing to crawl away, the more he slipped and slid. He could feel the leaves and twigs clinging to his bloody hands and fingers as he dug into the earth for something to
clutch for leverage and lift his legs over the other body.
Panicked, Philip squirmed and rolled his legs free. He crawled on all fours for several feet before he found a solid enough tree trunk to hug and catch his breath. His stomach heaved, and his gag reflex at the odor of decay and blood was overpowering. But he’d had nothing to eat all day, and all that came up was a dry heave. Limbs shaking and head throbbing, Philip held on to the tree as if letting go would mean being sucked into hell.
Though the trees might offer invisibility from the enemy, they offered too much of what he’d just crawled through, and after some minutes of getting himself calmed down, Philip looked for the nearest way out. The cedars he’d made his way into were a belt of growth fifty yards thick. Somewhere nearby was a road they’d hewn through the growth two days before to allow for artillery and supply wagons to get through without having to run further west along the Wilkinson pike. But he was turned around in the dark, and any direction could be leading further from the Union lines and into Confederate hands.
Thinking deliberately, he remembered that the road was to the right of where the brigade had marched before the morning attack. Even though the regiment had been moved several times, bearing to his left now should be the way back.
Ahead, the lighter blue of the night sky showed, and he made for it until he found he was once again on the outskirts of the trees. He shivered, a reaction born more from the experience than from the cold. Coming back out into the open was like a deep breath of fresh air as he broke free from confining space and horrific sights. He knew he could be facing any direction now, even headed back toward the east and the enemy—another reason to get out of the cedars as quickly as possible. Ahead were the idle caissons of the Marshall battery, whose dead horses were still in their traces, and one ruined ammunition box, its left wheel dismounted.
The cloudy night left little but a dull light coming from the full moon, whose disk offered enough light to keep him from stumbling over an obstacle but not so much to help him determine where he wanted to head. If he strayed too far from the cedars’ edge, he might miss the temporary road. But all manner of horrors lay at the trees’ edge. His feet naturally strayed. The mute forms of the battery caissons lay in his path. Coming up close, Philip was relieved to find the abandoned caissons had been headed toward the opening in the trees.
One of the horses was still alive, grunting and huffing as it lay on its side, its head flopping occasionally as it attempted to roll itself up, but the traces and the harness kept it in place. The horse’s partner on the other side lay as if peacefully asleep, with its legs curled under its body and its head bowed. The only victims on any field of battle who were truly innocents were the horses.
Philip lingered for a moment in sad respect. An army moved by thousands of horses, horses to pull the wagons and the artillery, to carry the officers, to bring the ambulances. One found the occasional bird or livestock dead behind the ravages of war, but the horses would die by the hundreds even as men died by the thousands.
Leaving the artillery wreckage behind, Philip quickly though cautiously made his way toward the improvised road. It was just a straight walk for another mile to get to the Nashville pike. He’d find the army there, or near there, if the enemy hadn’t already advanced far enough to push Rosecrans back to La Vergne.
He kicked something low to the ground that had escaped his concentrated staring at his feet to avoid stumbling. It gave only slightly, and in bending down he found it was a canteen, mostly full by the sloshing sound it made. It was then he realized how long it had been since he’d had a drink of water. Pulling the cork out, he tasted brackish and rusty water and took several greedy gulps. His own canteen was empty, and he slung this one over his shoulder to keep the empty one company.
Campfires were lit all along the adjacent fields and in some places every few feet, giving Philip pause. The enemy army occupied a long line. This was at least a good sign for the cause. Rosecrans might have held, and if so, beyond those fires Philip would find succor. It was also a bad sign. He had few options for slipping safely through the enemy lines.
Strength slowly came back to his legs after the ordeal in the trees. Murmurs and occasional muffled shouts alerted him to the closeness of other soldiers, but they were far enough away that he wouldn’t be seen if he stayed in the shadows. It was hard to judge how far he walked: going slowly and trying to peer into the black kept his mind off of how long it took him to traverse the open field. If he remembered correctly, the regiment had marched the length of this field the other day. It was long and wide and cut by fences. He’d not run into any fences yet. He worried he might be walking in the wrong direction still.
Philip froze. Footfalls—several footfalls walking in a tight little group and coming closer. He was standing out in the open with nothing to crouch behind. There were whispers, men talking in casual tones, but the direction of the noise was uncertain.
Philip slowly crouched and then lay down. If it was a patrol or a party of Rebels, he’d be just another corpse lying in a field of corpses.
As the party drew near, a light brightened the darkness around them. A handheld candle lantern was lit, and someone commented on how black the night was.
“Look fer any useful equipment, especially weapons.”
“We only got one lantern. How we suppose to all do it?”
“I’ll move about an’ point out bodies or stuff. You go an’ collect it,” the man whom Philip assumed was a noncommissioned officer replied.
“Be glad to git rid of that lousy shotgun an’ find me a good rifle,” a youngish voice called out.
“Okay, I stand here an’ you just fan out. Then we clear this area an’ move on. We passed over lots of stuff when it were light.”
Philip didn’t look up but kept his face to the ground. By the sounds, the men were close by. As long as they didn’t get too close, he could just lie still and breathe shallow and be left alone. He had no weapons or anything of value, but his leather haversack might be worth a look-through if these ready finders decided to creep up close.
“Any weapons yet?”
“Naw, just hats an’ dead Yanks.”
“I tol’ you someone would come behind us an’ clean up the good loot.”
“You wanted to ask the enemy to quit firing so we could go plunderin’?” the NCO retorted.
“Can’t see nuthin’ no more. Move closer.”
Philip could see behind his closed eyelids that the light was getting closer.
“That’s good.”
“Got a couple of rifles over here, look good too.”
“Gather ’em up an’ bring ’em here.” The NCO’s voice sounded stiff and exasperated.
“Hey, should we search these dead Yanks fer coffee? They always supplied with coffee.”
“If it ain’t already spoiled by blood; we took enough of they supply wagons to be in Lincoln coffee fer a month. I wouldn’t worry ’bout it,” another man called out.
“We ain’t had coffee in months; we find us a goodly cache of it, we have a bully of a time of it tomorrow morning,” the youngish voice said.
“You lookin’ fer weapons, not food,” the NCO commanded.
A rustling sound came from nearby as the coffee hunter rolled a corpse over, its haversack and tin cup hitting the cold earth with a plop.
“Hey, got me some Lincoln coffee! No more o’ that seed tick coffee fer us.”
“Fine, now get back to ready findin’!”
Philip stiffened as the sounds of scuffling drew nearer and then stopped close. A sharp kick in his ribs followed, blunted by the layers of his clothing but painful nonetheless, and he stifled a cry. His leather haversack with what was left of his possessions was the next thing to be rifled through by the Rebel souvenir hunter.
Holding his breath as still as possible, Philip waited for the man to satisfy himself that Philip possessed nothing of interest and move on. A boot slid under his stomach and pushed, shoving uncomfortably into
his gut and heaving upward. Philip tried to remain as stiff as he could manage as the man tried to roll him over using only his foot.
“Quit foolin’ around; tol’ you to look fer weapons!” shouted the man in charge of the detail.
“I is! Lookin’ fer pistols on this dead Yankee officer,” came the plaintive voice above Philip.
Philip’s frock and leather haversack were a giveaway that he was not a private, but the man would be disappointed. After several tries to kick Philip over, the man finally succeeded in getting him onto his side and then gave one final shove with his foot to roll Philip onto his back.
Philip couldn’t help it—his pent-up breath came out as he rolled as a sort of sigh. Cringing inwardly, he waited for the interloper to make his discovery and demand he get up.
“Aw, shit. This Yank’s guts is all hanging out!” the man cried in revolt.
Philip’s front, arms, chest, and midsection were all crimson stained and covered in dead grass sticking to the drying blood. In the shadow of the only light some several feet away, Philip had to resume his shallow breathing. It was becoming difficult, and he’d need to take another deep breath soon. Maybe the man’s revulsion would keep him from looking too closely.
“Quit yer bellyachin’! You seen worse afore. If he ain’t got any weapons on him, leave ’im be,” called out the NCO.
“I hear ya,” the voice said and moved off.
Philip released another slow breath and let his lungs fill to their maximum. Slowly he resumed normal breathing.
The sounds of the detail picking their way around Philip eventually faded as they moved off. The light moved away and left him to open his eyes finally and stare into the thickening clouds of night. He chanced a look: the light of the lantern bobbed off in the distance, and the sounds of the men talking were but a murmur.
Deeming it safe to move off, Philip stood slowly. There was no other sound or movement nearby, and he continued his walking westward. Plenty of evidence of the severe fighting marked his way as he passed broken rifles, dead horses, and dead soldiers of both sides, most already stripped of useable equipment or serviceable clothing and left to stiffen in the drawing freeze.
River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4) Page 31