River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4)

by Phillip Bryant

  “They move us up, but don’t do nothin’ else?” Grover exclaimed after an hour and a half’s time of standing in formation and listening to the skirmish fire. It was already nine in the morning, plenty of time for the attack to have been renewed as all had felt was about to happen in earnest. But aside from the skirmishing and shelling, there was nothing going on.

  James Campbell was busy, however. Major Cameron had called the company commanders to a tree he’d declared to be his headquarters, twenty feet from the center of the regiment in the rear of the line. He’d just come back from a similar meeting with General Wood. He didn’t bring good news, at least judging from the reactions of some of the other commanders. Campbell, however, was delighted.

  “The general wants to find out where the enemy line is across the pike. Liddell’s brigade is going to move forward, we in support, and demonstrate against the enemy right flank. The enemy appears to have fallen back at other places he occupied at dark last night. The general wants to know how far. It don’t look like Bragg is contemplating a renewal of the attack today.”

  Cameron’s tone betrayed his disgust. The hours had worn on with nothing happening, and that took a toll of its own.

  For Campbell, this was a second chance. He would lead his company forward and gallantly smash into the enemy line. That was what he saw in his mind’s eye. A brave man leading brave men, even the miscreants of his company.

  “Liddell is going to push across the pike, take the Warren light artillery with him, and locate the enemy positions—not advance on them or bring on another engagement with the enemy. We are to hold ourselves ready to advance in support.”

  “Oh, we not gonna advance too?” Campbell exclaimed impertinently. There went his call of glory.

  “Cleburne has ordered our brigade to be prepared to support Liddell,” Cameron repeated. He looked at each man in turn to make sure they understood, giving Campbell an extra-long stare. A single company was pretty useless acting on its own, but several could get into a mess in the confusion if they got separated and acted on impulse.

  Campbell stepped away from the meeting slightly crestfallen, but his redemption might still be at hand if fate smiled upon him. Temporary reprieve from arrest indeed—he would see to it that he was entirely vindicated today, even if the brigade was not moved forward. Motioning to Sergeant Wade, Campbell felt like he was still bringing good tidings, the heated words of the night before forgotten.

  “Well, my friend, we are possibly going to be moving forward once again!” Campbell said with enthusiasm that registered only shock on Wade’s face in reaction.

  “What, sir? Moving forward?”

  “Cleburne is sending Liddell forward, and we are in support. Yes, we might be moving forward,” Campbell said, rubbing his hands in glee.

  “What is it you wish, then?” Wade replied evenly. His face still registered dismay.

  Campbell was shaken out of his high state of joy by Wade’s negative response. He felt his own face falling and struggled to maintain his composure.

  “Just keep the company in readiness,” Campbell snapped and stepped away quickly, leaving Wade standing there with the same concerned expression. Why shouldn’t the man be just as enthusiastic as he about another chance for James Campbell to show what he was made of?

  The ups and downs of the last day were wearing upon Campbell’s body. He suddenly felt ill and had to lean against a tree to regain control over his tumbling stomach. If anyone from the company were observing him right then, he might be concerned that his commander was again showing the white feather. How wrong any such man would be!

  Straightening himself, taking a deep breath, Campbell walked back to the rear of the company.

  Next to the brigade line, Liddell’s regiments were busily preparing to move forward, officer’s call and other noise emanating from the quarter of his line. Campbell watched the activity from afar, enviously. He could only hope that Liddell would need support.

  The 34th Mississippi, in line next to the 3rd Confederate, were rousting themselves from their rest and falling in on the rifle stacks. Most of the brigade had been put at rest in the intervening hours after they rejoined the division line. There was little to do in those hours but get comfortable, and for most, hope that the day remained quiet. Sergeant Wade was getting Company K up as well, gathering the men from the trees and bushes where most had found fitful repose in sleep or quiet card games.

  The shouts and commands echoing amidst the trees spelled an end to the hope of a restful day. John Meeks decided it was time to patch things up with Glenn and Holly. He found the two looking sour and standing off by themselves.

  “I know you cross, and I won’t apologize for acting on my own conscience, but I am sorry it has come to this between us. It do look like we going to possibly be moving forward again. If any should fall or this be the last time we address each other, I want to say it has been my honor to know both of you an’ to once call you friends.”

  John waited a moment, watching for some reaction or further word.

  James Holly softened his glare a little and nodded his head slightly but made no other movement or attempt to rebut or agree. John Glenn, however, was not mollified.

  “You took yer stand with these traitors ag’in yore pards, an’ I don’t care a wit for whatever reason you done it but that you sided with that miscreant Campbell and Wade ag’in those who was yer friends. If we do move forward, I tell you plain that you better not raise a cry if I desert.”

  “You won’t hear anything from me. I probably saved you an’ half the regiment the other day from bein’ strung up, an’ you can thank me one day if we both make it past today. Otherwise, I’ll see to myself from now on. I think this war a day closer to bein’ over, an’ I think it more my duty to help it end than to go into hiding fer the rest of my days.”

  Meeks turned away. It was painful to watch the separation happening, but the other two men had chosen their path, and it was not his responsibility to join them in folly.

  “Well, what of it?” Holly asked after Meeks had moved out of earshot.

  Glenn grimaced. “Same as afore—look for an opportunity to steal away. He might have changed his mind, but I suspect he were right about yesterday. Still, I won’t fergive ’im fer what he done. We all lucky that Campbell weren’t around or we might all have been strung up anyhow. Just watch an’ wait. We might get close to the enemy this time.”

  “Sev’ral of the men still keen on tryin’ again. They just won’t do it unless it clear we can surrender,” Holly said.

  “We get back home, we see to our own or maybe make for Tennessee or Missouri. Get our families somewhere safe an’ finish out this war in peace.”

  The peace was soon rocked by cannonade and volleys of musketry from the direction Liddell’s brigade had marched. If the enemy had pulled back, they hadn’t pulled back far.

  John Meeks listened to the racket and felt the concussion of solid shot striking the earth. The noise did not communicate anything but that the enemy was in force still.

  “You still thinkin’ this close to over?” Grover asked.

  “No, not no more. Not with just Liddell’s brigade forward. Bragg ain’t attacking—seems he just looking fer the enemy,” Meeks responded, a little downcast. When it became evident that only Liddell’s brigade was moving, his thoughts that this was going to be the coup de grâce on a defeated enemy had begun to evaporate. The day was fast coming to another close, and the army had contented itself to sit on its gains and do nothing else, even though the enemy had been pushed and pushed far. Today was not the day of victory.

  A breathless rider came pounding across the field and accosted General Wood, whose staff was mounted and watching the progress of Liddell as his brigade crossed the road and entered the yard of a farmhouse and then beyond it.

  “He callin’ fer supports,” Grover commented as the courier rode back across the field and General Wood signaled for his bugler to sound the advance. And then
everyone stiffened—for in the distance rose a cloud of haze as thousands of muskets and tens of cannon discharged death. This was what was in store for the brigade.

  Lieutenant Campbell blew out a deep breath to calm himself. His role would be little—the glory would rise or fall upon the actions of the whole regiment and the brigade with it—but he could not help but think it was up to him to lead his company into some higher charge of honor. If he were ever to earn that star upon his collar, to be a full lieutenant, it would be today. It would come with his command of these reluctant pacifists. As Major Cameron motioned for the regiment to step off, Campbell took his place two paces ahead of the company and moved the men forward with a gallant sweep of his sword.

  Forward was the road, and beyond it the houses and farm buildings. The men grew more concerned as they neared the grounds surrounding the main house, its yard littered with wounded and dead men. Trapped between the two armies, the men laid out awaiting burial had been given no attention. Beyond the buildings, the smoke and noise of battle rose above the solitary trees that dotted the way. Another open field and then the trees, their trunks vanished in the haze of musket fire, enemy units sheltering in the woods. Only the enemy was nearer than he appeared. Fire starting to fall close by, and musketry coming from a fence line barred the way forward.

  The advancing Mississippi sharpshooters cautiously made their way ahead. The enemy was still in possession of some of the farm buildings. Liddell’s brigade had forced a retreat but had stopped moving forward, calling for Wood to come up on their left for support, but the four hundred yards Wood needed to advance over were taking too long to cover, and events were bringing on a crisis.

  Not only was the enemy still here in force, but his cannon fire and infantry were still thickly present and now advancing.

  General Wood did not see this as he dutifully came up to support Liddell’s open left flank and force back the enemy who were sniping at Liddell’s unsupported left regiment. The volley fire pouring into Wood’s regiments was their first indication that they were being marched into a hot place.

  At the far left of Wood’s line, the companies of the 3rd Confederate couldn’t see what was happening beyond the house and fences as they crossed the Nashville pike and the Mississippi sharpshooters routed the enemy skirmish line. As the Federal soldiers scampered across the open field for a tree line one hundred yards distant, someone in the 34th Mississippi thought it time to complete the rout of the enemy and surged forward with a shout.

  James Campbell saw the Mississippians jog forward, and instead of wondering by what order they had moved, he could think of only one thing: they were going to have to share in their bravery with his company. If he was to change history and wipe out the charge across the field the morning before, he would have to do it now.

  “Forward, men, forward!” Campbell shouted and whirled his sword above his head. With a sharp downward motion he pointed it toward the fleeing enemy. Without orders, Campbell brought his company along into the wake of the 34th Mississippi’s lunge.

  With a shout—a tepid voicing of weariness instead of the courageous Rebel yell that had motivated their feet the day before—the company obeyed the order invoked by Campbell’s jauntily flung cheese knife and broke into a run. Thinking that Cameron had ordered a charge, two other companies next to Campbell’s followed suit, taking a quarter of the regiment with them. John Meeks joined in the yelling, but he found it hard to get into its spirit. A yell was supposed to buck up the fainthearted and drum up the animal courage that all soldiers were to have when facing imminent death. But the motivation just wasn’t there.

  The 34th Mississippi broke through the hospital grounds and split to get around the buildings. They disappeared through a small orchard of naked peach trees as the 3rd Confederate companies reached the house grounds. There began an increase in the small-arms fire racing overhead and through their ranks, hornets that zipped by the ear or brushed one’s cap or uniform in disagreeable closeness—for the lucky. The unlucky were just felled where they ran, collapsing into heaps at the feet of those behind them.

  As Meeks and his company raced through the yard, tripping over dead and wounded men, they heard the plucking of fire hitting the outside walls of the house with a rapidity that reminded John of a hailstorm: an irregular yet rapid striking of large objects against wooden shingles during a downpour. He realized the truth in the sound. There weren’t just some of the enemy out there, but his entire army, and most of them, it seemed, were firing upon their little group.

  James Campbell wasn’t watching any of this or even noticing the walls of the main farmhouse spraying away in chips of paint and wood splinters. He was focused solely on catching up to the 34th Mississippi. The other two companies who’d followed him forward were also racing through the farmyard, all vying to be the first to arrive. Company cohesion was falling apart as some of the men became carried away with the chase and by ones or twos broke out ahead of their officers into a full run. Campbell called out to his company to follow him, or at least that’s what he thought he was saying. He didn’t know what he was really shouting, some of his words drowned out by the minié balls clipping bark off of a tree he was passing by. If men were being hit, he wasn’t paying enough attention to know who was still following him from behind.

  Breaking through the cluttered yard of the house, Campbell led his company around its corner and came to an abrupt halt. The 34th Mississippi was breaking for the rear. Some of its companies were sheltering behind the protection of an outbuilding fifty yards in front of him, and the rest were retreating. Liddell’s brigade, supposed to have been to the right of the 34th Mississippi, was also falling back. The enemy fire, concentrating now on those Confederates sheltering behind the building, repeatedly swept the open space between the house and the outbuilding. Campbell and Company K were right in the open, forming an inviting target. The other two companies of the 3rd Confederate were the same.

  The enemy wasn’t being beaten back, he was attacking. Lines of blue regiments were advancing forward three hundred yards to their right, advancing over the ground occupied by Liddell’s brigade, and more were forming to sweep forward toward the farmhouse.

  Instinctively, the other two companies formed on Campbell’s left where he had abruptly halted. They were all alone. None of the other companies of the regiment had followed. The two captains in command of the other companies looked for who was in command now, who was the fool with the chicken guts on his sleeve who’d led them into this mess. And Campbell might have continued on running forward, even past the men sheltering behind the building in front of them, had not the whole panorama of Liddell’s and the 34th Mississippi’s retreat not shaken him from his delusion of heroism. But now he was also exposing his company to intense rifle fire from every quarter.

  “Who’s in command here?” shouted one of the captains.

  Regaining his senses, Campbell stepped back into line, to the left of the first corporal who occupied the position of the rightmost man of the company in line.

  “Who ordered the advance?” the same captain bellowed.

  Campbell tried to shrink back into the company line as if to remain invisible or at least not responsible for the wild charge forward.

  “Lieutenant Campbell!” someone shouted in reply.

  “We can’t stay here, sir!” Meeks shouted. “Forward or rearward, get us out of here!”

  Two men fell out, struck by a blast of canister fire that struck the building ahead of them and took with it a portion of the wall before racing across the space and into the company formations.

  Those men of the 34th who were still sheltering behind the building were firing on the oncoming enemy line—about sixty men who were either cowering down or poking around the corners to fire before ducking back to reload.

  “To the building!” shouted one of the captains and motioned his company forward. Led by the man’s forcefulness of will or just because someone was doing something, the rest of
the men followed suit. Even if it meant running toward the enemy instead of getting away from him, at least it meant getting out of the line of direct fire. Portions of the 34th Mississippi were lying prone on either side of the house to engage fire with the Federals advancing into their rear, and others of their number huddled miserably together. As John Meeks reached the shadows of the house, he and the others took cover to await developments. No one wanted to take charge.

  He didn’t know what made the situation so unusually terrible. Perhaps it was the crossfire that was directed at them as the 3rd Confederate and 34th Mississippi charged across the yard, or perhaps the constant plucking sounds the minié balls made as they struck the house and the barns, or perhaps the crashing of the canister as it blew large portions of the buildings into splinters that kept these soldiers cowering or glued to their spots. Whatever it was, this was something John Meeks had never seen before. No one among them had ever been subject to this kind of punishment.

  The space behind the barn was crowded two and three deep, with soldiers hugging the walls and each other to avoid the fire zipping nearby. Those who were firing at the approaching enemy took turns firing loaded weapons handed them by men sheltering behind the walls.

  The caissons of the Warren light artillery drove up the road and away from the farm. The retreat of Liddell’s brigade had exposed the battery to a concentration of fire and the advance of the enemy threatened them. Driving hard down the road, the battery swung back into a position where it could still fire upon the advancing enemy and cover those regiments of Wood’s brigade still trying to extract themselves from the tempest.

  James Campbell was one of those crowding the center of the barn. After the three companies charged across the deadly space between the house and the barn, he had run for the center and crouched low. His delusions of grandeur and visions of a hero’s duty had been sucked from him by the whiz of a minié ball that clipped his hat and tore it from his head. If it were possible to press oneself close enough to the side of the barn to become part of its surface, Campbell was doing just that. The minié balls plucking the sides of the barn reverberated against his right ear and down his right side, each one a reminder of what waited for him were he to stand in the open. Each strike pressed him closer and closer to the wood, rubbing his cheek raw.