“Hold it thar, young massah,” Lucius said soothingly as he tried to take another daub at the wound.
Paul winced and tensed as the cloth lightly wiped across the deep gash that ran above his ear and down his temple, ending right at his left cheekbone. The wound had bled down his ear, his neck, his face, and into his collar. The tip of his ear had been carried away, and blood had run down and into his ear canal. Having someone tend to the wound was more painful than receiving it had been. When he’d been hit, it was a blinding white pain that sent him to the ground in a moment of dizziness and disorientation. Then he’d just felt sick and confused before what seemed to him to have been going to sleep suddenly. Now it was prolonged pain, and he was having a hard time standing for it.
“You one of them contrabands from the 21st Ohio?” Paul asked, wondering if he might be the man who was helping his brother.
“Yes sah, I got separated when de reg’ment fall back day a’fore. Be’ed he’pin’ wif de wounded ever since.”
“You know where Miller’s brigade is now?” Paul asked.
“No sah, not see’d any of de brigade,” Lucius replied as he took the cloth and dipped it into the pail of water to rinse it. Noting the look of concern on Paul’s face, he added, “You worry ’bout you brother?”
So this was the man. Paul shook his head in affirmation. “You see him when the regiment retreated?”
“Likes I say, not seen any of de reg’ment since day afore, an’ din’t see much when he tole’ us contr’bands to run.”
Lucius moved his way down the wound. “Dis gonna leave a nasty scar, young massah.”
Paul nodded, then turned slightly. “What’s the enemy doin’?” Paul asked the steward.
“Entrenched, laying just out of musket shot across the pike. Not doing much but waiting. There was some noise yesterday on the right again, but didn’t amount to much. Other than that, things have been quiet.” Detweiler stopped what he was doing briefly to look into the distance toward the enemy positions.
“Wounded going back to Nashville?”
“Those that can walk and ride, but enemy cavalry been operating in the rear, so wouldn’t count on getting that far.”
“Dis g’winter hurt yore hat-wearin’ days, young massah,” Lucius said as he wrapped a cloth around Paul’s head to cover the worst of the gash running up his ear and head. “Now you look proper wounded.”
Detweiler continued, “Men is making their way back to the rear as they can manage, so you probably can start, though like I say, just watch out for enemy cavalry. You might not want to wait around for the enemy to make another push.”
Paul felt the bandage and pressed lightly upon the wounded side, testing to see how much protection the cloth was going to offer. Not much, he concluded. Gingerly, he felt his way to a sitting position upon the soggy ground. His jaw hurt, and the swelling made his left eye but a slit. Moving his mouth caused a tension along his cheek that made the left side of his face ache.
“Here, drink some of dis,” Lucius said and handed Paul a cup of steaming coffee.
Paul tried to sip, but the swelling and the pain made it difficult to swallow, and his limbs were still weak so that holding the cup aloft made it quiver. What he did get down felt good, aiding the warming from the fire.
“You seen the 3rd Battalion Pioneers?” Paul asked.
“They just over yonder.” The steward nodded in the direction of a bluff that overlooked the ford the Pioneers had been working on the morning of the battle. “They been all over the field. Had some of them come in yesterday with wounded.”
Paul looked over in the direction the steward indicated. It was over a mile by his estimation. An easy walk for a healthy man.
“You probably find yer brigade hereabouts too. Army damn near in a circle, packed in pretty tight.”
Paul tried another sip. He was getting the hang of letting the liquid flow over his lips and down his gullet without causing him too much pain from swallowing. Each swallow was like trying to get something down a really bad sore throat; each constriction of the tongue and the roof of his mouth like swallowing bites of death bell with no saliva to wash the dry cracker down—gritty and painful.
“You think we counterattack?” Paul asked after some moments of silence. The other three Negroes were still fussing over the stew, and Lucius was cleaning up from tending to Paul’s wound, leaving just Paul and the steward by the fire.
“No, I think we waitin’ for Bragg to decide to make another move. Army spent the day yesterday getting brigades and divisions back together; they was movement all day long with brigades marching back and forth. It must have been a confusion on the 31st with brigades and regiments thrown into the fight pell-mell. I barely got out of the ring myself. Lost all of my baggage and medicines; for a while it was every man for himself. Seen a whole regiment surrender to Rebel cavalry up the pike before they was liberated by a countercharge of our own cavalry. It was bedlam back here. Don’t ever want to see that again.” Detweiler picked up a small glass bottle of powder and turned it about slowly between his fingers.
“You say the enemy didn’t make any attack yesterday?” Paul asked.
“Some movement back an’ forth, some on the far right of our line an’ some on the center, but just brigades. Suspect the enemy was just as hurt as we was an’ spent the day reorganizin’. Today, though, expect somethin’ to happen. We either retreat or he does—can’t see either army just sittin’ around fer another day doin’ nothin’.” The steward gave a final shrug as he finished his predictions.
Paul stared into the fire for some moments. His balance was coming back, and aside from the dull ache along his scalp, he fancied he could resume his duties without much in the way of difficulty. Perhaps not leaning into a shovel, but he could shoulder a musket.
“Think I take my leave now, go find my battalion,” Paul said at length.
“Suit yerself,” the steward replied and refocused on his chore of rolling wax pills.
Taking a first step, however, was a new experience. Paul turned from the fire, and after two and a half steps stopped as the ground felt like it was about to swirl away from under him. A stutter step and throwing his hands out to either side returned his balance, but he could walk this way for a whole day and not get out from the hospital grounds.
Lucius was at his side in a moment. “Young massah want some help?”
Paul blinked and slowly exhaled as the ground swayed. “Yes, I could use some help.”
“You shore you wants to go find de reg’mint?” Lucius asked.
“No, but I don’t want to stay here no more neither.”
“Well, let me help you den,” Lucius said and grabbed Paul by the arm.
They walked step by step, slowly at first, until Paul started taking more at a time.
“You go lookin’ for the 21st?” Paul asked as he felt he was finally getting the hang of walking again. His head was still feeling light, but the dizziness was subsiding.
“No, din’t want to go walkin’ about lest I’se get captured by de Rebels.”
“Wise,” Paul replied.
“You’se ’fraid for your brother?” Lucius asked.
“No . . . he prolly busy with the wounded somewhere. Just wonderin’ if the regiment made it out.”
They walked for a while in silence.
“De army look to be in good stead. Fink de Rebels is gonna wait us out,” Lucius said after the two had crossed a field. Division guidons and colors marked boundaries between commands.
“Can’t throw a stone without hittin’ a general,” Paul quipped as they passed General Crittenden and his staff clustered around a group of horses. One well-placed cannon shot would take out the top commanders of two divisions along with their brigade commanders.
Following the path of the railroad embankment, the two traveled in a southeastward direction, passing regiment after regiment of infantry huddled at the base of the five-foot-high berm. Artillery pieces perched in places above them, standing wa
tch. Breaks in the cut were filled with more artillery pieces, and lines of infantry drawn up in line of battle could be seen thrown out one hundred yards, standing idle, waiting.
The location where the steward had indicated Paul’s battalion was supposed to be was close by the river, in a place where the ground rose abruptly and facing another eminence with the river in between. The battalion was back where it had been working on the ford the morning of the attack.
On the opposite bluff a Confederate division had been posted with artillery. Several Union batteries of all caliber were posted on the hill facing the bluff and below the ford, the Chicago Board of Trade Battery one of them. The battery had made it out of the fighting after all, Paul thought.
Paul found his battalion stretched out upon the open space of a field four hundred yards from the crest of the bluff overlooking the ford, rifles stacked and the soldiers enjoying a rest. Men lounged about the brown grass and huddled around fires to keep warm, an almost holiday atmosphere prevailing. Paul quickened his pace, eager to get back with this fellows.
His company was stretched out upon the ground, every one of them asleep. Even Lieutenant Bergstrom was resting. With little regard for belongings or watching the muskets, the company had been given a liberal leave to find rest wherever it might be had.
If their faces had been covered over and their feet exposed, they might have all been laid out for burial. The snores alone gave it away. None of the usual attentiveness to duty was in evidence. Paul gingerly made his way to his commander and thought a moment before interrupting the man’s slumber.
“Sir,” Paul said quietly.
No stirring.
“Sir,” Paul repeated, a little louder. “Lieutenant Bergstrom”
Bergstrom mumbled something incoherent and shifted a little.
“Lieutenant?” Paul said louder still.
Bergstrom stirred once more and opened his eyes. They were bloodshot and puffy. After blinking several times, Bergstrom shook his head a little and finally focused on Paul.
“Corporal Pearson,” the lieutenant said wearily. “Back from hospital?”
“Sir, wish to report back for duty.”
“Yes, duty. Report to First Sergeant Michaelson. Can you shoulder a musket?”
“Yes sir, I think I can,” Paul replied unconvincingly.
“Who’s that?” Bergstrom asked, nodding to Lucius.
“From the 21st Ohio; found me in the hospital. Helps my brother.”
“That so,” Bergstrom replied stiffly. “We on rest for a spell; let the boys sleep an’ find yourself some traps.”
Bergstrom lay back down and closed his eyes.
“I guess I lets you to yo’ business, young massah,” Lucius said.
“Thanks for the help,” Paul said with a nod.
The first sound, a distant report of a cannon, didn’t startle him. Not an unusual thing, a cannon firing off in the distance. But the split second of blissful peace and unconcern was shattered as the next sound was that of the round exploding in the air directly above them. A cloud of dust and dead plant matter rose into the air as hundreds of little shards drove deep into the ground and showered those sleeping nearby with debris. In quick succession, more rounds exploded above the battalion, sending soldiers running for the cover of the cedars.
Paul squinted and scanned the opposite bluff for the source of the fire. Little puffs of smoke were drifting lazily skyward far off on the Confederate side of the river, four cannon barely visible in the distance. Their battery had waited, sitting in the open but invisible until it decided to open fire. Other enemy batteries also began firing. In front of the battalion, Stoke’s battery went into action against the enemy battery closest, as did other Union batteries scattered about the bluff.
Soon the whole bluff was covered in smoke and the racket of cannon fire. The Pioneers scrambled to retrieve their weapons from stacks and gather up traps and personal items as they scurried for cover. A wood stood a further seventy-five yards behind them, and without order or command, the soldiers made for its safety. Paul found himself becoming dizzy once more after trying to take a few hurried steps, an instant later he fell. His head rang as the noise and tumult heightened the already present ache.
The fire from Stokes's battery shifted to targets of opportunity until suddenly it was silenced as one of its limber chests was hit with a solid shot, sending ammunition and supplies scattering into the air and rendering the rounds useless. Captain Stokes pulled his battery back, out of ammunition and taking the brunt of fire from several batteries in his exposed position. As the Pioneers scampered away, enemy fire shifted from them to other batteries on the bluff.
Lucius caught Paul up by the arm and threw his left arm over his shoulder, and the two of them made the best time they could until stopping breathless deep in the wood. Paul felt nauseous and dizzy as he tried to stay on his feet, and he collapsed hard upon the ground, his legs refusing to go further. Artillery rounds were still hitting the open field.
“Help me up,” Paul asked Lucius.
Unsteady on his feet, Paul meandered to take his place in the line his company was forming. Lucius hesitated to lead him, and Paul tried to go from tree to tree to keep his balance and stumble into formation. His place was with the second squad, middle of the company in the front rank.
“Corporal?” one man exclaimed, wide-eyed, as Paul reached them.
“You look awful, Corp,” another added.
“Corporal Pearson, you should fall out and report back to the hospital,” commented Captain Clements as he stood waiting for the rest of the men to get into ranks. Safely in the trees, the formation was a formality to establish the battalion rally point when the next order came.
With no weapon, no ammunition, and a bloody bandage covering one ear and half of his head, Paul knew he looked the picture of ill health. He had to brace himself against the private to his left to keep from falling over. But he wanted to be here.
Lucius stood in the rear of the company, unsure of what to do. The cannon fire upon the bluff was still raging, and this was no place to be. He could just go and find something to occupy his time away from the awful noise, but it seemed to him that Paul was not going to last long.
With nothing for the men to do, Captain Clements ordered the company to stack rifles and then gave the command to rest. The men scattered once again into the trees to find a place to lay down.
“You can go back now—go find the 21st Ohio if you wish,” Paul said after gingerly sliding down to the ground with his back to a tree as a prop.
“I can stay, looks after young massah,” Lucius replied.
“If you go, you can look for my brother and tell him I’m still upright,” Paul persisted. “I think I’m going to be fine here, just need my head to stop throbbing. Looks like we won’t be called upon for the next several hours, so I can rest up here.”
The cannonade was slackening, and the trees offered the best shelter to be had on the field. Lucius didn’t have to be anywhere. He was a free man, one of the freest men on the whole field. The soldiers belonged to someone and had responsibilities. He did not. He had only his own sense of loyalty to guide him. If he wanted to stay huddled in the trees for safety, he could. If he wanted to strike out for Nashville, he could. The only external thing keeping him close to the soldiers in blue was the Confederate cavalry roaming their rear.
Another loud exchange of cannon fire along the crest of the bluff decided the question.
“I’se goin’ to stay a while,” Lucius concluded, and he struck out into the trees, leaving the contradiction hanging in the air.
Paul had fallen asleep before Lucius returned with an armful of sticks and twigs to start a fire. If he was going to stay, he was going to do something other than huddle in fear. Building a cook fire seemed to be the most natural thing. In his haversack, Lucius still had several days’ worth of rations tucked away. Greasy salt beef and hard crackers and some uncooked beans.
Many of the
Pioneers were so exhausted that once dismissed they had collapsed wherever they found flat ground and fallen asleep, only roused by the crackling of Lucius’s fire and the smell of coffee. Soon most of Paul’s squad were gathered around the flames nursing steamy cups of coffee and looking vacantly into the fire as Lucius boiled the beef.
Paul woke to find he was nearly surrounded by his squad, with a fire nipping at his toes. The small canteen half Lucius carried as a skillet was only big enough to hold meat for two men, and soon the pile of meat to be prepared had grown from the contributions of the soldiers. Cups were used to soak the crackers for Burnside stew, crude dumplings to be thrown into the canteen half to soak up the grease from the beef, and a round-robin feasting began.
Fully awake, the soldiers began filling Paul in on what had happened since the big fight the day before.
“Them damn reg’lars all turned tail, left our right flank open, an’ them damn stars ’n bars banners come streamin’ out o’ them trees,” one man recounted. “Come up close, too; three times they come up close an’ threatened our flank an’ front. We give ’em hell each time fer they trouble.”
“Yeah, they couldn’t budge us, though!” said another. “They come up close an’ couldn’t budge us. Had other regiments come up alongside, an’ they held too. Stokes’s Chicagoans put up a grand display o’ grape an’ canister an’ kept them sons o’ bitches from rollin’ right over us.”
Paul listened to the narrative with interest. Much of it he’d born witness to, and fragments of memory came back as they spoke: seeing the 21st Ohio fighting alongside the 2nd Battalion, Rosecrans and his staff riding around in the rear, heading out to find more ammunition, then being struck by something.
“Them Rebs was stacked four deep when last they come on; I never seen nothing like it before. It was like they was whipped forward, and we slaughtered them as they came up.”
“Slaughter, that be a good way o’ puttin’ it. They dead covered the open space in front of Stokes’s guns. I seen canister shot tear whole ranks of ’em down.”
“Some fellers carried you away to the rear,” one man said to Paul. “You was gone when we was marched out o’ that wood. Someone must have carried you back to that hospital.”
River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4) Page 37