“Yeah, it was dark when we marched out of there. All our wounded was there by the pike, but someone must have taken you back. We looked fer’ you but you was gone.” another man added.
Paul shook his head slightly and frowned. “Don’t remember much but waking up in the hospital area this morning,” he replied.
“Squad didn’t fare too poorly. Lost you an’ four others wounded. No one killed yet.”
Paul’s squad was almost entirely Ohio men, comprised of veteran and new regiments.
“I’d say the general is waitin’ fer Bragg to make another go of it, and that’s why we waitin’ here another day. Don’t think Bragg whipped Rosecrans yet or gonna.”
“We see soon enough, though. With that cannonade just now, the enemy don’t look like he of a mind to retreat neither.”
“Bragg bested us, well, at least McCook, the other day, but he din’t have the strength to finish it. I think he as badly off as we is.”
With nods all around, the soldiers fell into a silence borne of fatigue that even the coffee and small bites of beef could not enliven for more than a few moments’ time.
* * *
Philip took another look over his shoulder at the teeming field of wounded and dead behind him. The day was drawing on, and it was time to complete what he’d set out to do and rejoin his regiment. The noise of battle had thankfully subsided after an hour or so of racket, with no further alarm of a major enemy effort to renew the conflict. Taking Paul to the rear had been a chore, but he’d managed to half-drag, half-carry him to a hospital beyond the Nashville pike and had tried to find someone to tend to his wound. With so many being brought in still—both from the fighting the day before and the fighting on the far right—he’d had to settle for just getting his brother closer to being looked at in the queue. Paul was delirious throughout the day, and Philip had lacked any water or cloth to clean his wound. He had sat with Paul a few hours waiting for him to snap out of delirium so he could at least be a familiar face to wake up to, but hour after hour elapsed and Paul was still not in his right mind.
Finally, feeling a tug of guilt for being away from the 21st Ohio so long, Philip had laid a gentle hand on his brother’s chest, saying “I’ll try to come back soon, brother. May Christ and God will it.”
As he left the hospital area, he was engulfed in an army compressed tightly together and in awe of what he couldn’t help but think: that the enemy would surely not dare to attack this position again. It seemed that the whole of the army was gathered just over the berm of the railroad. Cannon were positioned atop the rise at intervals commanding the Nashville pike, all forming in depth. Divisions now occupying a space that a brigade might have held were the army confident of a wide front, and more divisions waited in reserve behind the front line.
The enemy would be foolish indeed to attack such a position now, Philip told himself as he wandered about looking for familiar faces.
Division guidons were clustered close together: Sheridan’s, Wood’s, Palmer’s, all jumbled still and representing the chaos that must have been the front line as it retreated and brigades were thrown into the holes. Where was Negley’s division? For a man like Rosecrans, this state of affairs must have been intolerable. No clear communication from one corps to the next; each corps’ divisions separated and disconnected from their commanders. With all of the marching and moving about, the brigades and regiments were being moved around now to reunite the organizations.
Even if Philip found Negley’s division, the 21st could be anywhere. . . if any had made it out.
He found the regiment situated alongside Spears’s brigade and looking the worse for wear. They had been bled of able-bodied soldiers, and the companies now resembled squads. Many had surrendered when they could not get out of the closing ring, and others had managed, as Philip had, to get back through the porous enemy line to rejoin their pards.
Lieutenant Colonel Neibling was in a black mood when Philip reported back. “You,” was all that the man said with a dismissive air, waving Philip away. As a parting shot, Neibling added, “I see you lost your nigger.”
Philip turned and stopped but decided not to reply. It hadn’t occurred to the man that any of the regiment’s contrabands might have been caught up in the retreat or recaptured and sent back south in chains.
Philip made the rounds of the companies until he came upon Captain Canfield’s and joined the captain at his fire. Canfield looked tired, and the regiment in general resembled a collection of laborers gathering for a noontime meal. Work clothes and equipment had been shed; men in half-dress were lounging about—most sleeping, others sitting and looking vacantly off into the distance.
“How did you fare?” Philip asked as he sat.
“Intolerably. Company cut down by a third. We had a run of it through a cauldron. My man was lost.”
“My man” was Abe. Canfield never referred to any of the blacks employed as manservants as anything but “my man” or “his man.”
“Have you seen Lucius?” Philip asked.
“No, not since the morning. Afraid he might also have been taken. Not many of the men we took with us from Nashville made it out of the attack,” Canfield replied with a sense of pity.
Philip nodded.
“I see you made it back in one piece.”
“Yes, had a harrowing night creeping around the fields of dead,” Philip replied with a shiver and a brief glance at his red-stained greatcoat.
Canfield smiled. “Can’t imagine you creeping around anywhere, Chaplain.”
“Found my brother wounded, one of my pards from the 24th Ohio dead, and now the man I convinced to come along is captured or killed. Don’t feel so lucky right now.”
“Your brother bad?”
“No, though going to be missing some of his sideburns and hair for a time. Found my old regiment pulling out of the Round Forest and learned that some of the men I knew no longer in the land of the living. That was not a happy reunion.”
Philip sighed heavily and stared into the fire. Long memories came of fire-gazing with Sammy needling Mule about his hard cracker hoarding or his being the lone Catholic in their mess.
“At least you know your brother is alive,” Canfield said with an upbeat tone.
“I got him to a hospital, but there were so many gathered there that I do not even know if he’s had anyone look at his wound yet. He’s not that badly struck, but I hated to leave him. Took me all night just to find the regiment.”
“We was moved about yesterday. We fought with the Pioneers, supporting your brother’s 3rd Battalion, I believe. It was a horrific day. The enemy believed he had us, and we believed he was wrong.” Canfield jabbed a stick into the fire with emphasis, raising a display of sparks and ash.
“Been waiting for someone to make a move, but neither side seems to be willing to attack or retreat,” Philip said.
“The boys stood up to it. They did what they was told to and come out tolerably well. Even in the rush to get out of the trap they held together. Do worry about my man, though.”
“I seen lots of contrabands milling about our rear and in the hospital area. He might have made it out safely. I sent Lucius off with some wounded before the line broke; he and some of the others in the regiment was helping wounded off and had a head start. They all might have made it out.”
“None too happy if they didn’t,” Canfield said with another sharp jab into the fire.
“Neibling probably happy about no more contrabands to look at.” Philip looked over at their commander sitting alone by his own fire.
“He did well the other day,” Canfield admitted. “He lousy when we aren’t in a fight or too busy keeping out of trouble behind the lines, but he kept his head when things looked like they was going to run right over us.”
“You going to employ more contrabands if your man never turns up?” Philip asked.
“Yes,” Canfield replied resolutely and without pause for thought. “If I can offer one man some shelte
r and something to do with his hands, and he can serve the greater purpose, then yes, certainly.”
“When I woke and realized that I’d been left for dead and that the army was nowhere to be seen, I regretted bringing Lucius along. I’d no sooner bring my own son to war with me. Some of these contrabands are no more fitted to take care of themselves than a child in an environment like this. They lived too long under the lash.”
Philip poked absently with a stick into the dirt. “Not that any of them is unable to see to themselves, but being left to be recaptured by the same people who held them in bondage . . . that is the horror of what I encouraged.”
Philip recalled the other contraband he’d met in Corinth, Seth, and the predicament the whole camp of contrabands had been in when the Confederates attacked Rosecrans’s army there. They had come to the Union army for protection, but even with the army battling for possession of the town, they knew the army could retreat in an instant if it meant survival and leave the runaway slaves defenseless. How many more men like Will Hunter were still out looking for slaves who had managed to make it to safety?
“Why did you convince him if you are so uncertain?” Canfield asked. “We fighting this war to reunite the country, and the slave will be no more a slave when that is accomplished. That is why I continue to defy Neibling and keep a man in camp when I can. Besides, they not children and will have to learn to fend for themselves.”
“To be honest, I think it was to be like you,” Philip replied sheepishly. “But that doesn’t seem to be that good a measure, does it? I wanted to have a man about.”
He thought a moment. “Lucius was also a helpful assistant when it came to ministering.”
“No, it’s not a good measure, but none of us requires a man to see to our needs. For some of the officers it makes them think of theyselves as officers if they have a servant, sort of the aristocracy of old. They can just as easily have a batman from the ranks and probably should. Me, it’s to see to one human being at a time. I will do so as long as I have opportunity to deprive one of these sons of the South from bondage to another man’s labor and comfort. If you aren’t lookin’ to act the part of an officer or a giver of bounty, you’ve no need of keeping a man.”
“I thought it might be a useful thing, but I’ve found that I’ve not the pressing need for a manservant even if I’m entitled to one. I fear I put the man at undue risk. I was convinced he needed to see the war. Also thought the Nashville contraband camp was no place for a man of energy.”
“It is an awful place for anyone to be holed up. Those people are living like dog robbers from the scraps the army leaves behind or what come from the Christian Commission wagons. But I’ll see if my man might be in the rear areas after we decide if we staying or moving forward.”
A sudden sound of cannon fire erupted, both from the far left and from the center, that made every man freeze what he was doing to look up in surprise. There had been little warning that anything was going to happen today. No skirmisher fire to rise in tempo or rattle of musketry to escalate into raucous cannon fire. But now, as if by signal, the enemy batteries about the field opened up a fusillade of booming reports that rumbled the very ground upon which Philip sat.
For some few moments no one moved, but all eyes fixed on the berm of the railroad tracks. Beyond it were the enemy batteries, and above it, over to the left, the enemy had several long-range guns that were now firing down the Federal line as if suddenly aware of its presence. It had been daylight for some hours. There could be no surprise that Rosecrans was still on the field.
The fire wasn’t falling on their position, but the noise was indicative that something might be about to happen. Colonel Neibling, after his own surprise wore off, quickly donned his belt and saber and called for the long roll to be sounded on the drum. The regiment’s rifle stacks were within easy reach and the companies not far from falling into formation, and the 21st Ohio stood in line in a matter of moments as the cannonade resounded about the field.
Philip found himself suddenly without much to do as Canfield doused the fire and scrambled to get his own kit in order and fall in at the head of his company. Philip took a position in the center rear of the regiment and waited. Other regiments in the brigade were falling in. The cannon fire seemed to have enlivened the whole army as the slow, lazy show of going about one’s business was suddenly broken and the business of making war intruded upon everyone’s errands.
A day’s rest was not enough for this army: even with the sudden danger of approaching attack, the men’s movements could only be described as fitful, jerky, as if their limbs and minds were still fast asleep and their bodies propelled into action unwilling. Men stumbled, falling into position like children who have not yet mastered the use of coordination or grace. The enemy might be coming on again. The experience of the day before had not been properly excised from memory by only one day’s worth of fitful sleep and rest. The groans were audible, heartrending.
For the next thirty minutes the cannonade resounded amidst the leafless trees and then tapered away, leaving all who stood ready for the next few moments of dread wondering how long they would be left in anticipation. The rattle of musketry did not come; the crescendo of sound that should have been herald of another attack was lacking. The sounds of cannon were replaced with the sounds of thousands of men breathing a collective sigh of relief.
The event wasn’t without precedent. Abrupt, fierce firefights had erupted for brief moments of time on several occasions over the last day, springing all within earshot to attention and readiness only to have nothing happen—an inevitability of being so close to the enemy. Philip waited behind the regimental line, craning his neck to see above the ranks and into the distance for the telltale rise of dust or smoke or something that would call the brigade forward. Nothing.
When it became apparent that nothing would indeed come of the noise, Neibling put the regiment at ease, and the men relaxed as well as one can while riveted to one’s position in the ranks with the right foot fixed to the ground. Murmurs of quieted conversation replaced the silence, and Philip was free to move about. The other officers were gathering around their chief in conference, and Philip caught up with Surgeon Young as he was rummaging in his haversack for some tobacco.
“Chaplain, care for a smoke?” Young said wearily as he held out a pouch.
“Yes, that would be fine,” Philip replied. He fished out his huntsman pipe. It was made in the classic German style, with a bone tip and carved wooden bowl, the whole in the shape of a J with a closable top that allowed the smoker to lengthen the smoke by restricting the inflow of air through an ornamented metal cup with air holes. The damp made it hard to keep a light going, and the surgeon went through his matches in futile attempts to keep his bowl lit. He looked as haggard as anyone around—perhaps more so as his uniform was covered and spattered with mud and blood specks. The two men stood in silence some moments, enjoying their smoke and watching the regiment.
“Chief Surgeon Gross ordered us to collect what supplies might still be with each brigade, but I tol’ him we lost most of ours in the retreat. I came back to the regiment anyhow,” Young said at length. He paused and continued, “We collected as many as we could carry, but I suspect many more is out there suffering right now—if the enemy is even tending to our wounded. Many more made it into our lines over the night an’ collected back behind the railroad. Thousands of wounded. Never seen so many men struck in so many places before.”
“One never gets used to the sight,” Philip replied. “This is my third engagement and third time seeing the maimed in attitudes of suffering. The likes no war has ever seen before, I’d imagine, not in these numbers.”
“Don’t seem like it over, either. I suspect something going to happen today—more killing and maiming of the enemy and of us. The wounded too scared to move on back to Triune or Nashville ’cause of the Rebel bushwhackers and cavalry. They just collecting back behind the army in one miserable rabble. Drivers afrai
d to move the dead carts back up to Nashville for fear of the Rebel cavalry.”
“I saw several ambulances back behind the enemy lines the other night, rifled and empty,” Philip stated. “Several hospitals overrun, too.”
“We got supply wagons coming in from Nashville. When they get through the enemy cavalry, some of my stock get replaced—but not much, not enough to handle our wounded.”
Philip nodded. Of the preparations for this war, the most lacking was help for the wounded, even now that the war was spilling into its third year. Rifles, ammunition, uniforms, and all manner of war-making goods were moved to support the armies in the field, but the wounded and sick were left in pitiable states. The field hospitals, quickly organized and lightly stocked, were but the first stop for any man stricken. If he made it out of that temporary place, he was in for a bumpy and excruciating ambulance or wagon ride to the nearest waterway or friendly citadel where a larger hospital was established to see to his recovery. The field surgeons could only probe a wound and amputate a limb, or else set a man aside as being too wounded to move and go on to the next man. If he was lucky enough to make it out of the field, he faced an uncertain journey and uncertain recovery—that is, if his wound was not too serious.
Surgeon Young, like most regimental surgeons, had not been prepared for the degree of human suffering he encountered at the first engagement.
“Christian Commission won’t come down, they holed up in Nashville, but the damn Sanitary commissioner poked his nose around our hospital writing down infractions,” Young added with disdain.
Philip just nodded, unclear on who was in the right or the wrong. There was no such organization poking its noses into the ecclesiastical ministrations of the army’s chaplains. The Christian Commission was more concerned with providing the army with pamphlets and gospels than in nosing about in any chaplain’s business. They were more a partner than an adversary.
River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4) Page 38