“I was almost caught behind them. Made my way back in the night. We was almost surrounded. I’m glad you made it out too, Lucius. What of the others?” Philip asked.
“Not found any in de rear.” Lucius shook his head.
“So they could have been captured,” Philip said softly. “I didn’t see any with the regiment. Captain Canfield didn’t have his man with him, but I assumed most had been sent to the hospital to help.”
“Dey’s plenty o’ conterbands at de hospital, but none from de regiment dat I seed.”
“I shouldn’t have put you in this position. You probably wanted to stay in Nashville.”
Lucius listened and nodded silently. “I did, but de Good Lord bring me t’ru. I help in de hospital an’ help young massah here.”
“I’m glad you found my brother, Lucius, and that you made it out to our lines, but I fear I have put upon you too great a burden. A regiment in battle is no place for any of you to be,” Philip said gravely.
“I’se a free man, as you say. I was free to come or free to stay. We done our part. I not mind be old massah’s he’p, even if he do it to look de part,” Lucius replied.
Philip shook his head slowly. His being caught up in being an officer and thinking he needed to do or be something had put Lucius in a predicament. The man was fiercely loyal and not because he had to be. That he’d found Paul and looked out for him told Philip volumes about Lucius’s character and put to shame his own.
“You are free to go back to Nashville too, or stay on, but do it because you want to, not because I ask,” Philip said. He took a deep breath and turned to Paul. “Now, why are you here and not still at the hospital?”
“Thought that I could keep up; fell out after we crossed the river with my head pounding and nearly blinded,” Paul replied wearily.
“Better now?”
“No, but the ground no longer spinning.”
“You take him back to the main hospital?” Philip asked Lucius.
“Yes, I take young massah back.”
“You stay there, please? I don’t know that tomorrow won’t bring another sharp fight, and if we are broken once again, it could be your last time a free man,” Philip stated flatly.
“I stay wid de young massah,” Lucius replied. A darkening expression washed his features.
“Make me feel better if you’re out of harm’s way, least till the enemy is out of reach.”
Lucius nodded. “Old massah no need worry ’bout Lucius; I come an’ go an’ serve as I please now, remember? I take young massah back an’ maybe stay wid him or come back. I do dat wid my free will.”
Lucius spoke with some small hint of defiance and added a wide grin as punctuation.
A free man he was, and Philip again felt a small pang of guilt for taking that a little for granted. But Lucius didn’t need to be told he was free, and he didn’t need Philip to tell him what he was free to do or not do.
“I would be grateful if you would see to Paul’s getting back to the hospital. See if you can find others of the regiment and make sure they are also being taken care of,” Philip said.
The rain had settled into a miserable drizzle, and everything was now wet. Exposed skin was cold. Though fires were kept stoked, once one was away from the flames a shivering ensued that wracked the body. Lucius helped Paul up, and the two men walked slowly down to the river ford.
Philip watched them go for some time until they disappeared into the dark. His overcoat was now soaked, and the water was seeping into his other layers. His gum blanket and poncho were in Confederate hands, probably keeping someone warm and dry right now.
Philip's trudge back up the hill was lonely and miserable. The rain was freezing as it fell, making little ice droplets that pattered against his hat brim.
He found the 21st Ohio lying in battle formation, and no fires. Those who still had ponchos sat Indian-style and hunkered down within the slit opening at the neck to keep as much of the water as possible from running down their backs. Those without shivered and waited for the daylight to come. Though there were hundreds of men spread out by regiments upon the plateau they had recaptured from the enemy, there was very little noise, the soldiers too cold and too deeply suffering from exhaustion to carry on conversation.
Philip noted a large gathering of men in dark blue overcoats and decided it was safe to join the loose gathering of shoulder straps and see what was what.
In the center, Colonel Neibling held something in his hands—a long cloth that as Philip drew close to the outside of the circle turned out to be a Confederate banner. The conversation was muted, but even in the stillness of the surroundings, it sounded as if Neibling was in high spirits. That was something Philip had not often noted in the man.
“General Miller sent this,” Neibling was saying, “was taken at the Washington Artillery battery the regiment passed over.”
Philip drew up behind Captain Canfield and peered over his shoulder. The banner was the Stars and Bars variety, with a numerical 2 and 6 in the upper center quadrant of the X and a “Tenn.” in the middle lower quadrant. No battle honors were emblazoned on the flag, and it had been ripped from its standard when it was taken. A regiment carried two banners, the regimental banner and a national color. This was the regimental banner, as the national colors would have the battle honors noted on the cloth. Losing either color was a mark of shame.
“Chaplain,” Canfield said quietly as Philip looked over his shoulder.
“How did your men fare?” Philip asked.
“Well. Left a few men behind at the hospital, but we did well,” Canfield replied hoarsely.
“The colonel seems jovial,” Philip remarked softly.
“Indeed, enjoy it while it lasts,” the captain replied.
Neibling was carrying on with an actual smile. “The general says he was ordered twice by General Palmer to return back across the river, that he was not to cross the river for fear of exposing our position on the heights above the ford. But you fellows,” Neibling swung the banner around, pointing to his company commanders, “could not be kept from charging across in your enthusiasm to close with the retreating enemy!”
Those gathered around smiled and nodded appreciatively.
“So General Miller threw the whole brigade across, since our fighting parson of the 74th Ohio had already charged across without orders, along with half of Stanley’s brigade, and we charged up the hill. Then another order came from General Palmer to recross.”
Neibling smiled again and performed a circle. “But you fellows were already charging the guns of the vaunted Washington Artillery, which the hapless 26th Tennessee was protecting, and you took them too!”
This brought a few muted huzzahs from the gathering and more enthusiastic nods of approval.
Clearly enjoying himself, Neibling continued, “The commanding general himself was watching from the hill as we chased the enemy back to his own lines before the town, with only darkness halting our movements. General Miller wishes for the men to see the banner they helped to secure. We are being relieved and will return back across the river as soon as Wagner’s brigade arrives.”
“Captain Clements had his 3rd Battalion not far from here.” Captain Wofford turned from the group and faced Philip.
“I found my brother down by the farmhouse where he’d fallen out,” Philip related.
“Wounded?”
“Recovering from the day before.”
The gathering of officers was dispersing as Neibling walked to the end of the regiment to let the men see the banner. This left Wofford and Philip by themselves.
“Canfield’s been a terror since his nigger went missing the other day,” Wofford gloated.
“He’s doing what he feels he should. I’m not going to keep a man of my own any longer, but I left it up to Lucius to remain and help or not,” Philip replied.
“They are a nuisance.”
A commotion from the rear drew Philip’s attention away from Wofford as sounds of m
arching feet heralded the relief’s approach.
Colonel Neibling, having finished his tour of the companies with the prized 26th Tennessee banner, ordered the companies to fall in. There would be another march into the dark, back down the hill they had conquered with their own blood. What lay ahead was the prospect of a fire, food, warmth, and perhaps relief from the freezing drizzle.
“See you back in the rear,” Wofford replied as he hurried to take charge of his company, leaving Philip standing alone and in the dark.
Thus was the fortune of war, he mused. He could have stayed with his brother had he known they would be making the long trek back down the hill again.
Chapter 24
’Round Crackling Fires
As John Meeks sat before the warm fire and thought over the last several days, he might have been led to believe that the war could consist of stalemate forever—a ceaseless combat with no discernible outcome.
The 3rd Confederate had been marched to and from the front line within the cedars three times in as many days. Each time was attended by slaughter. After the debacle at the hospital across the Nashville pike, the brigade had been sent back to camp at Stone’s River for the night but were moved back again at first light. All day long the regiment lay in the cedars waiting. Shells came heavily, in bursts of violence and brought a man’s blood up. Yet each episode died away as nothing more than another angry outburst of death delivered from afar. As night descended and the ruckus from the right died away, the men welcomed another end to another day. Until the rain started.
Save for those on picket detail, the regiment huddled under gum blankets, sitting around the warming of the fires and waiting for sleep to claim their eyes.
Five days they had been in the presence of the enemy, and but for the day of the attack, the 3rd Confederate had been under fire intermittently the whole time. This was a different kind of warfare. The enemy wasn’t yielding the field and neither were they. Barricades had been erected at the cedars’ edges, and the backwoods had become a skulkers’ village with shebangs and tents, wagons and paths around the largest of the flat stones, which now served as mess tables.
The violence of fighting coming from the right of the line, across the river, had held their attention for some time as the regiments were brought into line of battle waiting for the enemy to take advantage and attack. Nothing happened. As they stood waiting, with another barrage of cannon shells bursting in the treetops, John imagined the hell that was happening over the river. He had seen enough of that hell the day before and the day before that. Standing in line with David Grover at his side, he also felt the nostalgia of his friends now missing. Were they being well treated? Were they feeling the relief of freedom from Confederate service, or were they regretting their choice to stay and wait to be captured?
With the rain now falling, making pattering noises as the drops bounced off the gum blanket he had wrapped around his shoulders, John also felt the weariness of so many days under arms that sleep—if it could be had—was the only thing he could bring himself to look forward to. The next day would be more of the same. Stand in line of battle should the call come, or be sent out to the rifle pits for picket detail. The killing would continue.
The remaining members of the Peace Society, scattered about in the trees and huddled about the fires, were too tired to do anything but watch the water droplets compete with the flames for supremacy. Around John’s fire were Grover and a few others who now made up his comrades in battle, along with acting First Sergeant Thomas Wade—a newcomer to their fires. The same Thomas Wade who a year ago was threatening to claim their homesteads for the miscreant Campbell and his gang of hangers-on was now one of them.
Sergeant Wade took a seat around their fire, an indication that life had indeed changed in Company K. Comrades are made from the affinity of shared privation and suffering. The men of this company had become comrades through the shared experience of forced volunteering and the suffering of those like Campbell and Wade who lorded it over them. This was a new day.
Wade had taken a seat without ceremony or invitation—just plopped down and stared at the flames. Everyone was soaked through to the bone, the fire the only relief from the constant trickling of water down their backs from soaked hat brims. His countenance did not speak of high intelligence. A square jaw and dull black eyes made him look like a man who might struggle to understand even the simplest of words. But the sergeant had risen to the occasion more than once the last several days, when others were cutting and running, and though he tried to keep it hidden, word had spread through the ranks that he’d opposed Campbell’s attempt to further mess with John and the others.
“We attempted ta cross the river on th’ right; Breckenridge failed.” Wade finally broke the silence of the fire.
There might have been joy in that word, but no one believed it, or if they did, they didn’t care enough to show it. Pulling out of the line only meant coming back, after all.
“I also hear th’ commandin’ general might resign from th‘ army; sent a letter to the corps and division commanders askin’ fer a vote of confidence an’ got back a vote of none.”
The news didn’t strike anyone around the fire in any way. No one would have been surprised if Bragg had resigned the army.
“They some talk that we pull back,” Thomas finished.
“Back to the Franklin pike? Back where we started?” Grover asked.
“Back to Shelbyville,” came the sardonic reply.
“Abandon Murfreesboro?” John asked, surprised now.
“Just rumor,” Wade stated.
To the common infantryman who wasn’t poring over a map or looking at roads, rail lines, cities of supply, or mountain passes and rivers to protect the flanks, the war was one of march and maneuver and stand or run from a fight. That something would give soon seemed inevitable, especially with the news of another failure to push Rosecrans from the Nashville pike. The two days spent in idleness waiting to attack or be attacked had been as trying as knowing that an attack was eminent.
“What of Campbell?” John asked.
“Back to the rear, fer good probably. Don’t think he’ll keep his commission after yesterday’s fight at the barn,” Wade said.
“And you? What is it that brings you to our fires?” John asked, fixing Thomas Wade with an earnest stare.
“Reality,” Wade replied. “Authority, promotion, bein’ my own man fer once. When I was a third sergeant I was just in command of stuff an’ at Campbell’s whim or Captain Johnston’s command. Bein’ first sergeant different. I don’t has to like you, but I has to see to you if I want to keep my position.”
“We certain not to like you, neither,” Grover said with a straight face.
“Don’t got to, but helps when the first sergeant is a man one can respect,” John added. “You took command when you needed to, Sergeant, an’ it showed with the others.”
“You, you all, you was plannin’ to desert, weren’tcha? You was plannin’ something, right?” Wade asked boldly.
“That were the plan, yes,” John admitted. “That night even, but never got to it. Then in the woods durin’ the fight. Leastwise with Glenn and Holly an’ some of the others.”
“Why’d you not?”
“Thought the war might finally end or get closer to endin’. Thought if we pushed the enemy we might get home sooner than if we jus’ tried to strike out on our own. Still might.”
“So you ain’t no turncoat?” Wade asked, surprised.
“Never was; didn’t like secession is all. Never said I hated my state or its army. Just didn’t want to be forced to fight for it.”
“And now?”
“If falling in will get me home sooner, then I’ll fall in. Fer Holly an’ Glenn it were more about bein’ forced to fight fer a country they didn’t want. They was able to get out an’ not have it look poorly on them fer they family’s sake. If you want the truth, we couldn’t find another way do it without havin’ it fall on our famili
es back home. An honorable peace is the only way, or bein’ killed or captured, that this ends without our families bein’ put through more pain.”
David Grover nodded in agreement.
“Glenn were always a troublemaker,” Wade replied.
“Glenn was committed to not fightin’ no matter what the cost. Now he a prisoner and got what he wanted: out of the Confederate army,” John said. “We wrap up this war an’ get to go home, that’s what I want now. Not do my family any good runnin’ away or bein’ caught an’ shot fer desertion. We get the Yankees out of Tennessee an’ Arkansas an’ get to go home? That what we want.”
“You still of that mind if we retreat?” Grover asked Meeks.
“Just get the war over. If Bragg got to retreat to finish Rosecrans off at another time or draw him down into southern Tennessee, then fine. Just get us home.”
Wade nodded. It wasn’t lost on him that it was the hated Arkansas Peace Society members, the men he’d vented his spleen at many times, with whom he was chinning now. How much of his behavior had been ginned up by Campbell’s unsatisfied quest for his own power and how much was just because Wade had needed someone to hate, he didn’t know. For once, however, he was at peace and free from Campbell’s influence.
“Don’t wander off,” Wade said with a wink as he stood. “If we movin’ back, keep to your traps. We might move tonight.”
With that, Thomas wandered over to the next fire and sat down.
Grover looked over at John. “Suddenly he’s going to be our pard?”
“No, not pard, but he’ll at least be our leader. Not had one of those in a while.” John looked thoughtfully over his shoulder at the first sergeant.
“What if we retreatin’?” Grover asked. “You get the feelin’ that we shoulda stayed by that barn?”
John sighed. “Now, maybe. Then, not. A retreat mean no victory over the enemy army, a prolonging of the war an’ having to do this all over again someday. So, yeah, wonderin’ if we shouldn’t have stayed back there.”
“The season of fightin’ will at least be given a rest. We go into winter quarters at least, get out of this wet an’ cold.”
River of Blood (Shiloh Series Book 4) Page 43