The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3

by Phillip Bryant

  Soon, Philip had several canteens draped over his shoulder. In spite of his feelings about robbing the dead, he was able to apply Sammy’s logic of relieving the dead of essentials he, and not they, required. That done, he wandered looking for where Harper lay.

  “Sergeant?” He nudged Harper’s shoulder, and Harper opened his eyes. “Lee? Here, drink.” Philip lifted Harper’s head and held a canteen to his lips. Harper woke and drank in gulps. Each swallow sent paroxysms of pain rippling through his torso, but he took the next gulp greedily all the same. Philip moved the canteen away from Harper’s mouth.

  “More . . . please,” Harper whispered.

  “There’s more, but let it wait. What good is more water if it kills you?”

  “I’m dead anyway. Since when are you worried about my life?” Harper’s face contorted in another spasm of pain.

  “Then I wouldn’t get the pleasure of watching you die,” Philip replied with a smile.

  “I see.” Harper bit his lower lip and tried to smile in return. “We Harpers never forgave you Pearsons fer what you did to Henry.”

  “We Pearsons regretted it, for sure. It did little good to insult the living for the sins of the dead,” Philip confessed.

  “Damn right,” Harper said and coughed. “Henry was a damned fool, and we swallowed what he done, but he was family.” He eyed the canteen and motioned with his head. “More.”

  “Ok, but only a little more,” Philip said as he lifted the canteen to Harper’s lips. “You know, that’s why I left the pulpit.”

  “You a terrible liar; it was my complaint to the bishop what did it. Can’t say I’s disappointed. You never should have taken it from yer Pa,” Harper sputtered.

  “That we can both agree to,” Philip replied.

  “Ma and Pa always defended you to us, even after Henry’s funeral. They couldn’t bring they’selves to break with what they saw as the church,” Harper said. “They knew all too well you were right.”

  “I see,” Philip replied, unsettled by the candor. This was not the attitude Philip had expected, and he was surprised, perhaps as surprised as Harper, at the civility of the conversation. “They never came back for services, and I assumed the obvious.”

  “That hurt Ma the most. She needed a word from the Good Book the way your Pa used to preach it. She liked your preaching just as well, but Pa wouldn’t have nothing to do with the shame he felt,” Harper said breathily. Shame? Philip thought. He had figured their behavior for anger. Everything he thought about the whole unpleasant affair, including his part in it, was wrong.

  “If it’s worth anything,” Philip admitted, “that’s why I was glad to give up the collar. It was either that or suffer a public defrocking by the bishop after your family demanded my collar. I wasn’t my father.”

  “I was personally gratified when you did, and so was Pa, but Ma never got over the line being broke like that and some other preacher comin’ in from Columbus to take yer place. She always said it should be kept in the community. Ma died of a broken heart. Pa never went to meetin’ again.”

  “You want hardtack?” Philip asked to break the line of conversation. He reached into his sack.

  “No. Stomach’s too painful to put nothin’ else in it.” Philip just nodded and looked over the field. “Parson, will you present Communion fer me?” Harper asked after the minute of silence.

  “What? Communion? I’ve got neither wine nor other sacrament,” Philip said, shocked at the request.

  “What do that matter, Parson? Just wine and bread served from some pewter plate and cup. Ain’t it what it represents that matters?”

  “Yes.” Philip looked away, shamed by the obvious.

  “Who’s givin’ the Eucharist?” another voice from behind Philip asked.

  Philip turned to see a wounded Confederate. His arm was bloody, and he had a gash across his forehead crusted with filth.

  “What? No, I’m Methodist.” Philip protested. He felt himself dragged into actions that he felt nothing for and had no wish to repeat.

  “I’m Methodist,” another voice farther down the row of wounded called out.

  “Lutheran,” another said.

  Harper grinned. “Ma would want her son ta partake before death and ta seek absolution fer his misdeeds. Yer the only preacher I knows of here.” In a moment of pain, he grimaced, clutching his bandages, as if to emphasize the need to be timely.

  “You realize that there’s nothing sacred about the bread and cup that’ll absolve you of your sins? All of you realize that?” Philip said louder, hoping to yet escape. “It’s a reminder only and not a salvation.”

  “That don’t matter, and shut up about it,” Harper said gruffly. “We need comfort in our last hours. Do what ya’ shoulda’ done fer my family. Make up fer that, and I’ll let my brother rest in peace.”

  Philip bowed his head, speechless, and nodded. Surrounding him were men rousing from their death throes, looking upon him with expectant eyes. A Federal soldier attending to one of the wounded walked up to Philip and enquired of his spiritual services.

  “What’s your name?” Philip asked him.

  “John, sir.”

  “Okay, John. See if the surgeons have any wine they can spare. Quickly, man.”

  John looked and spotted the surgeons moving in the distance. He began to run.

  Philip took off his haversack, fished out his tin plate, and untied his blackened cup. The crumbs of hardtack from the bottom of his haversack would be the bread, and any wine found would be the cup. As a Methodist, he didn’t believe they became the actual flesh and blood of Christ, so his unorthodox supplies would serve just as well as the bread and wine he once served in services. These were not parishioners. They had not gathered under his auspices but were here because men preparing to die needed company. After spreading the crumbs out on his plate, he also fished from his coat pocket a beat-up Testament.

  Harper lay at Philip’s feet in agony. Others rose on elbows or shaky arms to bear witness of the ritual as they had been accustomed to in their own upbringing.

  Seeing the men’s behavior and knowing something unusual was happening, Mule walked over and asked Philip what was going on.

  “I suppose I’m giving communion to these men,” Philip said and shrugged.

  “The Eucharist?”

  “Yes, I suppose that it is, with much less ceremony as I’ve been taught it.”

  “Bully!” Mule exclaimed and slapped Philip excitedly upon the shoulder. “What can I do?”

  “Give this to the men around us. Pitch in some of your hard tack.”

  Mule hesitated only a moment before he dug into his own haversack. Looking at the thick cracker he fished out, studying it briefly as if it were to be his last, he broke off the ends, adding them to the plate and began handing the plate around.

  John, the man Philip sent for wine returned with an outstretched up. “Here’s what I could get. Ain’t much.”

  “Take it around to the men when I say so,” Philip said.

  Philip stood for a moment with the Testament clutched in his hand. His stomach trembled. His mind went blank. Opening his Testament, he scanned a few pages, hoping to find something to trigger what he was to say. There was the normal liturgy for passing around the bread and the cup, but it seemed inappropriate in this place and with this variety of beliefs. He looked into their faces, and the words came to him.

  “Some believe the cup of wine to be the blood of Christ and the bread to be made into His body. Some believe it is just a remembrance, as the Jews of old were to observe the Passover in remembrance of their deliverance from Egypt. You may call it the Lord’s Supper or Communion or whatever. It is our partaking of the death of Christ and remembrance of what was done before us. What is common among our beliefs is that Christ came to shed blood and offer Himself as a sacrifice. The Jews of old sacrificed in a temple to cover their sins. Christ, at the last supper, broke the Passover bread and handed it to his disciples, saying, ‘Take and ea
t, for this is my body broken for thee.’ “

  Mule bowed before each supine man to offer him a chunk of hard tack. Those able-bodied enough to move on their own gathered around as Philip’s pards began to distribute their remaining hard tack crumbs. Watching them, Philip felt a chill creep over him. He closed his eyes a moment before continuing.

  “The gathering of disciples did not fully understand what it was that Christ was doing as He washed their feet as a lowly servant would. Then He said of the cup, ‘This is my blood shed for thee. Take it and drink,’ “ He nodded to John that he should begin distributing the wine.

  John went from man to man and helped those who needed help to sip of its contents. Some crossed themselves, and others bowed their heads in silent contemplation. A few refused the cup for it contained spirits. He sent a questioning look to Philip, who simply pointed at a canteen. Those who would not drink wine accepted a drink from a canteen with the same reverence.

  “I have not blessed this bread or this cup,” Philip continued, “for I do not believe that they represent more than what they are. You may believe otherwise or have been raised in a different assembly. What matters is that we believe in a Lord who gave His life as a ransom for us. If partaking of this eases your mind as you face death, remember that our Lord has prepared a place for those who are to come after Him. If you call Him Lord, then partake of His sacrifice in remembrance of Him.”

  Philip looked down at his Testament and realized he had forgotten to read from it. He closed his eyes and bowed his head to pray.

  CHAPTER 19

  25th Missouri

  Original camp, April 7th, 1862

  “You still with me, Hube?” Robert asked over his shoulder. A sudden stumbling behind him gave an answer.

  “I’m here.”

  Robert and Huebner, along with the few others from the regiment who had remained standing after the fighting ceased, slowly made their way back to their original camp. The Indiana Company was left where the regiment halted, and the Missouri boys bade them farewell and shook hands with the new veteran soldiers. Having ended the day in an unfamiliar area, the group meandered until Robert finally got his bearings. The way back was strewn with wreckage. Haversacks, knapsacks, canteens, horses, caissons, and the dead littered the way. The path to and from the main headquarters was now indistinguishable from the trampled grass. The campsites were mostly silent, but for the wounded.

  Following the road they had taken when running for their lives, Robert and Huebner came into view of their encampment. Although the tents and layout were familiar, the emptiness was not. A few forms moved among the tents. Wounded men lay about in the company streets, and the tents were overflowing with the dead. A few Confederates moved about, caring for their wounded and, likewise, the Federals within arm’s reach. Robert felt a little out of place.

  “Mitchell,” a voice called out.

  Robert turned and recognized a familiar face.

  “Tom? Thomas Stossel?” Robert said with surprise as he hurried to meet his boyhood playmate.

  “Hube and Steiner? You both made it!” Stossel pumped Robert’s hand and gave him a hearty hug.

  Soon, others from the regiment gathered to welcome the prodigal sons who had arrived. A modest gathering of thirty men, none of whom were officers, stood in the parade field to catch up with each other. Many had scattered when the regiment broke and found themselves swallowed up in other commands. Some had finally been driven from the river bank and back to camp. None condemned those who’d sat the fight out. Instead, all were glad to see more of their pards still alive. Stossel belonged to another company, and he and Robert only connected when fatigue duty did not take either of them away. But now, with no command structure or duty to be performed, the survivors were able to finally catch up.

  “I was taking Corporal Mueller to the rear,” Stossel explained, “when the regiment disappeared! I turned around and only saw this line of Rebs coming through our camp. Me and Mueller made the best time we could, but I was certain not to be captured if I could help it. I left Mueller at the church, and I ran fer the river.”

  “We down at river, too!” Huebner exclaimed.

  “I thought we was done fer. I didn’t see no one I recognized the whole time I’s there. I saw some fellers drown tryin’ to get to them boats what came later,” Stossel said as he kicked at the dirt. “I wished I’d found you. Was pretty lonely down there.”

  Huebner look down at his shoes. “We bury Hildebrande by river.”

  “Hilde fell?” Stossel asked, surprised. “Didn’t think that old warhorse could ever die.”

  “Hube shamed the rest of us into getting back into the fight,” Robert said and nudged Huebner. “We fell in with some Indiana regiment the rest of the time.”

  “Hube, you do that?” Stossel asked and smiled.

  “Robert exaggerates.” Huebner blushed slightly.

  “Who else fell?” Stossel asked.

  “Whole company, for all we know. Hammel fell early in the morning along with Gustavson and a few others. We had twenty of us when we met down at the river. Five of us made it this far. The others fell out this morning, but none of us knows where,” Robert recounted.

  Stossel mopped his brow and said, “Maybe some of them is at the aid posts. We can go look for them.”

  “Piper fell in last battle,” Huebner said.

  “Damn, not going to be anyone left from our synod,” Stossel said and pursed his lips.

  Robert shook his head at Huebner and said, “We don’t know that.”

  “I know.”

  “I lost sight of most of them when we took that hill. They could have all been injured and fallen out of the line.” Robert felt a little guilty for lying. He’d seen Piper and Keppler, along with several Indiana men, get eviscerated by a solid shot.

  “I want to find him,” Huebner said and turned to leave.

  “Hube,” Robert called after him. “Wait! We’ll all go.”

  “That’s odd,” Stossel exclaimed and nudged Robert’s arm.

  A lone Confederate was approaching a large tree set off from the parade ground. He dragged something heavy behind him. The man stopped when he looked up and spied the crowd of federal soldiers. After giving them a steady look, he resumed his chore. At the tree line, the man sat down heavily and took off his hat. Huebner made for the Confederate.

  “I’ll go see what Hube is up to,” Robert said and began walking away from the group, “and then we’ll go comb the wounded for some of our men.”

  As Robert approached, Huebner said, “We need a shovel. He wants to bury his pard. He says they’s a pond back there with lots of wounded and dead.”

  “This yer camp?” the Confederate soldier asked.

  “Yes, 25th Missouri, Peabody’s command,” Robert replied.

  “I see. My pard died of his wounds a while ago by that pond, wanted to give him a peaceful place for a grave and away from that hellhole, pardon my language.”

  “I know the place, Robert said. “We used to water our horses at it before the battle.”

  “My pard, Willie’s his name, Willie Hawkins. He was my friend. He was wounded when we took your camp,” the man said embarrassed.

  “You fellas the ones that charged up at us over and over?” Robert asked.

  Huebner looked from man to man. “I go get shovel.” He left Robert to make time with the Rebel.

  “Yes, Willie fell after the second charge up the hill. You punished us fer the privilege,” the man said.

  “Did you take lots of prisoners?” Robert asked. “We’re looking for the rest of our regiment.” Robert pointed with his thumb to the men gathered in the parade ground. “That’s all that’s left.”

  “Some. They was taken to the rear right away.”

  “What’s your name?” Robert asked.

  “Stephen Murdoch, 6th Mississippi. We was marched to the rear after the attack on your camp, but I came back lookin’ fer my pard Willie here.”

  “I su
ppose you’ll be a prisoner then,” Robert replied.

  “Yes, s’pose so. After I bury Willie, you can march me off,” Stephen said.

  “I reckon the provost guard will do that shortly.”

  “I combed your camp lookin’ fer Willie. Lots of men died over night in the tents. I s’pose most of them is from yer regiment.”

  “I saw a few of them tents. It will be a long while before any of them tents is used to sleep in again.”

  “See that grave?” Stephen said and pointed to the fresh mound of earth and crude cross on the other side of the tree. “I buried one of your men there. He helped me look fer Willie. He said his name was Hammel.”

  “Hammel? A first sergeant?” Robert asked surprised.

  “Don’t know. He didn’t have on a coat.”

  “You did that fer him?” Robert asked again. He thought for sure Hammel died right there in the rear of the firing line.

  “Was the least I could do for the man. He kept me company while I looked for Willie.”

  Huebner stepped up with a shovel and thrust it at Stephen. “Here. Shovel.”

  Stephen reached for the shovel in Huebner’s hand, but Robert took it first.

  “No. Hube and I’ll do it.”

  “Let Reb do it,” Huebner said.

  “See that grave?” Robert said to Huebner and pointed. “That’s First Sergeant Hammel. This Reb buried him this morning.”

  “You do that?”

  “Yes, this morning. He helped me search for my friend.”

  “This looks like a good a spot as any,” Stephen said, pointing a few feet from him.

  “Ok, Hube, let’s dig us another grave.”

  Robert walked to the spot and drove the shovel deep into the soft earth. The spectacle soon drew a crowd. They couldn’t have imagined a less likely sight than two Federal soldiers digging a grave for one Confederate soldier while another sat idly by. Robert simply pointed to Hammel’s grave and told them who had dug it. It was enough to set several men after shovels. Soon, they made a deep hole and laid the body of Willie Hawkins to rest. Sweating from their labors, the Federal soldiers paid their last respects, despite knowing that this man possibly was responsible for any number of deaths within their regiment. One by one, each man returned to the camp, and soon only Robert and Huebner remained with Stephen.