The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3

by Phillip Bryant

  “Better if you two carry on, then,” Will said at length.

  “Sir?” Fredrick started.

  “If you two head south, it’ll give Hopewell someone to follow, an’ he’ll be expectin’ three of us movin’ … he won’t be expectin’ me trailing him.”

  Stephen shook his head. This was not what he wanted. He wanted nothing to do with this at all, not less being used as bait. But he was stuck: he either refused to be the bait or he stuck around to help Hunter do whatever it was that he was going to do.

  Shaking his head, Stephen made his choice as he and Fredrick moved on down the trail.

  Will, not as ill at ease as he thought he should be, crept away from the faint path they had stopped on. Treading carefully, he doubled back. The old thrill of the hunt coursed through his limbs, and he gloried in the high.

  Justice. His sister had been an accident—Baxter hadn’t. Both deaths haunted his conscience. Did they cry out for justice? Will had been acting out of self-preservation and malice despite his second thoughts when Baxter found his sister’s body. Will could only guess what was motivating Hopewell.

  It wasn’t long before a tall, shadowy figure made his way down the path, taking each step cautiously and making furtive glances to and fro. The forest path was darkened by a canopy of leaves that let in patches of moonlight, and the moon itself, waxing far to the western horizon, cast but little glow. The path was worn but not bare, and the crunch of leaves and twigs tracked the progress of the shadow creeping along. Will could only guess at what Lewis was up to, but he’d been right about being followed. Hopewell might easily be following along innocently, or he might be intent on distracting the gathering patrols of Yankee cavalry for one last effort to make it to the river. Will’s bet was on the latter. There was little to win by allowing whatever Hopewell intended to go forward.

  The figure moved on, and Will crept from his hiding place to come behind him. The leaves and twigs littering the path made his own going much slower. Stephen and Fredrick were out of sight but were making much more noise, giving Hopewell something to concentrate on while Will negotiated the distance between them. The game of cat and cat, each intent on the same mouse, was proving to be more difficult than he’d thought. A sudden bend in the path, and Will froze. No Lewis. He’d vanished. Or he’d doubled back himself and was now watching Will from some vantage point.

  Cursing silently, Will scanned the undergrowth in an arc, looking for anything that might resemble the silhouette of a man. If Lewis had detected him, all he had to do was remain quiet and unseen. Lewis could also do the courtesy, if he was watching, to show himself, Will thought. Neither man was armed, and the contest would be equal depending on how far Hopewell would go to preserve his own life. Will knew how far he himself would go. There was little else but to wait a few moments more, see if Hopewell would tire of the game, and just get the confrontation over with.

  Will waited. Nothing moved, and the sounds of the others faded to nothing. Only his own breathing filled his ears. No crickets chirped; no fireflies buzzed about, leaving trails of incandescent light following their courses; no frogs burped; no birds sang. The death shroud of night covered all.

  Will waited another count of thirty. Either Lewis was really patient or he wasn’t there after all. If the latter, Will had given up the game; Hopewell would be mostly on whatever errand he intended to accomplish by now. Then another thought struck him, one that chilled his skin. If he had been right about what Hopewell intended, he’d soon be on top of the other two, who would not be expecting nor hearing him approach. Will jogged a few steps.

  Running down the path seemed ill-advised in the dark; roots and other impediments would send him sprawling; but the further he went, the more worried he became. Stephen and Fredrick should have been audible by now, but all was silent but for the crashing of his own feet on the dried leaves and nutshells. They should have kept to the trail, but they and Hopewell remained out of sight. Will stopped to listen.

  Nothing.

  He hurried a few more steps and stopped again.

  Nothing.

  Now, forgetting all pretense at keeping quiet, he ran. His leather boots clopped heavily on the semi-dry earth, loud enough that anyone within several hundred feet would be able to hear his progress. At this moment, as near to panic as he had ever been before, he didn’t care if the whole Yankee army heard him coming.

  Will stopped again to catch his breath. Sitting and walking in a prison stockade did not give one room to build physical endurance for running in boots. His shins ached. His chest ached. He was seeing stars. Still, nothing appeared ahead, and all was silent. He could have missed one trail and taken a different one from the others, and he’d never know it if he kept going as he was. The other two men could take care of themselves, he reasoned. But his own voice answered back, not if Hopewell was intending to murder another one or both. They were mere boys, and Hopewell had always had a murderous glint to his eyes, a man used to hard life and hard drink. Taken out of military control, he was capable of anything; they all were.

  Will started walking, slowly this time so he could both hear and pay attention to what was around him. If he had to double back, he’d for certain miss any chance of catching up with the others. With the distance he’d already covered, he knew he must be nearing the outskirts of Germantown once again. There it would be harder to loudly tromp around without being heard by anyone still awake in their houses. Resigned to the fact that he’d miscalculated his own ability to catch up with Hopewell, he froze.

  In the distance, obscured by the shadows, a figure lay across the path. Another shadow was bent over it and struggling with something. Hurrying forward, Will closed the distance.

  Before he could get too close, the kneeling figure stood and faced him. Even in the dark Will could see the glint of the eyes. It was Lewis.

  “Lieutenant,” the figure said without a hint of guilt, “what say you?”

  “What are you doing, Hopewell?” Will replied. The figure at his feet was Fredrick, and he wasn’t moving.

  “You’re jus’ in time fer dragging poor ole Fredrick to the roadside,” Lewis replied.

  “You a fool if you think this’ll make it easier fer you to escape,” Will said. He knelt by the body on the ground.

  “They won’t look too hard fer one man iff’n they think they’s found most,” Lewis reasoned.

  “No thanks to you, they know we’re here now for sure.”

  “You an’ I both know’d that Pritchert was goin’ to turn hisself in an’ tell ‘em we was all nearby.”

  “No, I din’t know that, an’ neither did you,” Will replied as he stood. “An’ Fred wouldn’t have done it neither.” Fredrick wasn’t breathing, and he spotted the motionless form of Stephen nearby.

  “You want to take ole Stephen? He’s only out cold. He’d be easy to kill now, jus’ like Fredrick was. Makes it easier to strangle ‘em. Not a bad way to go, if’n I don’t say so myself.”

  “No, an’ you ain’t goin’ to strangle him neither.”

  “Now, don’t go puttin’ on airs, Lieutenant. You was ready to throttle me back there. I jus’ got the drop on you is all. You kin kill iff’n you wants to. Don’t go gittin’ all high an’ mighty on us,” Lewis sneered. Even in the dark, Will noted the evil grin.

  “You know that if we was back with our units, you’d be hung for murder. Since we ain’t with our units don’t mean you ain’t gonna hang.”

  “Oh?”

  “I may not be able to best you in a fair fight, but I ain’t mindin’ to fight fair. As long as ole Murdoch there is out, you’ll have to do yer best.”

  Lewis raised his fists and stood in deadly earnest before his antagonist.

  “C’mon, Lieutenant, you want to get out of Ohio as much as me. Murdoch and Lester were draggin’ ya down. Leavin’ Pritchert was th’ first thing ya did smart. Them Yankees catch ‘em, then they stop lookin’ fer us. Lester’s gone—only Murdoch’s left to blame fer killin’ �
��im. That leaves you an’ me to get outta here safe and sound. You walk away an’ let me drag ole Lester to the road an’ set Murdoch up right nice, an’ you kin get yourself out of here.”

  Will listened. His mind worked over the details and possibilities for a brief moment, never one to let anything go by.

  “It won’t work, Hopewell. You might be of a mind to turn in anyone what might give you an advantage, but that ain’t what honor is about, an’ I swore an oath to honor. Honor says you have to pay for what you done in cold blood. I will see that you do.”

  Lewis stood a moment, slowly nodding assent. “You have it your way, Lieutenant, but you’re gonna have a fight to get me to this justice you worshipin’. The only just thing is to let me be. The only just thing is to do fer yourself. I’m gonna walk away an’ let you think about this. You get to your senses, an’ you kin get yourself across the Ohio. You stand there playin’ judge an’ executioner, you gonna spend a lot of energy for nuthin’.”

  Will couldn’t agree more; but he wasn’t in an agreeing mood just now. “You might as well save your breath, Hopewell. Two of us is going to walk out of this wood, but you ain’t gonna be one of them.”

  With that, Will lunged and caught Lewis in the midriff with a headlong tackle, sending them both sprawling into the leaves and briars. Lewis struggled to get free of the grip that pinned him to the ground as Will scrambled on top of the wiry but emaciated man. Lewis was not fit to struggle much, but he was putting up a fight all the same.

  Both men were panting heavily as Will gained the upper hand, straddling Lewis and gripping his throat. Lewis’s own hands sought whatever fragile spot he could claw at as he fought to cause distraction enough to loosen the grip that held him down. Eyes, mouth, nose, ears, throat, each were tried in turn, anything to get the stronger man off him. Will avoided the searching, clawing fingers as he drew his own taut around the soft and giving flesh of Lewis’s neck.

  “Is this what ya did … to Fredrick? Huh? Is this … how ya did it?” Will said through clenched teeth as he squeezed. The struggling below him began to weaken, and the panicky fingers searching for his face retreated to trying to loosen his grip. “Is this what ya did to Peter? Huh, Lewis?”

  The struggling weakened to the point where Will knew it would not take but a few seconds more to end it for good. Will let loose and quickly stood, drawing his hands away, ready for another go-round if Lewis should stir. Hopewell lay completely still, his limp hands cupped loosely upon his chest. Will turned toward Stephen, who had not stirred since he’d come running upon Lewis. The boy was still unconscious, his breaths coming in shallow sleep like draughts. Will dragged Stephen to a sitting position propped up against a tree and sat down heavily next to him, keeping a wary eye on Lewis. Lewis was still alive. It wasn’t the justice Will had thought he could mete out. He’d had the man, and but for a few more moments of pressure could have carried the deed through. If he left him alive they would not get out of Ohio.

  If he killed him, it would be one more death on his conscience.

  ****

  Jackson Kearns looked up with a start. At his feet lay a still form. The greasy black hair of Fredrick Lester hung limply about the exposed ear and down the forehead of the man. His mouth was open and his tongue protruded slightly from the lips. Kearns had missed catching up with Hunter and the others, but Lewis hadn’t. Stepping lightly over the body, he approached the form tied to a tree. His head was hanging limply on his chest, but it was clear it was Lewis.

  Jackson smiled as he read the note pinned to the chest of the coat. Seems Hunter took care of one thing for me, Jackson said to himself as he stood and beheld the motionless form of Hopewell. Now, time to visit something else on Hunter.

  Chapter 20

  Germantown, Ohio, August 19, 1862

  Philip waited impatiently for the coffeepot to boil as it sat upon his father’s hearth. The stones that made up the cooking area were hot; the wait was nothing like the time it took to bring a single cup of water to boil by a fireside. Still in his nightshirt and socks, he sat upon the old wooden chairs that made up the kitchen table; the good dining table and service reserved for guests were hardly ever used and sat in the adjoining dinner area. The house was quiet. Only the crackling fire seemed to be alive. The morning was bright, lighting the common utensils and cookware adorning the walls from hooks and the common pewter and tin plates that sat stacked upon a shelf and ready for more common fare.

  Common was the word that flitted through Philip’s mind as he looked around the kitchen. This was not the home of a wealthy man. No servants’ quarters and no servants’ kitchen. The hands that made the food were the same that served it and ate it. The salt pork and “horse,” beef cured with salt and laid up in barrels, were of the toughest, cheapest meat imaginable, not much better than what was sold by the barrel to the army. Only imagination could turn it into something edible. Potatoes with so many eyes that they might form locomotion and crawl away, onions, rice, carrots, turnips, and anything that might be offered up in the plate on Sunday in lieu of cash might find its way into the storage. Coffee, roasted and waiting to be churned in the mill, sat in a burlap sack ready for the handful.

  The Cincinnati papers said that the Union controlled most of Tennessee and northern Mississippi. The Rebels were strung out, defending too much territory. Philip wondered what his former comrades were doing at this dawn. Were they on the march, being rousted out of their blankets to have a quick slurp of coffee and munch on hardtack before falling into line of battle? Line of march? He was warm and listless with little to do on this Sunday morning. His pards were busy with army life. He, too, would soon be. This day, however, he was to make ready for combat of a different sort.

  The coffee was beginning to boil, and the rooms were filling with the tasteful aroma. The smell of coffee was joined by that of eggs and real bread with cream and butter, things that could only be had if one went begging from local families along the march. Certainly not from the sutlers, whose prices were exorbitant and out of the common infantryman’s reach. Someone brought eggs, cream, and butter with fresh bread each Sunday for the parson and his whispered-useless son.

  A pastor didn’t need to receive much from a collection plate but what might be needed for the upkeep of God’s house when vittles and other edibles could be had in return for the Good Word. Yet Philip was now armed with greenbacks enough to pay for a decent meal at a hotel and a nice bed and even a woman should he be of the mind, which he wasn’t. Army wages were poor, yet for him and many other farmers’ sons, the wages were more than most had possessed in their young and short lives. His initial stipend had bought him his uniforms and his horse, and still he had some left for the journey southward. It certainly would afford him some better coffee and food cooked to order, the likes of which officers of the army looked forward to while in a city. But he found nothing to complain of here. Thanks to last week’s tithe, breakfast would be eggs and boiled salt pork with fresh bread from the baker, delivered still warm this morning, cornucopia to a veteran infantryman.

  His papers, notes, and Scriptures lay on the table beside the newspaper. There was scant real information about the unfolding threat in Kentucky, only that Buell was falling back from Alabama and Nashville and the Confederates were moving on Bowling Green, Kentucky, once again. He would face his old congregation this morning, and he was not looking forward to it. Some of those faces had looked upon him one summer morning expecting a funeral; some he hadn’t seen since. He didn’t know what he was going to teach on. The sermons on slavery, on secession, on love for our fellowmen had already been given thrice over. They were cliches like the apocryphal story of the apostle John telling a member of one of his churches that he would stop teaching on love once they had mastered it.

  Teaching was not that easy, and there was plenty to tell him that he’d not mastered even the rudiments of the faith.

  Forgiveness? A little on the nose, he thought, given how he’d left—in a fit of bitt
erness and recrimination.

  Brotherly love was out, unless one only counted those in blue as brothers. Even those Methodists south of Mason’s and Dixon’s line had taken up arms against them. They had once been of one faith. One God, one Savior, one Spirit. Hard to console those bereaved by the battlefield by assuring them that these men of the same faith and movement could even now be brothers.

  Love of country? They carried the name of Ohio forward on the march and on the battlefield, but was it not for Union that they marched? But what sort of love was that? Did they really love the Union enough to brain the man opposing them, or was it just to punish him for having the audacity to leave? What was it about country that really moved men to step into harm’s way if it wasn’t anger at the other? Had just South Carolina left the Union, would Ohioans have volunteered by the thousands to bring her back?

  Righteousness of the cause? Somehow righteousness and the war did not meld; wiping out the inhabitants of Canaan had been a righteous war, commanded by God as punishment for their wickedness and for the promise to Abraham to give him the land as a possession. But this war? He shook his head. Today was not the day to be pondering sermon topics.

  Shiloh. Members of this community felt Shiloh just as keenly as they did any local death, for the deaths of fathers and sons there were local by the tens. They had read about it in the papers, seen the returns of dead, wounded, captured, missing, and presumed dead, but they had not witnessed it, and though some might have written home to let loved ones know they were still among the living, the story had not been told from the pulpit. More names would be added to the muster roll of the heavenly army soon at a thousand other locations throughout Tennessee, Mississippi, Kentucky, Virginia. He could give no message of a righteous army marching on an evil enemy; those were for the recruiting drives. The enemy who opposed them on the field of battle was not evil, no matter how some might feel about the Confederates.