The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3

by Phillip Bryant

  “Captain Strauss ain’t going to be so kind to that, if he doesn’t already know. And the colonel won’t treat any of us too kindly just for talking about this,” Hardin continued. It was madness.

  “Don’t you go an’ take that preacher’s side on this, Hardin! We do this right an’ we all do this, an’ we ride out of here with our commander an’ don’t look back.” Heads were nodding in assent. They had only to act on it now.

  “We go to the jail; the jailer isn’t going to oppose armed men. The lieutenant was doing the right thing, that Reb needed to be strung up fer what he done to Clegg.”

  “Yes,” someone said.

  “Free Lieutenant Fisher, and that preacher won’t be able to do nuthin’.”

  “We’ll get him, Sergeant.”

  “Fine; Hardin? You with us or against your own troop?” Millidge fixed Hardin with a cold stare.

  The corporal squirmed. He didn’t like what the lieutenant had done, but he was under orders, so he had ignored the chaplain’s call for him when things were coming to a head. He had stood to his place in the lieutenant’s tent, doing his report and listening to the rising chorus of calls for hanging the Reb. But this—this he did not have to go along with.

  “Well?”

  “It ain’t right, Sergeant. I won’t be party to it,” Hardin said with finality. The other men looked at him with disdain, and Millidge bowed his head and nodded, a disgusted look upon his face.

  “All right, Hardin. Remove yer stripes; I won’t have a yellow corporal in my troop. You can consider yerself confined to yer tent till we move out.”

  Hardin looked at Millidge and then around the group, looking for any hint of support among the faces of those gathered; they were all solidly with the sergeant. These had been his pards, fellow corporals and sergeants in the troop who had turned suddenly distant and hateful. Standing, he nodded and left the group, worry rumbling in his gut.

  Millidge shook his head as if sorry for the loss, then, in a low voice said, “Mitch, you’ll need to keep an eye on Hardin; we don’t want him causing any trouble.” The man looked troubled but nodded in agreement. “Now, you take five men an’ go fetch the lieutenant. Don’t take no guff from the jailer. Take the lieutenant’s mount.”

  Millidge broke up the meeting and went looking for Sergeant Ogilvie. Already the elements of the troop were getting their mounts ready and breaking down the tents. Ogilvie was talking to two of his corporals.

  “Get the troop to horse and pack up the baggage.”

  “I don’t like this, Mill,” Ogilvie said after the corporals left. “We in for a heap of trouble if the captain relieves the lieutenant.”

  “Whose word he going to believe? Ours against the preacher? Lieutenant Fisher will stand by us; he’ll have to if he wants to keep his commission,” Millidge said.

  “Anyone not with us?”

  “Hardin; I tol’ him to turn in his stripes. He’s a private again.”

  Ogilvie looked less than happy. “Oh? I thought we was going to get ever’one onboard or not do it.”

  “It’s his neck too. He was corporal of the guard while it was happenin’ an’ was obeying orders like the rest of us. If he don’t want to find himself at the end of a rope, he’ll go along.”

  “I hope you right, Mill.”

  “They fetchin’ the lieutenant now; then we jus’ ride out of this town an’ don’t look back.”

  “Sergeant Millidge!” cried a man from the roadside.

  “Now what?”

  Philip stood to the side as the group of riders made their way past him; none saluted nor acknowledged his presence.

  “Where are those men going?” Philip asked the camp guard.

  “Fetch Lieutenant Fisher,” was the petulant reply.

  “What?” Philip cried and took a few steps down the road, calling for the rear horseman to stop. The group of five troopers continued on.

  “Corporal of the guard!” Philip shouted. This was becoming a habit with this troop.

  Millidge strode up to Philip and put a stubby finger to his lips.

  “Sergeant, what is the meaning of this?” Philip exclaimed. “Recall those men immediately. I’m taking over this command by orders of Colonel Garrad.”

  “Holy shit!” someone cried as a crowd of troopers gathered behind Millidge.

  “You men, get back to your duties; that’s an order!” Philip shouted. “And get those men back here!”

  Millidge looked worried; a murmuring of confusion from the others gathered behind him set him to rights. He drew himself up. “Sir, you are doing no such thing!”

  “Sergeant, you mean to tell me you are leading a mutiny—the second of the day in your troop?” Philip asked. If they refused to obey, he would have little recourse but to leave them to their own devices and go back to the post office. If they ignored an order from their own colonel, who would they obey?

  Millidge looked at Philip hard; his jaw worked a few moments before answering. “Yes sir, we are fetching Fisher and marching back to Dennison.”

  “You do that, Sergeant, and you and every man in this troop will be condemned to death for mutiny. You think I’m doing this ‘cause I want to? These are the orders.” Philip thrust the messages into Millidge’s chest. If they did decide to go through with this, they had the arms to do whatever they wanted.

  The sergeant read the dispatches with concern. The orders were signed by Colonel Garrad, giving this little upstart command of the troop. Disgusted, he handed the orders to Ogilvie and huffed.

  “These’re pretty final, Mill,” Ogilvie said and motioned to one of his corporals. “Go fetch them back afore we all find ourselves at the end of a noose.”

  Philip looked at the two sergeants and wondered how he was going to get this troop back to Camp Dennison without any further incidents. “You two, I want to see you in Fisher’s tent, right now. Corporal! You pray you get to the jail in time to recall that group, or you’ll all find yourselves in that jail before nightfall! Come along!” he motioned angrily for the men to follow and stormed into the camp.

  A corporal and several men hurriedly led their mounts from the picket line and galloped down the road in a cloud of dust. The town jail was in the middle of Germantown, an easy ride of five minutes.

  Millidge and Ogilvie looked at one another in confusion and entered the tent.

  It was all Philip could do to keep from exploding. “What the devil did you two expect to accomplish? While I admire your loyalty to your lieutenant, you are mad otherwise! Your lieutenant has been relieved of command and will probably be brought up on charges for neglect of duty in allowing you two hotheads to foment mutiny. Twice!” Philip stormed about the tent.

  The two men stood at attention and stared straight ahead.

  “If I didn’t need men with influence and leadership, I’d put you both in the jail and let the provost fetch you back in irons!” Philip stopped his flying from one end of the tent to the other and jabbed a finger at the miscreants.

  “You two will be lucky to keep those stripes when this is all over, but as I don’t know the first thing about this troop or getting it back in one piece to Camp Dennison, you are going to keep them on and mind my orders. Understand?”

  The officers mumbled something in assent. Philip barely bothered to listen.

  “Get the men striking tents; I want to be ready to march in two hours,” he ordered, observing each of the sergeants in turn. Dumbstruck, the two men absently nodded and left without being dismissed.

  Left alone, Philip marveled at both his luck and his predicament. Camp Dennison was outside of the city of Cincinnati, just where he needed to be but not the way he’d envisioned getting there—leading a troop of cavalry! Fisher would be wanting his gear, and Philip packed the man’s possessions, separating the troop’s papers and equipment.

  “Where’s the corporal of the guard? Where’s Corporal Hardin?” Philip asked a passing trooper. The man pointed to a tent and walked on. Philip ignored the
lack of discipline. I won’t be with these greenhorns long, Lord willing, he thought.

  Philip ducked his head into the indicated tent. Hardin was sitting on his bedroll looking dejected and sore. “Corporal Hardin, why aren’t you at your post?”

  Hardin looked at Philip, perplexed, as if the question had been spoken in a foreign tongue.

  “Sir?”

  “Were you relieved?”

  “Sir, yes, you could say that.”

  “Corporal, speak plain and to the point. Why aren’t you seeing to the camp guard detail?” Philip feigned impatience.

  “Sir, I was relieved by Sergeant Millidge and demoted,” Hardin said listlessly.

  “Sergeant Millidge has neither the authority nor the office for such a thing, Corporal. Go relieve the camp guard and get your troop ready to strike tents.”

  “Sir, yes, sir.” A new energy sprang into the man, and he straightened himself and grabbed his carbine.

  Having packed the lieutenant’s possessions, Philip stepped out of Fisher’s tent and made his way to the road when a civilian wagon drew up to the camp.

  “Corporal of the guard!” shouted the sentry who was facing the man driving the wagon.

  “What’s going on?” Philip asked the man driving the wagon.

  “I found this man some ten miles down the Germantown Pike this morning laying by the side of the road—one o’ yore escaped Rebels,” the man said as he jumped down from the driver’s seat and walked to the rear of the wagon. Inside lay the body of a man in Rebel grey.

  “Yes, that’s one of them. You found him ten miles from here?” Philip asked.

  “Yep,” came the quick reply. “I figger you would be wantin’ ‘im.”

  “Get him out of the wagon,” Philip ordered two of the troopers who came to satisfy their curiosity; “load him on one of the wagons.” Fisher had lied or had been lied to.

  “Sergeant Millidge!” Philip called.

  “What?” Millidge replied saucily.

  Philip ignored the insubordinate reply. “You shoot that man? You tell Fisher you shot him or that he’d gotten away?” Philip asked, pointing to the corpse being unloaded.

  “I shot him. He was helpin’ them other two who ambushed us an’ took our horses an’ equipment.”

  “And left the corpse by the side of the road?”

  Millidge nodded.

  “When we get to Dennison, you’re going to have to answer for a lot,” Philip scolded. “I want to talk to one of the men who was with you.”

  “Boyd!” Millidge called out. “C’mere. Chaplain wants to talk to you!”

  “Dismissed, Sergeant.”

  Trooper Boyd came to a halt in front of Philip. He clearly didn’t know whether to salute or not, so he just stood at attention and looked bewildered.

  “You were with Sergeant Millidge yesterday looking for the escapees?” Philip asked.

  “Um, yes sir. Me an’ Phipps was with the sergeant awright.”

  “You see Captain Kearns trying to escape?”

  Boyd looked nervously about as if looking for confirmation on what answer to give. Millidge was hovering about, but Philip snapped, “Did you see Kearns trying to escape?”

  “Hum, no sir. He weren’t trying to escape when Sergeant brung him into the woods.”

  “He came willingly?”

  “Um, yes sir, come willingly.” Boyd’s eyes were wide, but his overall expression lacked a certain intelligence one might expect to find in a soldier. He was a big man with a naturally vacant expression unless he was nervous. Then he just appeared to be a young boy.

  “Then what happened?”

  “Um, Sergeant tole us to shoot ‘im. Tole us he was helpin’ them others what jumped us.”

  “So you just shot him in the back?” Philip was feeling ill. Boyd would apparently do anything if told to do it by a superior.

  “Yes, Sergeant tole him to turn about an’ tole me to shoot ‘im.”

  “Did you bother to ask why?” Philip tried to control himself. The man was not showing any signs of understanding that what he had done was wrong, or of what Philip felt he should understand.

  Boyd looked confused and shook his head slightly. His eyes pleaded with Philip to stop asking questions and leave him alone.

  “Am … am I in trouble?” Boyd asked vacantly. “‘Cause I don’t want to be in no trouble. I just followin’ the sergeant’s orders.”

  “Only with your conscience, unless you think shooting a man in cold blood in the back is something proper, orders or no,” Philip said and shook his head.

  Boyd stood expressionless as if it was taking all of his faculties to chew on Philip’s last statement.

  “Dismissed, Private.” He was in it now, with corpses piling up and two sergeants he couldn’t trust, privates whose loyalties lay with their lieutenant and a day’s worth of riding to get to Camp Dennison. He was going to need a miracle to get the troop back without another incident. The summary killing of Kearns, escaping or not, was hard to believe.

  Philip turned on his heel and strode off angrily toward the town jail with Fisher’s belongings.

  “What’s this?” Fisher snapped when he arrived.

  “Your gear. I’m taking the troop back to Dennison, and this is from your tent.”

  “You … you’re taking my troop back to Dennison?”

  “By order of Colonel Garrad, yes. You are to stay here until recalled.”

  Philip stood looking at the man behind the bars and wishing himself on the other side. It was better than being dead or shot or whatever lay ahead. Fisher was the lucky one, whether he knew it or not.

  “So you are going to take my troop.” Fisher gripped the bars of the cell, his face burning with indignation. Philip sympathized, even though he was the reason for it.

  “Just back to Dennison. What your colonel does with it is his problem.”

  “The governor will hear of this!” Fisher snarled.

  “Your dispute is with Colonel Garrad, not me. Governor Tod can have my commission, but your complaint will get little attention from him. Garrad might also like to hear about how your men executed one of the prisoners already. A civilian brought in the body of Kearns just now. You knew, didn’t you?”

  The lieutenant glared in reply, then said, “My men did what needed to be done!”

  “And I’ve done what I needed to do.”

  Fisher waved his hand in dismissal and sulked back to his bunk. Lewis was lying on his own bunk looking unconcerned at having nearly been lynched. Philip stood by the bars of his cell for a moment. Lewis looked up as if waiting for him to say something. Philip mentally waved off the urge to try to get the man to make spiritual amends for his actions and turned on his heel and walked away. After notifying the jailer that a detail would be by soon to claim the prisoner, Philip walked back to the camp. The troop’s mounts were being readied and wagons packed. The sergeants were busy with their details and the corporals supervising the packing.

  “Corporal Hardin, detail four men and ride to the jail and retrieve the Rebel prisoner. He will ride with the wagons. Detail a guard for that wagon.”

  “Sir.” Hardin saluted and trotted off.

  “Sergeant Millidge, form the troop and be ready to march in fifteen minutes.”

  Millidge nodded and gave a halfhearted salute.

  Content that things were under control for the moment, Philip walked back to his father’s home. Charles was where he always was, at his desk with the Testament open on one side and a stack of notes on the other. Philip’s gear was sitting on the bed, and he quickly collected it.

  “Sir, I am leaving for Cincinnati and will probably not be returning,” he said.

  “Yes, son. You will miss your brother,” Charles said as he glanced up from the text momentarily.

  “Yes, sir, or I might chance to meet him coming back from Middletown. Sir, I am in a state of perplexity. For reasons too long to go into, I was faced with relieving the lieutenant of the 7th Cavalry before
he allowed his men to lynch Hopewell. Now I am tasked with marching the troop back to Camp Dennison without the lieutenant, whom I delivered to the jail.” Philip’s face flushed.

  “Oh?” was the reply.

  “Well, sir, I didn’t ask for any of this. If Paul and yourself had not insisted that I go and set things right about that Reb, I’d not have found myself standing between the prisoners and a mob. That is to say, sir, that I am not ready to assume command even temporarily. I do not pretend to understand why, sir, but had I not cared, I’d be on my way to Cincinnati for a different reason.”

  Charles looked up. “Son, we do what we have to do. We take what we are given. When will you give it up to the Lord of hosts? When will you forgive me for having you ascend to the pulpit?” Charles spoke evenly, with a hint of warmth that Philip had not heard in years.

  “Sir, no, don’t get me …”

  Charles waved him silent. “When you let go of the past, then you can take on the present. You may not be ready, but this is on you for whatever of God’s good reasons for making it so. Let go of it and press on.”

  Philip thought for some minutes and silently shook his head. Charles regarded his son kindly.

  “Sir, I take my leave of you. I will write from Cincinnati, as it is my intention to meet up with the recruiting party from the 21st in Middletown and see to Paul’s arrangements.”

  Charles’s eyes lit up. “Oh?”

  “Yes, sir,” Philip said. “That’s why he’s in Middletown today … at a rally for the 21st. He was going to wait to tell you once he’d signed his papers. I suppose now you know for sure.”

  “I suspected as much, but I’ll act appropriately surprised when he returns.”

  Philip hefted his gear and rifle onto his shoulder and walked out of the door. The horse eyed him expectantly, waiting for something to nibble.

  “My apologies; let’s get you some feed at the camp,” Philip said as he gingerly mounted, still unsure of his riding ability.