“Close the gate, why don’cha!” one of the men called after him. Will turned and saw that neither man was going to do it himself, though they were within easy reach of the simple rope that latched to the opposite side of the railing. Stephen quickly ran forward to close the gate and secure the loop of rope around the opposite post.
The two soldiers regarded them curiously but otherwise seemed unconcerned. He caught the smirks they exchanged with each other and knew the score: two lazy infantrymen with nothing better to do than annoy a cavalryman. The two horses were nibbling what grass was left in the area when he resumed his march away from the scene of the crime and joined Stephen. Seth would have to ride bareback.
“Bind his hands after he mounts; don’t want him getting away too easily,” Will said to Stephen as he led the extra horse up to Seth.
Seth stepped forward reluctantly, taking his time before mounting. One worked around white people every day, but there was an agreement between the free black or the contraband servant and his white benefactors. Fill a need and we will allow you to wear a uniform or do work for a wage, but do not expect anything in the way of equal treatment. This was from Northerners who grudgingly allowed blacks to live in their cities and gave them work when it was suitably onerous enough that only blacks would do it. Even the poor whites in the North regarded them as parasites—all the more so, in fact. After he had gotten to Ohio, Seth found whatever work he could, but Cincinnati was hostile to any but white tradesmen, and he found no place to allow him to do any blacksmithing that was not akin to the slavery he’d just escaped. Working on the river steamers was at least equitable in that a sinking boat does not discriminate about the color of the drowning man’s skin. He was at home with the equally poor riverman as with the black deckhand. The food, save for what the officers ate, was equally poor for all the crew, and the sleeping quarters equally unfit for any healthy man, white or black.
Seth looked as beaten as if he’d been physically whipped and dragged down the gangplank in irons. There was no sense in it all. No reason as to why he was singled out, no animosity he could think of between him and another of the crew, no reason they should have found anything in his possessions. The two cavalrymen had no reason to want him to go with them. Meekly, he mounted the horse, and Stephen tied his hands together in front of him and tied the lead rope securely to his own horse.
The two cavalrymen exchanged glances, and Seth caught a hint of fear in the younger one’s eyes.
“Why not jus’ leave Seth here, punish Seth here?”
“You comin’ back to the regiment for punishment,” Will replied as he mounted.
“I didn’t take you fings,” Seth said to Stephen, who looked away.
“Would you admit it if you had?” Will replied. “Now come along peacefully an’ you won’t be punished bad. We got a day’s travel to get to the regiment, an’ then you’ll find what is comin’.”
“I didn’t take you fings, someone put dem dere. Good Book says dou shalt not steal.”
“Don’t it also say not to give false witness?” Will replied. “Now stop you wailin’ and let’s get moving.”
Stephen nodded and jerked the lead rope, moving Seth’s horse forward. He was lying, and he couldn’t help but show it. He was also nervous. There were Yankees everywhere, and all it would take was one little fuss put up by this Negro to bring the whole of them down on the two disguised Confederates in a flash. He wanted to get home, not end up back in a stockade.
Will led his horse down the Corinth road and passed all of the stores waiting to be loaded into wagons. The road ahead was clear and took them across a deserted landscape of burnt-out houses and torn-up fields.
It would only take a few more moments, and the crowd of enemy soldiers going about their business would be left far behind.
“Where you takin’ the nigger?” a voice called out from the side of the road. Two cavalrymen were packing their kit into their saddlebags and watching the grim procession go by.
“He stole something from my pard here; we takin’ him back to our regiment,” Will replied.
“You headed to Corinth too?”
“Yes, join back with the 1st Kentucky.”
“You goin’ the wrong way then; the 1st is back in Kentucky, McCook’s brigade. Didn’t you know that?”
Will stopped his horse. “You say they in Kentucky now? We come back from Ohio on courier assignment an’ was told they was in Corinth.”
“Didn’t your cousin say they was headed for Louisville?” one of the troopers asked his fellow.
“Yes, said they was chasin’ after Bragg. Who’s in command now of the 1st?” the man asked Will.
Seth looked at Will, noting that he looked nervous for the first time.
“Colonel . . . “
Will drew his pistol but was jarred as Stephen realized what he was going to do and took a swipe at his arm. The misfire shot one of the troopers down instead of his horse. Glaring at Stephen, Will shouted, “Get moving!”
“Bastard, they Rebels! Bastards!” the other trooper cried as he wrestled with the carbine securely fastened in his saddle holster.
Will shot him in the leg and spurred to catch up with Stephen and Seth. The noise was going to attract someone, but as there was no other cavalry force present at the landing, pursuit would be a confused mob.
“Why’d you do that!” Stephen shouted angrily.
“Just shut up and keep a tight leash on him!” Will retorted.
Seth held on for dear life. He had been too numbed by the accusation to loose his tongue before, muted by the knowledge that it mattered little what a black man had to say if accused by a white, even a Northern white. But not only was he being tricked, he was being tricked by two Rebels in disguise.
It bubbled out of him like a torrent, when it was too late and no one was about. Yelling now at the top of his lungs, Seth called for help, called out “Rebels!”, called out for anyone to come to his aid.
Will brought his mount to an abrupt halt.
“What?” Stephen asked, annoyed as he came abreast.
“Shut him up!” Will threw a handkerchief at Stephen. “Gag him.”
While Stephen reluctantly did as he was told, Will rode back a few yards to watch the road. They were close to Michie’s now, and the scene of his capture months ago before the big battle. If they were caught, it would be a quick hanging as spies. They were a long way from getting out of enemy territory.
He heard them before he saw them: horsemen pounding down the road, no doubt in pursuit.
“We got hangers-on, we got to move!” Will shouted as he spurred his horse past Stephen’s. Stephen kicked his own forward and held on to Seth’s horse as it followed suit.
Will turned to look behind him. Stephen and Seth were lagging behind; no doubt Seth was not encouraging his own mount forward. Their pursuers were also now visible, several horsemen in number. They roared through Michie’s as several supply wagons and escorts watched them speed by with curiosity.
They weren’t going to make it very far.
Having reconnoitered this area before the big battle, Will knew that it was a crisscross of smaller roads and creeks, marshy lands, and farmhouses where one could easily disappear. With the pursuit gaining, it was becoming clear that they would be caught before they could find a place to turn off the road.
“Off the road, here!” Will shouted as he slowed his mount enough to turn the beast. They were near Seven Mile Creek as it spilled into a lowland that was more swamp than creek, and he splashed through the wet as fast as he could nudge the horse. Stephen pulled to a halt and looked down the road at the dust cloud headed toward them before following, Seth still holding on for dear life.
The swampy area was wide, more mud hole than swamp, standing in one or two feet of water and dotted with trees. Spray went up from Will’s horse as he kicked it hard to keep moving. They appeared suddenly. Horsemen standing amidst the trees. At first glance he’d swear they were trees. There wer
e eight or nine of them, men in various uniforms and all Confederate in look. Will stopped his mount and tried to turn about, but the leveled rifles stopped his progress. Stephen and Seth were moments behind.
Will slowly raised his hands, the sounds of horses splashing through the swamp rising to a crescendo behind him. “Lieutenant William Hunter, 1st Alabama Cavalry; don’t shoot.”
The stony-faced men atop their horses, rifles and pistols leveled at their heads, didn’t move.
“You boys’ll have company; Yankee cavalry behind us,” Will said coolly.
“What’s with the nigger?” one of the men asked, an older man with a grizzled expression and scraggy white beard.
“Takin’ him home, runaway,” Will said, his hands still in the air. “Better decide soon, or we’ll all be shot.”
The man nodded to the man next to him, who lowered his weapon and sprang forward. The others followed, moving past Will, Stephen, and Seth to take up positions behind them. Rifle shots rang out moments later.
“Confederate, you say?” the older man asked, still regarding them with distrust.
Will lowered his hands. “Yes, making our way past Corinth to Alabama.”
“Not dressed like that you isn’t. You can ride with us for a spell. I believe you. No Yankee would be cartin’ a nigger about to Alabama. Name’s Perkins. These my boys.”
“Obliged, least for a path around Corinth,” Will said, relieved that they could shed their Federal uniforms.
“As long as you pull yer weight; we got some business in these parts first,” Perkins said with a wry smile.
The men who’d brushed past them to fire on their pursuers came back, several holding the reins of new horses complete with Federal kit.
“We got us a couple, Pa,” one of the young men said proudly.
Stephen looked at Will, shaking his head.
“We pull our weight,” Will said.
“You join us then tonight. We gonna get us a supply train headed to Corinth. You can leave yer nigger behind.” Perkins turned his mount and slowly rode off, followed by the other men in his company.
“Don’t like this,” Stephen whispered to Will as they fell into the rear of the column.
“Don’t got a choice; just keep yer eyes open and an eye on Seth.”
Stephen wasn’t mollified.
Chapter 2
Homecoming on the Tennessee
It was September 28, 1862. The paddle steamer was headed east up the Ohio to the Cumberland River and thence to Nashville. That had been the plan. Now they were headed instead down the Tennessee River and to the place of his nightmares. Philip leaned over the railing of the steamer and reflected on the trip he’d made coming the opposite direction months before when he’d left to claim his commission as chaplain. He was coming full circle and heading for the very spot he’d left, Pittsburg Landing.
The military gunboat, a side-wheel steamer, was fitted with cotton bales on its sides to deflect incoming fire and act as a barricade from guerrillas taking potshots at the crew and passengers from the far bank, making the once-commercial steamer look drab and ugly. She was fitted with several cannon that were not made for such a delicate boat, but control over the rivers necessitated the government press all manner of floating craft into service, manned by navy personnel and driven by navy pilots.
The trip back down the Tennessee was uneventful this time, and no fear of becoming engaged was felt by her crew. Western Tennessee was rid of Rebel presence, and the guerrillas were absent from the river’s banks.
The contingent of volunteers for the 21st Ohio were aboard, his brother included. Philip knew that the days would be full now that his brother was with him, and a certain loneliness was averted as he approached a new command.
Further, the Rebels were causing trouble again elsewhere in Kentucky, Mississippi, and Eastern Tennessee, and there was a sense of urgency to the enterprise. The 21st had marched from Huntsville, Alabama, weeks before and arrived in Nashville before promptly marching north into Kentucky, making the trip to join them that much shorter than if they had only left Cincinnati a week later. Confederate General Earl Van Dorn was on the move, along with Confederate General Price, and Union General Halleck was pulling his far-flung armies into the center of Tennessee to protect the vital rail centers of Corinth, Memphis, and Nashville. If they made it in time.
Philip had been able to glean from the recruiting officers sent by the 21st that some trouble was in the making, that their colonel was absent from the command, and that the Confederates were approaching Corinth.
His new regiment had put in the miles marching. The 21st had marched from Kentucky to Nashville and then into Alabama while the rest of the Army of the Ohio marched to Grant prior to the Battle of Shiloh. According to his brother officers, the 21st had done little but get itself into trouble with the local Alabama plantation owners and its colonel in trouble with his chain of command for being too friendly with Rebel planters.
Lieutenant Colonel Neibling, he was told, was a fair man but had his own share of trouble within the regiment.
The new volunteers were being taken through the school of the soldier on the open upper deck and the other passengers and officers given a comical show. Philip watched with interest to see how his brother would take to the new environment.
The corporal giving the instruction was a loud and foul-mouthed man of short stature and a meanness of spirit that made up for his diminutive height. None of the volunteers were getting it. The right and left face, the counting time, the load times nine; all were run through again and again and again until the once-youthful expressions of joy at playing soldier were indelibly wiped from each face with weariness. Paul seemed to be one of the ones who wasn’t getting it very quickly.
There had been thirty men raised from the recruiting trip made by Captain Wofford of the 21st, and these would be divided up into the companies that were the shortest in manpower. A group was being drilled now in the manual of arms without fully loading their muskets, a wise precaution given the tightness of the space and the jittery nature of the new volunteers. These men would be given instruction all the way to joining their regiment, and then by their new sergeants in daily drill and ceremony. They would be trained on the job and expected to become soldiers in a very brief time. Repetition would be their teacher and experience their guide.
Now, the volunteers were tasting their first of military discipline. Already one was tied to a barrel for stealing food from the commissary.
“Shoulder, arms!” the corporal shouted, and the rifles bobbed up into the small of the shoulders in haphazard order. The movement when practiced was a smooth lift of the rifle with the left arm straight upward and the right hand grasping the trigger guard while the musket was laid to rest lightly against the shoulder bone and the collar bone. It was a movement that would be executed hundreds of times, thousands of times, as the primary position to start all movements when under arms.
This day, it was a joke. They would get used to it, and it would prove to be one of the most comfortable ways to carry the musket except for the right shoulder shift, where the musket was brought up to the shoulder and left to balance with the right hand crooked to keep the musket butt from flipping entirely over one’s shoulder.
“Present, arms!”
“Shoulder, arms!”
The corporal inspected each man for irregularities and shifted the musket here, bent it there, lowered it here. The men were getting exhausted at the concentrated maneuvers and were growing sloppy, which made the corporal that much more boisterous in his condemnations.
“Right shoulder shift, arms!”
The muskets went up into the air and then lazily back down over the shoulders, save for Paul’s. His went up too fast and far, and it crashed into the head of the man behind him, causing the formation to disintegrate as arms and men crashed into one another and the deck. There was boisterous laughter from the audience, but nothing from the half-mad corporal and his jittery subje
cts.
“Damn you, Pearson! It’s just a musket, not a pitching fork, you son of a bitch! You better pray you are not in my company, or I’ll see you are tending the sinks!”
There was some grumbling from the other volunteers, but all were equally cowed by the shouting little man with the stripes.
“Get it right, Pearson. It’s up with the left and then up with the right, but you’d better hold on to the thing! If we have fixed bayonets an’ you lose control over it, you’ll skewer the man behind ye! Shoulder, arms!”
A musket dropped to the deck with a loud thud as another man lost control and dropped his weapon. The little man stormed over to the culprit as he was bending down to retrieve it. Grabbing the musket, he thrust it heavily into the man’s chest, knocking him backwards a step. The corporal dragged him back into the line and set the musket at shoulder arms roughly.
The line of men, still in civilian clothes and drilling with arms of all makes and sizes—whatever was on hand from those traveling with them and otherwise on board—did not look martial. They looked scared.
Clothes and weapons were to be issued at the regiment, but until then they would look like hurriedly mustered militia.
When they broke for supper, Philip wandered over to his brother.
The new volunteers were clustered around one another. Though no one knew anyone, they all had the common experience of being fresh fish.
Paul was sitting in a cluster of other men looking tired and depressed. None of the usual banter that is heard when men come together was in evidence this meal, and each was lost in his own thoughts as they all absently chewed the crackers.
Paul was still in the clothes he’d been wearing when Philip said good-bye to him before departing with the 7th Cavalry for Fort Dennison, only he hadn’t continued his journey as he’d planned and returned to Dayton to find the recruiting company and continue on with them. It didn’t matter to the army that the new volunteers were looking a little worn in the clothes they’d signed their three years papers in; they were now federal property and would be treated as such.
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 71