“I will not soon put my hope in any plan but to just march on the enemy wherever he is and best him one more time,” Michael replied, a melancholy mood descending upon him like a cloak.
The collective experience of Shiloh hung over the whole combined army now marshaling for another go. It had set in motion everything afterward, and the Confederate soldier was haunted by his elation at driving the enemy toward the river only to have reversal come so quickly. The hope of man is not easily tarnished, but in successive failure it does wane. Rosecrans had failed to push Price’s Army of the West out of Iuka, expending energy and men in a fruitless assault on high ground. In the end, Price decided to give up the town, and Rosecrans could rightly claim the tactical victory. But the soldiers were hopeful yet of a reversal on the Yankees at Corinth. The war would not be won in the west, but a victory here would make it easier on the collective mindset of the soldiery. None more so than the men of the 2nd Texas after they broke and ran on the second day of the fighting at Shiloh, exposing Michael’s section of Polk’s battery to capture.
The irony had never been lost on Michael, and he could have turned down the offer of a posting to the 2nd Texas. They were fellow Texans. It was not they whom he laid any blame upon. The 2nd Texas had already proved they were better than those men who ran. They had proved it again at Burnsville in the fighting around Iuka. They had nothing more to prove. Michael was proud to lead those same men. He just had to prevent Rogers from keeping him away from the action.
Chapter 4
That Old Dread Returns
Philip was getting his marching legs back. It had been many months since he’d felt the hard pounding of each footfall upon this very road when the 24th Ohio and the rest of the army were marching toward Corinth. The enemy had marched down this road on the way to and back from the fighting at Shiloh a month before that. The sights were the same, but the impending doom that each man felt as he stepped off was gone.
News had come before the company of the 21st Ohio stepped off that a battle had been fought at Iuka a few days before and had been a close one, revealing to the generals the danger Corinth was in. The wily General Price had slipped away after a sharp little fight, but Van Dorn was also near enough to Corinth to give Grant and Halleck pause. The 21st had been ordered to accompany a supply train headed for Corinth in a fit of overexaggeration, so they thought—after all, their regiment was in the opposite direction. But someone thought better of letting muskets or supplies go unguarded in guerrilla country, especially when Corinth was manned by three small divisions. Another combined force under General Ord was racing back from Iuka in case what Price was doing was not a feint.
For the green men of the 21st Ohio’s detachment, this was a murderous march. Fifty minutes of quick-time marching and ten minutes of rest and then all over again. The wagon teams, five wagons in all driven by disinterested Negroes, had to halt to let the infantrymen rest, and they sat their wagons each time looking bored. The teamsters and infantry escort kept their respectful distances.
Philip marched alongside the rear rank of the company as it spread itself out along the road, cajoled and forced along by Sergeant Preston. They had passed by Michie’s Crossroads and were making their way near Lick Creek when Captain Wofford called a halt. The men were looking fatigued already, and they had only been marching an hour. Philip could have told tales of the marches the 24th Ohio had endured making their way down from Nashville to link up with Grant at Pittsburg Landing. In reality, those had been days of halts and waiting for bridges to be repaired. But they made good stories to scare the fresh fish with. Paul had already heard them, and the cadre of veterans from the 21st were already boring the fresh fish with their own stories.
A halt and a command of rest sent the men scurrying for shade and a quick dip of their feet into the cool waters of the creek. The wagons pulled off to the side of the road in line, and their drivers climbed into the back with supplies of food and powder to sleep. Some of the fresh fish, not waiting for the order, were dropping their packs in the road and trying to wander off as if they hadn’t a care or responsibility in the world. There was some intense berating from the corporal before the slovenly fish donned what traps they’d already shed and stood for a few moments more before being dismissed. Others, either having more sense or just being too unused to discipline, refused to even take off their traps but only struggled down the steep banks of the creek to soak feet still shod with shoes and socks.
Philip took Paul aside and warned him to shed his socks and shoes before a soak. The others, stripped down to their sack coats and barefooted, splashed in ecstasy in the cool water and wriggled aching toes in the soothing caress of the creek’s gentle and easy flow. The veterans of the 21st shed what traps they could and stood in the shade on the high bank above, chatting easily with one another about the fine mess they found themselves in and the fine mess of fish they had to shepherd along. They were eating and airing sweat-soaked undershirts in the light breeze. The fresh fish needed to be eating too, but they also needed to learn some harsh lessons if they were to be schooled in the life of a soldier. Philip wanted to tell them, but as the corporal was content to let the men squander their chance playing in the water, Philip was going to let them be.
Marching in the rear, he’d kept an eye on Paul, Pine, and Bushy—the three who were already sick of army life. There was loud and vociferant grousing once the command to rest was given. Philip tarried a little at the top of the bank, counting noses as the fresh fish cooled their feet. The privates were spreading out, some amusing themselves with rock hunting and others splashing in the water. Bushy was wandering a little far from the pack, and the boy Pine followed.
Philip, trying to stay concealed by the bank, wandered along behind. Paul was still with the others, but these two fools were about to come to an end if they kept going.
Then Philip’s heart sank heavily in his chest as Paul, too, began to wander off in the same direction. Slowly at first as if looking for something; and then with furtive glances behind him a little more quickly. “Damnit,” Philip uttered under his breath. “Pardon, Father.”
Quickly hurrying along the bank, Philip took a look behind him. None of the officers and noncommissioned officers gathered in the shade were paying any attention.
Slipping down the bank, he quickly headed off the leader.
“Private, don’t know where you headed to, but if you got any intelligence at all you’ll head back,” Philip said quietly.
“Chaplain!” Bushy exclaimed.
Pine, the young boy with the glasses, froze and looked at Philip with wide eyes.
“We gettin’ out of here,” Bushy said.
“I see that. At least you think you’re getting out of here. You get what, five minutes head start? You think you won’t be missed? You either desperate or stupid.”
“You goin’ to turn us in?” Paul asked, slipping up behind Pine and looking guilty.
“You think I shouldn’t? You probably lucky that you fresh fish and they probably just hang you by your thumbs. I told you the punishment for desertion is death,” Philip said, turning to Paul.
“Death!” Pine exclaimed and took a step back.
“Pshaw! They aint’ goin’ to shoot you!” Bushy said nervously. “Right?”
“You don’t want to find out!” Philip said. Grabbing Paul by the arm, he took a step back. “What are you thinking?”
“That Sally Hensen ain’t worth getting shot for.”
“So, you just going to up and try to walk away? You’ve been on the march an hour and already you’ve had enough? You signed three-year papers! All of you!”
The voice of the corporal shouting something made them all jump. The orders carried over to them: “You men, get back up the bank and fall in on your traps.”
“Go on, get back there,” Philip said to the three men. “I don’t care if you think volunteering for a woman’s hand was a bad idea or not; you in now. I’m not going to let you get shot for des
erting.” Philip’s grip on his brother’s arm was still tight.
“Let me be!” Paul groused and shook his arm free, trudging slowly after the other two.
Watching their progress for a moment more, Philip ascended the steep bank and back up to the road. No one appeared the wiser of the confrontation.
“Captain, bring your mug over here,” called Captain Wofford to Philip. The sergeant had started a quick little fire, and the rim was already ringed with tin cups heating water. Philip hurried over to the group, not feeling in the mood to be sociable.
“I don’t like this errand,” Captain Wofford said to all present. Around the fire were two corporals, the acting first sergeant of the company and Wofford. There was a bond between the old hands and veterans despite rank.
“Sounds like it fer nuthin’, really. What good is thirty-odd rifles?” one of the corporals asked.
“It is irregular and for no good use; we should be marching to Nashville, not further away,” Lieutenant Chapel joined in.
“How we supposed to join the regiment after they through with us?” Sergeant Preston asked.
“I’m working on that one, Sergeant,” Captain Wofford replied. “These fresh fish need some good watching over.”
The corporal got the fresh fish in line and ordered them to eat. Soon the thirty men were gathered in little groups eating what food they had thought to carry with them from the commissary stores they had raided. The officers’ coffee was ready and being consumed right as the captain ordered the sergeant to get the men to fall in. Amid grumbles and complaints, the men struggled to their feet and were given a further fifteen minutes of practice on stacking rifles and made to stand in the heat while the officers took a further few moments to finish their repast.
Philip, faced now with his first flock in the army, was hesitant to interfere with the command of the corporals and sergeant but felt utterly useless for anything to do. He was along for the ride. What was he going to do once they arrived in Corinth? Grab a rifle? Volunteer to ferry the wounded back and forth? Take a place in the line with his carbine? The latter felt more familiar and much more active than being someone who tried to offer help to the wounded with only words. Better to help by braining the Confederate before he shot someone from the regiment than to have to carry that man to the rear. It was a philosophical problem, though the army would answer it easily enough by having him far to the rear with the wounded rather than in the line. If he ordered Philip to the rear, what else was he to do? But here? Captain Wofford was in command of the new volunteers, but Philip was not answerable to him. It made for a lack of purpose that he disliked intensely.
As if reading his thoughts, the captain broke the silence.
“What are you going to do once we get to Corinth, Chaplain?”
Philip, jarred from his thoughts, blanched. “If you are somehow in my head, Captain, I’ll have to remand you to the church for a proper cleansing of the spirit that reads minds.”
Captain Wofford laughed. “No, Chaplain, not in the thoughts. Just wondering what we are to do if the enemy is pushing on Corinth with these green volunteers, and what to do with you. I can’t command you to do anything, but you are not a combatant. I’d like to keep us all out of the line if I can.”
“That would be prudent, sure. No, I’ll see to the rear of the line and help with the wounded, as I’m sure is befitting a man of my position to do. Yes, I hope we can keep out of the line of fire.”
“Very well, that is sensible.” Wofford nodded. “I trust I can count on you to help keep the men steady if we are going into the devil’s own den in Corinth, though I can hardly see that the enemy would be foolhardy enough to threaten the town.”
“Indeed; we’ve seen what the rear of a line can look like in a fight. I’ve no illusions. We find someone who can release us and allow us to return and get back on to Nashville, then we can avoid having to have these men tested in a fight.”
The fresh fish were on their twentieth run-through on stacking rifles and unstacking them when the corporal in charge cast a glance at Preston, hoping for relief from the chore. Wofford nodded in return. “Sergeant, fall the men in with their traps.”
Paul was looking a little worse for wear and more depressed than before; they still had twenty or more miles to cover before reaching Corinth. He was used to walking, but not encumbered with traps and a musket and having to keep someone else’s pace.
The captain was unmounted, and Philip felt compelled to walk his mount along instead of ride. Eventually the horse was put to good use, carrying the loads of any who were threatening to fall out from exhaustion as the hours went by. It was going to be murder on his feet, but he’d already scored points with both the veterans and the fresh fish for the assumed shared suffering. The teamsters driving the wagons offered no rides for the flagging infantrymen looking for a respite.
By the fourth stop of the day, the men were getting the hang of the routine and were almost immediately starting to brew fires for coffee while others fetched whatever water might be available for canteens, though those who were initially foolish enough to dip their shoes and socks in the water were already limping and favoring feet in painful displays of agony each stop. The corporal, a roguish man with a devious glint to his eyes, merely ensured that each man thus suffering understood why. The fresh fish must have been under some impression that if they fell out they would be in for some punishment, though none was threatened; in some form of competition, each man pressed on regardless of his personal discomfort in an attempt to impress his fellows. Bushy and Pine made no more attempts to slip away, and Paul kept to himself during the rests.
The stop for the evening was made at Shope, Mississippi, with the tired column coming to a halt in a field abandoned after the sweep of the Federal forces through the region months ago. The field was fallow but for the remnants of the last year of harvest. Fields were given little respite from the passing of the armies, and the farmers, if they remained on their land, did not bother to plant what was only going to be stripped by the commissary of either army. The fence posts and rails had been long burned on campfires in the summer, and but for the homesteads, little wood remained to be used by any great force. There was plenty of smaller wood to be had from dead limbs of trees that lined the way, and the little relief column found enough to cook by. The wagons were drawn into a laager, a circle by which all could fall back into the center for defense, and the infantrymen were ordered to make camp in company formation.
Philip found a good spot to call home for the night, a little ways from the company, and set down his blanket roll. He fished about in his leather haversack, another nice but somewhat heavy improvement over the canvas haversacks issued to the enlisted men. Of all of the frivolity he’d allowed himself in purchasing his uniforms and equipment, this little item, for twenty dollars, was probably the most frivolous. His father would not have approved such an expense, and it was doubtful how it would hold up under the next soaking of rain that was surely only a few days away. Fall in Tennessee and Mississippi was decidedly less uncomfortable than early spring. Absent the days and days of rain, the days were getting cooler and the mugginess was subsiding, making for a more comfortable sleep out in the open.
The men were settling down for a quiet evening of guard duty and other chores new to each. A quarter of the element was selected for camp guard, and the corporals ran the men through the orders and the proper way of conducting themselves. They considered themselves wholly in friendly territory despite the guerrilla activity, and no pickets were posted, but the camp guard was to be officially mounted. No tents were set, but the perimeter was lined out by the captain, and those not on duty were allowed to set up their bedding and eat. Paul was selected for the first post alongside the roadway and was stationed by the corporal, who then led the other ten men along the perimeter, setting each one to his post. It was to be their first field experience. The corporal was in earnest when he did his rounds later on, haranguing several for not givin
g the countersign or asking him his business.
Paul walked his beat and tried to do his part in what felt like a charade. Philip watched him for a time. Pulling duty the first night out wasn’t going to inure him to his commitment to the government. Philip remembered his own first walking of the guard, while the regiment was at Camp Dennison. There it had felt especially odd to go into such formality of detail while the regiment was safely ensconced on the friendly side of the Ohio. The company officers had the book out and ran guard mount as if they were following each point thoroughly. It had been ludicrous-sounding at the time.
The men not on duty were sitting around small fires chatting and rubbing sore feet. The Negro teamsters had retreated to their wagons, making a common fire in the center and bedding down under their wagons. The officers and veteran NCOs were also sitting idly by fires waiting for coffee to boil. They would march into Corinth tomorrow morning. Riders and wagons occasionally passed them along the road but gave them a wide berth, as the guards gave off the impression that the camp was to be disturbed only on threat of death. The traffic was all military and coming from the Landing.
Darkness fell, and all about was quiet save for a dim light off in distance from the farmhouse whose land they were currently squatting on. This was a Rebel farm, but the armies gave little heed to property when something was needed. A guard was placed not too far from the house to prevent anyone wandering up to the house for mischief.
Philip wandered through the group, his new flock, and gave out useless advice to the men who did not know what to make of him. They were all just equally uncomfortable around each other. He needed to present a front of some official capacity as their spiritual guide, but like in his own former church, people needed to choose to come to him. He was expected to go to these men and minister in whatever way they needed, but what did they need? How much was he to do?
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 75