For their part, the men were footsore and exhausted, so little in the way of real conversation was possible. Soft titters of laughter or whispers followed his progress as he went from group to group. He knew some of these men, but most he did not. It was a little like taking over the pulpit of another for a Sunday sermon. You didn’t know these people and they didn’t know you; you were just there for some reason and trying to fill the role. There was a mix of faiths too. Though most were Methodist Episcopal, there were Catholics and Lutherans in the ranks.
Finding himself particularly useless, Philip made his way to the officer’s fire and took a seat next to Lieutenant Chapel. Captain Wofford was working on his daily report, and Philip wondered who Wofford was reporting to. The fire was crackling pleasingly and the coffee smelling inviting. The repast was again cold and of the hardtack variety.
“Seeing to your new flock?” Wofford asked as he looked up from his page.
“We got some holy types who might be pretty glad to see another chaplain abouts,” Lieutenant Chapel said.
Philip smiled. “You might be surprised, Lieutenant, how many suddenly find their religion when the minié balls fly or they face death for the first time. Even the worst sort of blasphemer finds he wants some comfort on the field of battle when nothing else but a dark existence seems to be in the offing.”
“No offense, but a chaplain is useful only for comforting our wounded with something before they die and go quiet.” Chapel added, a serious and thoughtful expression on his face, “Can’t see much use for one otherwise.”
“For some reason the Department of War would disagree, Chapel,” Captain Wofford said. “I suspect there is a moral component to it. You have a point, though. When the fighting starts, the chaplain and the surgeon aren’t equal in usefulness. We need the surgeon but we don’t need a chaplain; and I suspect Lieutenant Colonel Neibling won’t find much to do with you neither.”
Philip was silent for some minutes taking in the candor. There was no meanness or contrarian demeanor in the way these men shared, just brutal honesty. The two other officers kept their feelings about Philip or his faith to themselves. Finally, he asked, “Why didn’t Colonel Norton return with us?”
The two officers exchanged glances, sharing a moment of indecision as to who was most qualified to answer, as if it were a difficult question.
Captain Wofford answered, “He’s too busy politicking against General Mitchell for placing him under arrest while we were in Alabama. The colonel took too fond a liking to some of the area planters and was caught across our lines at a clambake with some of the Rebel populace . . .”
“And at a time when there was some trouble about with Rebel cavalry,” added Chapel.
“Norton spends his time doing everything but being a colonel and has left Lieutenant Colonel Neibling in command for several months now. We hardly see the man anymore,” Wofford said.
Philip nodded. Being an enlisted man was far more serious, with duty far more expected of them, than what he’d seen of the officer corps thus far. “Seems there are some problems within the 21st’s command staff.”
Again the captain and lieutenant exchanged glances.
“I’m not sure about that, entirely, but there has been friction between the pro and antislavery elements in the regiment,” Wofford stated. “That goes for the enlisted men too. You’ve been through Kentucky and Tennessee; you seen the contrabands following the army about. Well, it’s worse when you’re long-term camp in the south and the darkies start to get too attached to the idea that the army equals freedom. If there’s been anything that would be a problem for the regiment, it has been what to do with the contrabands.”
Lieutenant Chapel nodded in agreement and flicked a stick into the fire.
Philip said, “Yes, we saw plenty of contrabands on the roads, carrying everything they had with them and following the army from place to place. Buell’s orders were to return all runaways back to their masters. I can’t say that the 24th Ohio was ever anyplace long enough to have this problem, and certainly not in Alabama. Anyway, as an enlisted man you didn’t pay much attention to the big bugs with the shoulder straps. You did what you were supposed to be doing and minded your own business.”
Captain Wofford grinned. “The big bugs have plenty to occupy themselves with gaining favor up the chain of command. That is what Colonel Norton has been trying to do all this time, to clear his name and take General Mitchell down a peg. I suspect he will be resigning his commission soon, as no one is listening to him, not even the papers in Ohio.”
“Seems futile to me, but I suppose I might feel different if I were the one who’d been humiliated.” Philip’s head reeled. At least he wasn’t considered part of the command staff—this was not a happy-sounding bunch. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting to encounter, as he’d given his own officers little mind while in the 24th Ohio as a private. There was little to see. Officers did not mingle with enlisted men, nor did they treat them as equals. It was just not done and was considered counter to good discipline. An officer kept to the company of other officers and enlisted men likewise.
“Oh, it’s serious business, as there are reputations to be made outside the army,” Wofford added. “I’d imagine half of the regimental commanders on up are already thinking of their political careers after they resign or the war ends, whatever comes first.” The young lieutenant nodded silently in agreement again.
The fire was dying out, as was the conversation. Paul was still walking his beat by the road, and all along it was the rumble of wagon traffic. A cavalryman for every three wagons rode in the intervals as another column trundled past.
“There’s been a wagon every ten feet of road the last few minutes,” the lieutenant said as he watched the procession go by. “Why they saddle us with this fool’s errand and these wagons? A cavalry escort would have been more prudent.”
“If Corinth is in danger, they must be preparing for a long siege or something,” the captain replied.
Later, a commotion from the roadway brought a sudden halt to conversation. Philip heard a voice calling for the corporal of the guard with urgency. The corporal assigned the duty did not have far to go to attend to his sentries.
Further, it was Paul’s voice calling out.
“Who’s in command here?” an angry voice shouted. The small camp was by now all drawn to the several men being held off at bayonet point by the sentry they’d accosted.
“Corporal of the Guard!” Paul shouted again. “Advance another step and I’ll run you through!” He emphasized the threat with a slight thrust of the bayonet point toward the nearest man. There were three men trying to gain access to the camp, all in uniform, who either did not think they had to comply with the order or were unfamiliar with the procedure. But Paul was not going to be dissuaded. The man nearest to him raised his hands to show he was not holding a weapon but stood defiant nonetheless.
The corporal of the guard ran up to Paul and regarded the men on the road suspiciously. As Philip and the other officers approached, one of the men, a major, was letting loose a string of invective against the corporal and Paul and anything else he didn’t like.
“Private Pearson, what is the trouble?” the corporal asked.
“Corporal, these men attempted to enter our camp and gave neither the countersign nor stated their business within,” Paul reported.
“Corporal, I demand to speak with your commander at once!” the major shouted.
“You will be more respectful of a camp guard!” the corporal shouted back. “You will answer the question: what business do you have in our camp?”
The party had dismounted and were glaring at both Paul and the corporal as if they had just been ordered to strip down to their underclothing. Paul had, in the meantime, resumed his position of order arms and stood facing the three men with the corporal of the guard next to him, his own weapon at order arms. It was dark and the faces of the men were not clear, but they were in Federal uniform.
“Dammit, Corporal, we don’t have time for this! We will speak with your captain. Our business is our own!” the man with the major’s shoulder straps yelled. He was an older-looking man, as far as Philip’s eyes could pierce the darkness, with a white beard and weathered face.
Standing on regulations, the corporal did not demure. Captain Wofford, nearby, let the corporal handle things. Philip watched with the crowd of privates hovering around to see what the corporal was going to do.
“Then you have no business with the 21st Ohio. You will move down the road and not enter our camp,” the corporal replied and waited for the tirade to commence once more. Captain Wofford was going to wait to be summoned before he did anything further. It was up to the corporal of the guard to summon the captain or to decide to allow the interlopers to enter the camp. At the moment he was not inclined to do anything.
“You will let us through or bring your commander here, for I have messages for him,” came the belligerent reply.
“Give them here and I will deliver them to my captain,” the corporal said and held out his hand.
“These are to be delivered by me alone!” came the reply.
“To whom are the communications addressed?” the corporal asked. Paul stood stark still and watched each man as the corporal conducted the one-sided parley.
The three men could make out the gathering of the camp behind Philip and the other two officers.
“Are you the captain?” the major called out to Wofford.
Wofford did not answer. “You will address only me,” the corporal said evenly. “You are not going to talk to anyone else, nor enter this camp, without stating your purpose or telling me who the communications you are delivering are addressed to.”
He turned to Paul and spoke for all to hear. “Private Pearson, if these men do not respond in the affirmative with purpose or with the name of our captain, you are to advance on them and drive them away from our camp. Is that understood, Pearson?”
Paul nodded in assent. The three men stood stymied on their as-yet unstated errand, and the man in charge of them stood fuming. Philip was puzzled by the performance. If these men were passing on orders, there would be little in the way of inconvenience in revealing their purpose and who they had been sent to speak to. Why their reticence? There was an unmistakable twang to the major’s voice, though that was not unusual where Union men from Tennessee, Kentucky, and Arkansas had volunteered to fight. Philip looked at Wofford to find any hint of what he might be thinking about the performance.
“If they have business with you, they are being queer about answering for it,” Philip said in a low voice.
“It doesn’t appear they know who we are or have any business with me. I’m content to let it stay this way. If they can’t talk to my corporal of the guard, then I have nothing to say to them.”
“Sir, could be guerrillas. If so, they can be treated as spies and summarily shot. Perhaps we should disarm them and see for ourselves what they are?” Lieutenant Chapel said. Several other mounted men stood off along the roadside in the dark shadows.
“Lieutenant, let us just see what comes,” the captain replied quietly.
The man berating Paul turned and took a step toward his comrades, pivoted and took a step back, and then repeated the process, all the while gesturing wildly with his arms. Finally the group remounted and galloped off into the black.
The performance was talked of the rest of the evening as all attempted to divine what the men wanted and why they had given up. The camp guard was kept vigilant the rest of the night.
Philip woke sometime after midnight as the guard mount trooped the relief to their stations, and he caught up with Paul, who was on the verge of collapse.
“Rough, wasn’t it?” Philip asked as Paul dropped his traps at his feet and stretched.
“Too bad them riders didn’t try to get into the camp later. Would have kept me awake,” Paul yawned.
“The second watch is always the worst. You got off lucky,” Philip added.
“Several times I swore I seen them riders comin’ back, but after a moment or so they’d vanish.”
“Eyes play tricks when you’re beginning to fall asleep,” Philip said. “You can walk up and down to keep awake, but it never lasts long. It’s no easier if you know the enemy is but a short distance away. Only the thought that falling asleep might mean disaster keeps you from giving in. We spent a month in sight of the enemy pickets before Beauregard abandoned Corinth. You know you have to keep awake or wake a prisoner or worse.”
In a whisper, he finished, “And you don’t want to be caught sleeping while on guard if the enemy is in your front, or slipping away.”
Paul stared blankly ahead, nodding. The other men of the detail sorted themselves out for some sleep. The night was chilly but not uncomfortable for sleeping out, and the other men of the company were spread out as they pleased or had found even ground to lay out their blankets and were dozing peacefully.
“I think Bushy and Pine still of the mind to desert,” Paul replied in a low voice.
“It’s their necks if they do. I’ll keep an eye on them, but you just learn to be a soldier and forget about Sally Hensen and civilian life. That was a good bit of soldiering tonight. You did what you were supposed to do.”
Paul nodded his head and pursed his lips. “It weren’t that bad. I’m tired, but it were a little exciting.”
“Well, I’ll let you get some sleep,” Philip said in a low tone, patting his brother on the shoulder. Paul nodded in return and rolled his sack coat into a pillow and lay down. Philip returned to his own bed. As long as there wasn’t a repeat of the confrontation at the road, he expected his slumber to be broken only by the inevitable need to shift position as the hard ground became unbearable. The weeks spent sleeping in a bed had spoiled him. Rolling his own frock coat into a square and propping his boots toe-first at his head, he arranged his makeshift pillow on his shoes and slept knowing he would never have to stand guard again.
Morning was always a rude awakening when sleeping out of doors. First it was the realization that the men who were already up would not stop making noise. Then there was the smell of coffee brewing on the fire. Then it was the morning light that leaked through one’s eyelids, forcing its way into your conscience and refusing to let go. Sleep was never long enough and the morning most unwelcome when the day brought loathsome toil or numbing marches. The only good thing about an army morning was the coffee waiting to be sipped, if you were allowed a fire to brew it. This morning was thankfully a brewing one.
Philip woke to the sounds of the last watch of the night being relieved by the corporal of the guard and the sounds of a crackling fire. The captain and lieutenant were up, and the two corporals and sergeant were rousting the men whose ability to sleep through anything had not yet adjusted to army mornings. To be sure, these farm boys would consider any sleep until first light to be of high privilege. Sergeant Pence was bringing rude tidings to those who had not already shown signs of life.
The fresh fish were being herded to the fire to get their breakfasts eaten and coffee consumed so the final leg of the journey could be executed before the heat of the day overtook them. The breakfast was mean, and but for the coffee, cold. The men were walking stiffly about as if someone had splinted their limbs, and only a few were not favoring one leg or foot over the other. The cadre of officers ate quietly around their fire, with little discussed between them. Philip put his kit together and retrieved his horse from the picket line, letting the beast roam around to munch grass in the absence of any other fodder. There would be oats plentiful in Corinth.
The company was back on the road by seven, and the men who were interspersed between the wagons in squad formations began to take to the routine like veteran soldiers. The march was an easy one again, with the cool of early morning settling in on the bones and making the exertions tolerable along the dusty road. A thick smoke trail wafted above the trees that lined the Pittsburg road, dr
awing their attention. Another camp in another field, though from the thick billows of black smoke it was some camp. An odor of char hung in the air, the plumes drifting above the canopy of intervening trees lining the road. Another strong odor mingled with the char as they drew closer to the source. It wasn’t powerful like the char, but it sent a shiver down Philip’s back, triggering a memory of Shiloh and its rows of dead.
Its source remained a mystery until a neighboring field revealed several burning wagons and a trail of corpses strewn about in haphazard fashion.
The dead wore parts of Federal uniform, but most were stripped to the waists, and all were missing shoes. The wagons, or what was left of them, were smoldering. But for the iron of the braces and wheels, it might be hard to tell what they had been. The dead were some ten in number and were splayed out, arms overhead, laid out as they had been stripped. The only violence seen upon their persons were deep gashes in chests or upon throats. Several black bodies, mule skinners by the look of their remaining clothing, were especially mutilated.
Captain Wofford halted the company and dispersed the men to look for anyone who might still be alive while the officers made a close inspection of each corpse. The fresh fish were rattled, most having never witnessed a dead man without such niceties as being dressed or in repose upon a table.
All of the horses were gone, and evidence that other wagons were missing from the caravan were ample. Two infantrymen who’d been acting as escort with the contraband slaves as drivers had been hog-tied and stabbed repeatedly. From Shiloh, Philip knew that minié ball wounds and shrapnel were awesome to behold in all their destructiveness upon the body, ripping whole bodies apart and removing heads or limbs with jagged efficiency, but these knife-ripped innards and slit throats revealed another evil seldom seen upon the most savagely fought-over battlefield.
“Guerrillas. They did say there might be some operating in this area,” Captain Wofford said aloud.
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 76