“You wish to give them verbal or written?” Morrison asked.
“Both. Get the written orders ready, and we’ll set out.” Price’s eyes ranged again over the maps. Not much had changed since he was here last. “The commanding general is taking a big chance burning the Tuscumbia bridge,” he said at length. “If Rosecrans doesn’t crumble tomorrow, he’ll have reinforcements and we’ll have nothing.”
****
Even the darkness was little comfort. The fighting had been to Seth’s right and at some distance away, and he’d kept his distance from it, but it had found him. One moment it was behind him and to his right and then it was all around him. Fortunately the ground was covered in bush, brush, trees, and a swampy lowland that offered many places to duck and hide. But the Yankees had come charging through it, and drawing Rebel soldiers with them when they retreated again. Now there were soldiers everywhere, and the wrong kind. Seth lay low and tried to sink into the earth. A line of Rebel infantry crossed through the trees and moved slowly away. Scared, wet, and miserable, Seth started to creep forward.
Voices were everywhere, some laughing, most chatting amiably. The ground was soft and squishy, and for a long while it seemed to Seth that he had crept along for an hour, never putting the Rebels far enough from him. The inky night was his best companion, but it was also becoming his nightmare as more than once he froze, nearly walking into several solitary Rebel soldiers on watch. His heart drummed loudly in his ears, and his breathing felt like the rushing of a loud wind. With alarming regularity, one man after another was encountered, and one while relieving himself. The latter at least moved on. The others Seth had to quietly creep around, taking each step carefully. His legs ached from crouching, and he was exhausting himself trying to remain soundless.
Seth sat for twenty minutes watching one man he encountered. He could have reached out and touched him, stolen something, or killed him. The soldier was oblivious, and he was just sitting in the dark by himself smoking his pipe. The man eventually stood up and walked away, leaving Seth breathing a little easier. He had little desire to be anything but left alone; hurting or killing the man could serve no purpose but to possibly arouse the other Rebels to his presence. Still, the thought flitted through his mind as he watched. Was killing that easy a thing? He’d seen it in the eyes of those deserters who shot those men at the farm. To them, killing must have been easy. It troubled Seth that the thought had come. The man had been innocent of Seth’s chains, an unknown Southerner. Seth had freed himself of those chains once. Then the thought struck him as he quietly made his way again: was anyone innocent of the chains?
Chapter 8
Alive Tonight, Dead by Morning
Will and Stephen followed Lieutenant Dunkle’s troop, hanging as far back as they dared without losing sight of the cavalrymen as the day progressed and the fighting turned rough. The cavalry was unemployed throughout most of the day after they broke the outer defensive line, and the enemy cavalry had made themselves scarce. This wasn’t Will’s fight; a mad dash into the fray was the furthest thing from his mind. Dunkle let them follow along but paid them little mind as his troop was ordered to picket the flanks and follow close behind the infantry.
After the works were taken, the cavalry troop fanned out over the ground the enemy was retreating over. Soldiers lay torn by shot and shell in and around the trenches and parapets. The abatises protruded with sharpened spikes, and lying over them were the dead Confederates who’d been shot down trying to clamber over them to reach the high-walled fortifications. The worse sights were along the line of advance, as Federal cannon had raked the field in front and tore men asunder in gross pools of gore.
The darkness at least brought relief from the macabre scenes by hiding them from view. It was silent as well, after hours of booming and rattling musketry. The cavalry troop was being directed in the dark to a position near the railroad tracks and was starting to make signs they were going to be halting for the night. Stephen was unsure of what to do. They had ridden just to keep up and stay out of trouble, but with the halt, everyone was busying themselves with duties.
Will Hunter found Stephen standing idly by the horses. The day looked like it was all but over for the fighting, and soon he could be on his way. He also had news.
“Stephen, your Mississippi boys is here. Sixth Mississippi is with a brigade somewhere hereabouts.”
“Huh? The 6th is here?” Stephen said, suddenly unaware of how tired he was.
“Lieutenant Dunkle say we need to find Bowen’s brigade; they with the Army of Western Tennessee under Van Dorn. We should go find them.”
Stephen stood a moment. So intent had he been on getting home that rejoining the regiment had been the furthest thing from his mind. There was a moment of hesitation, his mind churning over the sudden change of focus. He could still get home and perhaps forget the war for a time. But his fellows were here. The war was here. He’d committed himself and now was contemplating leaving it behind. The war would still be here when he got back, went the internal argument. This might be his last opportunity to see family for another spell or forever. Yet, the East Mississippi Greys were here, in these camps, fellows he’d marched with and who were leaving their own families behind for the cause of freedom.
“Did you hear me? We should go and find Bowen’s brigade,” Will repeated, noting the lack of response from Stephen, who appeared not to have heard him.
“Uh, yes, we should,” Stephen replied after another moment’s silence. The decision was made. He would reenter the war and come what may.
Who would be left? Of his old company, there were only thirteen standing after battling up the hill into the 58th Ohio’s camp at Shiloh. The rest had been dead or wounded and missing when roll was called later. He had been captured after being separated from them on the second day of fighting. Other than Fredrick Lester, with whom he had escaped from Camp Chase, the 6th Mississippi was but a distant memory of comrades and hardship. Lester hadn’t survived the escape, and his best friend had been killed at Shiloh. Who would even be around still to remember him?
Stephen grabbed what gear he’d collected since they’d made their escape and was glad to be off and away from the horse. The beast was barely controllable and not very friendly, always turning and nipping at him whenever he’d kicked too hard or jerked the reins taut. They had each shed their Federal clothing, and he was again in dirty but recognizable Confederate garb.
Finding a brigade usually wasn’t a hard thing to do, but finding one after a hard day of fighting and in darkness would be another feat of ingenuity. All anyone knew was that Lovell’s division was off to the right. Guard posts were encountered at intervals, and each challenge brought a sense of fear that the next sound one would hear would be the discharge of a musket. Each camp the word was the same, “Off that way somewheres” or “No idea.” Finding the right army was the other problem, as it seemed that after a good thirty minutes of walking they were still encountering men of the Army of the West. Artillery positions and infantry companies intermixed and offered no clear delineation of boundaries.
“You know where we can find Bowen’s brigade?” Stephen asked a vedette guarding a line of knapsacks and equipment.
“Over yonder ways; think them lights there might be them,” the youth standing at shoulder arms answered. When Will came out of the gloom, the man snapped to attention and rendered a salute by swinging his left arm parallel to his chest and with fingers extended, snapping his hand to the rifle barrel.
Will returned the salute as the surprise wore off, having quite forgotten the practice.
Stephen nodded in return and made his way along, ignoring Will as he picked up his pace. He’d no news of the 6th’s whereabouts or of even Colonel Thornton—had he succumbed to his wounds from Shiloh?
The lanterns he was directed to were the headquarters tent of Colonel Bowen and his staff. Halted yet again by another sentry, Stephen learned that the 6th was just another hundred yards down the line.
The infantry regiments were still in brigade front, though with muskets stacked, and the regiments were lounging behind the stacks eating and chattering away.
Stephen found the 6th in line next to the 15th Mississippi as directed and then froze. There were hundreds of men, all in company formations and resembling the force that had lined up to step off on April 6. Could all of these men have returned from being wounded? He only knew for sure of those who would never have risen again.
“Can you tell me where the East Mississippi Greys is?” Stephen called to the first man he could see in the dark.
“Who?”
“Company K.”
“Where they always is,” came the reply, “next to E and I, second battalion.” replied the sentry.
“Right, wanted to know if they was on picket or skirmish or something,” Stephen replied, a little annoyed at the cheek.
“Who is you anyhow?”
“Was captured at Shiloh; escaped from Camp Chase an’ found the 6th was here.”
“Uh, yes, an’ the lieutenant.” Stephen replied.
“This you?” Will asked Stephen and motioned with his chin.
“Sir.” The sentry snapped to attention and rendered a salute.
“Yes, sir. This is the 6th,” Stephen replied.
“Murdoch, I’ll leave you here then.” Will extended his hand.
“Sir, thank you for all you’ve done. We . . . I wouldn’t have made it out of Ohio if not for you.” Stephen felt odd shaking the lieutenant’s hand. It was not what enlisted men did.
“Sir, about . . .” Stephen started.
Will cut him short. “I know what you gonna say, Murdoch. I probably weren’t going to kill ‘im; just wing ‘im or something. Anyway, don’t blame you fer stoppin’ me. We needed to get out of there.”
“Yes . . . didn’t seem right. Sorry you won’t get to complete what you started.” Stephen looked down at his feet for a moment before straightening up. “See you in hell, sir.”
“See you in hell, Murdoch,” Will replied evenly and turned about, leaving Stephen behind.
Stephen watched Hunter vanish into the night and turned back to the sentry, who’d been watching with disinterest. “Permission to enter?”
“Corporal of the Guard!” the sentry shouted. Then a familiar face came out of the darkness.
“What is it?” Corporal Fitzpatrick asked.
“Private here wishes to enter.”
“What business you . . . Murdoch?”
“Lewellyn? Corporal now?” Stephen said.
“Well, I be! We thought you’d been killed!” Fitzpatrick exclaimed and shook Stephen’s arm strongly before embracing him. “Permission granted, Private Murdoch. C’mon, I’ll take you to the company.”
“All the old hands is noncommissioned officers now, those what were still standing after the fighting at Shiloh,” Fitzpatrick was saying as they made their way through the makeshift camp. No tents were stood up; only men lounging by their weapons where they could quickly be called into line. “They say we in for a fight tomorrow; we sat it out today, but they look to pull us into the line tonight.”
“I don’t recognize anyone,” Stephen said with some disappointment.
“Regiment got fit out with replacements a few months ago; not much left of the Greys any longer. These men what we has now is still good Mississippi stock but don’t have the same as the Greys when we marched out of Jackson, glory be.”
Stephen’s company had picked a name for themselves as most volunteer companies were doing as they mustered; hailing from eastern counties, they chose East Mississippi Greys.
“Is Captain Harper still in command?”
“Aye, but they be some new lieutenants, an’ Harper be in for lieutenant colonel so the word goes. I’m taking you to him now.”
Captain Harper was seated on the ground quietly smoking a pipe when the two men approached.
“Sir,” Fitzpatrick snapped a salute. “I found ye this wandering waif attempting to enter our camp. Says he’s a East Mississippi Grey.”
Captain Harper had a disfigured jaw and a crease across his cheek where a ball had perforated his mouth and blown out the other side. Healed now, it gave him a particularly mean look, though Stephen remembered him to be a fair individual. Between puffs of the pipe he worked his jaw up and down. “Private Murdoch. Thought I’d seen your name on some captured roster. When you didn’t report after the 6th April, we assumed you’d been captured.” There was a slight clicking sound as the captain pronounced hard consonants, the working of his false teeth up and down.
“Yes sir, I was, after I buried Private Banks. It was all up for me then when the fighting ended.”
“Sir, I have to get back to me rounds,” Fitzpatrick said with a salute and turned on his heels.
“We’ll get you some equipment from the quartermaster and figure out what squad you fall into,” Captain Harper said and pointed the way to the wagons. “You take the oath?”
“No sir, not paroled neither.”
“Good, then you can shoulder a musket. We wouldn’t want you going back on no oath or nothing. Quartermaster Webster,” Captain Harper called.
“Sir,” said the tired-looking man who was lying underneath the quartermaster’s wagon.
“I have a wayward man who needs to draw equipment for Company K.”
“Do you have new uniforms, too? These are about used up,” Stephen said, looking at the tattered cuffs on his shell jacket.
“We ain’t no general store, Captain, but I see what we have. Where you come from?”
In thirty minutes Stephen was wearing clean drawers, with clean socks, clean shirts, new leathers, and a new feeling of belonging. The old clothes were tossed aside, no longer even useful for rags, and he had a new musket to hold to his shoulder; he felt like a soldier once more.
“Lieutenant Beeman, Private Murdoch needs to fall in once we are ready to move, so I’ll entrust him to your squad for the moment until the company can line up. Murdoch, glad to have you back,” Captain Harper said and shook Stephen’s hand.
“Sir, thank you.”
“Murdoch, yes, I remembers you. You been exchanged or something?” Lieutenant Beeman replied, regarding Stephen closely.
If Stephen tired of anything quickly, it was explaining to each new officer or man in command where he’d been these last months. The story became rote as he told and retold it with each questioning glance or query. The company had changed, but many who’d fallen out that first day were back and eager to hear of his adventures in getting out of Ohio. The boyish faces he’d known before were gone, replaced with bearded and hollow-looking fellows who bore the exhaustion and fatigue of a march and many days in trying circumstances.
“You didn’t miss nuthin’,” a man was saying. “We hole up in Corinth for a spell, then was marched out when water was as scarce as a desert an’ half the army was down with the Mississippi quick step.”
“We done nuthin’ but march an’ board railway cars betwixt New Orleans an’ Vicksburg and points in between. We crisscrossed Mississippi so many times an’ not had a furlough or respite to visit our homes. You been home?” another private asked.
“No, we made it this far an’ run into the army unexpectedly an’ been tailing some cavalry during the day. Don’t know what I would have done had I gone home,” Stephen replied.
“Well hell, boy, sleep in a bed! Get me some vittles an’ let the wife draw me a bath that I’d never get out of!” another exclaimed and slapped the ground.
“All this time we ain’t seen no action, though. Dance gonna happen tomorrow. This be the first action for some in the company. Some of these fools think they want to see it,” said another whom Stephen recognized as one of the original company, a man named Crout.
“So I think you picked the wrong time to be rejoining the regiment, Murdoch,” said Corporal Flannigan, a man who’d been a private before Shiloh.
“I’m beginning to think that too, Corporal,” Stephen replie
d and tried to laugh it off. There never was a good time to leave or return. The time to leave was before something happened, and the time to return was never, lest you come back to a crowd of strangers. He’d only been close to William Banks before. To the others he was just a quiet boy who looked like he didn’t belong.
****
Through intervening trees, across the railroad tracks of the Memphis and Ohio, through a passage of picket posts crept forward as far as one dared to go without blundering into the Confederate lines—wherever they were, the fresh fish of the 21st Ohio were sorting themselves out for the night. Their adopted regiment was posted by a redoubt they were calling Battery Powell for the lieutenant in charge of the four twenty-pounder rifled cannon whose embrasures faced outward over an indifferent landscape of shrub and felled tree trunks.
There was little picket firing—odd for two forces to be in such close proximity and yet no one was annoying the other with potshots. From what Philip gathered, it had been a confused mass of fighting that almost rolled over them only a few hours earlier. It would have been over for them, but the enemy suddenly stopped attacking and faced about, leaving the brigades of General Davies to complete their withdrawal toward the inner defenses unmolested. There was even some grumbling that Rosecrans had been caught napping when he should have manned the outer works more fully. Instead they were overrun before dispositions were complete.
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 85