The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3

by Phillip Bryant

  Evidence that the Confederates had nearly attained their goal was all about the town’s streets and where the houses and buildings stood near the railroad. Broken glass windows, splintered awning posts, doors removed and improvised as tables, and of course the bodies of those who were no longer in need of any help in this life. Battalions of Union soldiers were being organized, some even now marching the opposite way along the Memphis pike in pursuit of the enemy. They passed Seth by with not so much as a look at him. There was nothing odd about a black man walking alone in Corinth.

  “Down the road.” A soldier pointed as if he knew what Seth was going to ask.

  “Massah?” Seth replied, startled at being addressed at all.

  “You find the nigger camp down the road.”

  “Yes, Massah; tank ye,” Seth said in the habitual, deferential way he had been brought up and always fell back on when addressed by a white man, even one in Union blue.

  “Ain’t yore master; you free according to President Lincoln, or at least in a while will be,” the soldier said and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

  “Free?”

  “You in our lines, ain’t you? You free. Food and shelter down this road; niggers is making camp, so you find yore own kind there.”

  Not kindly said, but kindly taken. Seth smiled and continued on. He was free of Will Hunter, and he was free of the Rebel army, but free as free? Free as in no more threat of being enslaved? That was not a concept he had even entertained while in Ohio before the war. There was never a thought of complete freedom even as one lived amongst free people; that a Will Hunter or someone else might come along and drag you away in chains again was always a fear. The law of the land was still the Fugitive Slave Act, and whether people in Ohio decided to ignore it or not, it was still a law that someone might decide to obey if it suited them.

  In the yard of an abandoned tannery, tents had been erected for the housing of contraband slaves, those who had made their way into Corinth after the Confederates abandoned it late in May to seek shelter and protection from the slavers’ chains. These were busily engaged in daily activities of food cooking and chores. Some had on scraps of Federal uniform, trousers and coats. As Seth approached, he saw more women and children in evidence than men. From the outward appearance there did not seem to be any organization or plan to the camp; the tents were haphazardly erected and in disrepair. The tannery itself had been stripped almost bare of doors, window panes, and even parts of the roof, wood finding its way into cook fires and bases built up around the tents in preparation for winter cold.

  Seth approached several women huddled about one of the tents closest to the road. Their eyes still showed fear, and their reactions to his own sable skin were more fear than friend.

  “I’se sent here ‘bout findin’ place to camp,” Seth said to the one who appeared to be in charge.

  Looking him over critically, the woman, who Seth judged as in her sixties, gave him a look of disdain and replied, “Field hand? You come tru dat?” She motioned with her chin in the direction of the late fighting.

  “I’se get away from a slaver wif da Rebels.”

  “What dat blood on ya?”

  For the first time Seth looked down at both his pant legs and his arms. Blood streaks were down both as well as across his chest. “He’pin’ bring dem wounded Rebels in,” Seth replied.

  “You out dere?” another woman asked. She was younger than the matron of the group and was of the color of skin that told of mixed ancestry. Their clothes did not look like what was typical of a runaway, but were of decent pedigree and clean. A few marks of repair or cast-off clothing were present. The former slaves in the camp were well provided for with necessities.

  “Yes’m; was out dere fo’ de fight; Rebels pass over me comin’ an’ goin’. Is dere someone I’se needs ta talks to?”

  “We’s scayed they’s was gwinter take us back, them Rebels. We’s heared the boomin’ an’ da shootin’, dem big guns all aroun’ de town boomin’ an’ scayan de little ones ta def. Laws yes, we’s all scayed ta def dem Rebels was gwinter win,” the younger woman with the lighter skin said, with furtive glances toward the west of town even as she spoke, as if the silence were just a cruel hoax and the enemy just moments away yet.

  “Dey’s nuffin to fret ‘bout now, Missus,” Seth soothed. “Dem Rebels is gone. Beat dey was, but it were a close ‘un. Dey made it into town.”

  “Laws yes, we heared ‘em whoopin’ an’ hollerin’, an’ we jus’ cower an’ pray dat de Lawd keep us safe.”

  “You go see de sojur in charge, de chaplain what been put in charge of de camp. He tell ye what to do. You prepare to work? No lagabouts in dis camp, laws no,” the matron said, eyeing him still as if Seth were the evil trickster himself, looking to steal them all away.

  “I’se work.” Seth smiled a little. With all of the things he’d experienced so far, the chasing about the Tennessee countryside with the Rebel army, the guerrillas, and then the battle, the third degree from this frail little woman was the toughest thing he’d endured yet. None of the group of women was ready to concede that he was not a threat yet, even the friendly one.

  “Dem sojurs be back; you mind dem an’ you can stay in de camp.” The matron passed judgment on him and without further word returned to supervising the other women. They were making bandages of strips of cloth and laying them in a big pile. There was not a man in the camp at the moment; other women and young children timidly poked a head out of a tent here or there to size him up before disappearing once more.

  “You fink Chap’in Alexander let dis . . . what you name, field hand?” one of the women stopped to address Seth.

  “Seth, Missus,” Seth replied with a nod.

  “He a nigger, ain’t he?” snapped the matron. “De chaplain has to let him.”

  “Where can I find de chaplain?” Seth asked.

  “Him took off wif de fightin’, an’ we ain’t seed him since yest’aday. We be prayin’ he be livin’ still.”

  “We get dem clothes off you; you look like a field hand jus’ off de plantation wif dem rags. Emma, fetch him some of de work clothes from de pile an’ get dem fings washed, laws yes. Get dat blood offin’ dem durty fings, laws yes.”

  Emma nodded her head and smiled at Seth before scurrying off in obedience to the matron, her dress and apron swaying to and fro as she held on to them and ran.

  “I’se much obliged, ma’am,” Seth said with a nod at the matron.

  “You no gud lookin’ like you jus’ climb out of de grave. De Chaplain Alexander give you whut you need to do. De other men’ll be along; sojurs come an’ take ‘em all away fer hepin’ wif de work o’ buryin’ de dead.”

  “Dey’s lots of dem; I pass hundreds of dead Rebels an’ Yankees. Lots mo’ wounded.”

  “You get dem clothes off an’ get some good work clothes on, an’ Chap’an Alexander be along an’ register you in de camp,” the matron said as Emma approached with an arm full of clothing. It was old, it was cast off, and it was repaired in numerous places, but it was clean, and when Seth stripped down to his drawers, it was like having the recent past stripped away and discarded forever. A vat of clothing was being washed nearby, and his old clothing was tossed into that pile to be inspected and cleaned.

  “You seed dem sojurs? Dem Rebel sojurs?” Emma asked as she set herself back down to sorting and rolling cloth.

  “Yes’m, I’se did; I’se wid dem sojurs and travel wid two of dem disguised as Yankees fo’ a time,” Seth replied. Other than the other runaways who worked the riverboats and lived like rats along the Ohio riverfront in shanty towns, hoping that one day they would no longer live in fear of being snatched or harassed by even the whites in Ohio, Seth was unused to being the center of so much attention amongst even his own people.

  “You mind you place, Emma,” Auntie scolded. “An’ you, you get on down de road an’ find what de other niggers is doin’. I’ll not have you jawin’ de day away like you got no burden to bear
.”

  “Yes’m,” Seth said and tipped his hat, a beat-up looking bowler that gladly replaced the slouch hat he’d been wearing but no longer wanted, having passed it along with his old clothing as a sign of the old memories of captivity and escape. He was now whole again and under no man’s command.

  ****

  There was so much to do that Philip didn’t know what to lend his hands to. Just as swiftly as he’d been taken captive, he and the others with him were freed as the enemy melted away, leaving them sitting around wondering what was going to happen next. The skirmishers found them first, cautiously probing forward but leaving them behind. Then came the marching columns of regiments moving to pursue the retreating enemy, and the first sense that they had been liberated. There was no ordeal to relate to their saviors; they had sat and listened to the battle and waited to be collected for a sorry journey off to a prisoner-of-war camp. There was joy at the thought of a prisoner-of-war camp being driven from their minds.

  On walking back toward the lines around Corinth, Philip’s first thoughts were for his brother and the 21st Ohio. How many more had succumbed to the fighting after the collapse of the lines in the town? How many had been captured and taken along with the enemy? Was Paul still in the land of the upright and living? Rebel dead were being dragged into piles for burial and their wounded being laid out. There was little effort to separate the wounded of both sides. Wherever there was space to await the surgeon’s saws, the wounded man was laid out to wait for someone to apply a bandage or to decide if the wound was mortal or not.

  Chaplains of the other regiments were already hopping from man to man, applying bandages or applying spiritual comfort at the request of the dying. The 21st would wait for him unless they thought him taken for good, but these suffering men needed attention now. Torn, Philip was hesitating at the periphery of the mass of suffering souls when a man in chaplain’s frock hailed him.

  “Lost?” the man asked.

  “N . . . no, just a moment’s indecision over seeing to my own command,” Philip replied.

  “Plenty of men here,” the man replied with a sweeping motion. He was engaged in applying a bandage to a wound that was going to be a death knell for the poor man—a wound to his stomach that would mean a painful and slow death. He was a Confederate boy, for that is what leaped out at Philip first—youth. A face that lacked anything but peach fuzz for whiskers was in terrible pain. His bloodied hands alternately clenched and grasped at the grass as waves of pain racked his body.

  “Certainly,” Philip replied. “What regiment?”

  “Sixty-sixth Illinois, James Alexander’s the name,” the chaplain responded but didn’t offer his bloodied hands for a proper greeting.

  “Pearson, Philip Pearson, 21st Ohio.”

  “Reinforcement? I’m familiar with most all of the regiments in Rosecrans’s command, but not the 21st.”

  “Long story,” Philip replied. “I’ll go and get more bandages for the two of us.”

  Surgeons and assistants and other soldiers were helping wounded comrades to the growing queue of sufferers each moment, so that when Philip returned, the line of men lying prone or attempting to sit up was twice what it had been. There was no difference in color of coat worn or allegiance sworn; each wounded man was someone who needed attention regardless of the army he marched with. The dead, too, were being removed, but here the differences were marked: the Rebel dead left in piles and the Federal dead laid out in rows. The Rebel dead would be buried in a common trench without marker or name to go with the grave. For scores of wives, sons, daughters, mothers, and fathers, there would be no place to attend to for grief and mourning. Just a letter informing them that their loved one was dead on the field of battle.

  Philip handed an armful of bandages to Chaplain Alexander and found his own line of men to attend to. Arm and leg wounds were awful but would mean the man had a much better chance of survival than those whose wounds ranged anywhere in the upper body. There was nothing to give to relieve the pain, nothing at all but kind words or a hand to hold. The majority were going to lose an arm or a leg. Those who could have a projectile removed were carried off, and those who were not going to be bothered with were left to die. It was better to have died quickly and directly than to have to lie for hours under a blazing sun. The chest wounds were the first to die, drowning in fluids and blood and gurgling their last breaths away. All one could do was hold something over the wound and help their last breaths be easier.

  It was the gut shot that were most to be pitied. Entrails bursting out and staining the ground with slowly leaking blood; Philip wished he could speed these men to relief and death, as they could linger for hours and hours. Shoulder wounds had some hope of survival but were also harder to comfort. They all wanted prayer and absolution. All knew they were going to die from the moment they discovered what it was that rendered them unable to stand in the line any longer. There was no bravado nor resilient acceptance of fate, but a wish for it all to end. There was remorse that loved ones would not receive a letter or see their faces again. Mothers and wives were called on; children’s names were uttered in prayers.

  These men, who’d marched to kill one another, were rendered as innocents—men who’d seen the door opening to an eternity of damnation or salvation. Philip could only offer what words of encouragement each man wanted to hear or recite Scripture to speed him on his way. Hours of it, one man at a time.

  They were bandaged as could be with the supplies that were on hand, and each man was offered a sip of water, given a word or a prayer, and then Philip moved on to the next man in line. Soon the faces began to blur in his memory; they were all the same. Boys and men, aged or young, all looking worn and dirty and covered in their own blood. Some wanted to know where they were going. Some confessed they were going to hell, some that they were just going to die and get it over with, some that they were going to be reunited with children who had died too soon, with wives they’d lost, mothers and fathers who’d already passed on. Philip held their hands and prayed with them, hoping that any or all of them had prepared their hearts to right and hoping the second death, the death of the lake of fire, would be denied another soul to torment forever. All he knew was that he held in himself the same hope.

  “You need mo’ bandages, Massah?” A voice shook Philip from his reverie. Looking quickly around, he noted that he’d been standing at the foot of a man who’d died. His own hands were caked with blood, the fingernails darkened and his palms reddened with countless oozing wounds.

  “Pardon?” Philip croaked.

  “I bring you mo’ bandages,” the man repeated. He was a black man carrying an armful of strips of cloth.

  “Thanks, and you needn’t call me master. I’m master of no one. Call Him master.” Philip pointed skyward.

  “Oh, yes. I’se call him Massah alls the time.” The man grinned. After a moment’s pause he asked, “You Chap’lan Alexander?”

  “No, Pearson; Chaplain Pearson. Alexander’s that man over there.”

  “Thankee; I’se sent to find de Chap’lan Alexander. They’s a man I’se needs to find about de camp him keeps fo’ escaped slaves,” Seth said with a deferential bow of his head.

  “You say there’s a camp for contrabands?” Philip asked.

  “They be; I’se come from they jus’ now. Says they menfolk sent to help wif de wounded and I’se should come find Chap’lan Alexander.”

  “You just get to Corinth, then? You come through the fighting?”

  “Lawd, yes, I’se come tru de fightin’ wif de Rebels. I’se gets away from de man who took me from de riverboat I’se work on, takes me back to Alabama ‘cause I’se escape befo’ de war. Says he sent to tracks me down befo’ de war an’ not find me. He finds me an’ then says he gwinter takes me back to Alabama.”

  A chord, like the plink of a piano key upon the strings, sounded in Philip’s head. It wasn’t about this Negro standing before him, but about someone whom he’d accidentally run into, tripped
over as it happened, before he left Ohio on this circuitous journey to join with his new regiment. What was it that the man had done before the war? It had stood out as something that only a man from the slave-holding South would ever find himself doing as an occupation. A slave catcher, a runaway slave catcher. A slave hunter. Escaped Confederate prisoners in his father’s home, a tête-à-tête over coffee and stale mincemeat pie before the two hungry and dirty men were turned over to the miscreants in the 7th Ohio Cavalry. One of them had been a slave hunter.

  “You were kidnapped by a slave hunter?” Philip asked.

  “Lawd yes, Hunter was his name, an’ a slave hunter he was. He almos’ do it, but we got caught up in dis here battle an’ I’se gets away, makes my way tru de lines an’ into Corinth an’ finds dis slave camp where dey’s gib me clothes an’ tells me to find dis man,” Seth said with a sense of relief and satisfaction.

  “Hunter . . . a slave hunter.” The word clung to a vague and fuzzy image of a man in Philip’s mind’s eye. “This man, was he an officer?”

  “De man wid him call him lieutenant,” Seth answered.

  The irony of the circles that men move in struck Philip, and he smiled as he thought back to the two dirty, escaped prisoners of war he and Paul had stumbled upon in the woods. They had just narrowly lost their slave again, a slave who, from what he could remember, was someone the lieutenant had groused about losing in the wilds of Ohio as he and his compatriot sat at his father’s table. “The other man, was he called Stephen?”

  Seth’s eyes lit up. “Yes, he was called dat. He was a good man, dis Stephen. I not know what happen to Stephen.”

  “Oh?” Philip looked around at the rows of Confederate dead. All Stephen had wanted to do was get home, his taste for the war quenched. “And you say you got away from . . . what was his name again?”

  “Him what called de ‘Hound,’ name William Hunter. I’se slipped away yest’aday. I’se hide an’ head toward de town.”