The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3

by Phillip Bryant

“It is a different means of ministering. I felt it my duty to volunteer my services as a chaplain, leaving my congregations behind. I could have stayed home and carried on as normal each week, but this great conflict held a fascination for me. Many of my congregations were of men I knew who would be leaving, and that made it a little easier, but the real joy is in seeing to their spiritual education even here. But it is taxing on the esteem. The men only come when forced to by the colonel of the regiment, and few seek you out for anything but a word or two. I find that I have to go to them all too often.”

  Alexander rested his hands easily upon his hips as he looked over the vast field of dead and dying arrayed in front of them. He continued, “You teach on what you think the men need to hear, sing some hymns, and try to get Bibles and devotional books from the societies back home, but it is never enough to keep the more base influences of the army and war from influencing even yourself.”

  Philip nodded and fingered the hem of his frock coat. “I do not believe I’ve had any illusions, but I also thought the chaplaincy would be a way of keeping out of harm’s way without sacrificing my honor. That seems, too, to be impossible for me to do. I even found myself acting the soldier as our company marched out yesterday to the sound of the guns, armed with a carbine I’d bought, not the mild and meek chaplain. The office of chaplain didn’t keep me from finding trouble.”

  “What is it that the Scriptures say . . . whoever seeks the office of overseer seeks a noble task?” Alexander said with a satisfied sigh and reached for the flask that Philip was still turning over and over in his hands. Handing it back to him, Philip stood.

  Rising, Alexander extended a hand. “Chaplain, thank you for your ministrations to these stricken souls.”

  “Godspeed with your work with the contrabands. It is a noble task you take on, you or whoever will continue the work if it is ever sanctioned,” Philip replied and grasped Alexander’s hand warmly. “I do not know how much longer we will be in these environs, but I thank you for the fortifying sips and your hospitality.”

  “Keep yourself safe, Chaplain Pearson.” Alexander winked and slid the flask back into the inner pocket of his frock.

  Philip made his way through the gathering darkness toward the center of the town where all of the activity had been the day before, where was his best chance of finding the 21st Ohio men he was supposed to be with. Along the way he passed by the contraband camp. It was a tent city, lit by fires and inhabited by apparitions that floated in and about the tents, sat around the fires and cooked, or just sat and watched the flames. Two white soldiers stood sentinel at the roadside, men who looked worse for wear and tired, yet had to stand guard for the darkies as they frolicked in their own little quarter of Corinth. Philip nodded to each as he passed. The man Seth would find a home here, a place away from the forces that would enslave once more. Chaplain Alexander had a job on his hands, one on the hands of anyone who looked at the dark faces and saw wretched humanity but also opportunity to bring them into respectability again.

  It was near the town square, just blocks away from the railroad station, now battered and torn by shot and shell, that he found Captain Wofford and the rest of the fresh fish—or what was left of them. They were sitting alongside what used to be railcars, torched and still smoldering. The men sat in silence, the day’s events too momentous for boisterous celebration or chatter. Each seemed lost in the fantastic visions he had beheld of the enemy charging him, the enemy firing on him, the enemy killing or wounding his new pards, the sound of battle echoing off wooden buildings in close quarters, and the detritus of battle lying about, human included. Philip nodded to Wofford and several others seated nearby.

  “Chaplain!” Wofford exclaimed. “See you didn’t get yourself taken along by the enemy’s retreat.”

  Philip nodded. “Was a brief but eventful few hours.”

  “They are marching to pursue the enemy in the morning. We, on the other hand, will be marching back to Pittsburg Landing and finding a steamer to take us back down the Tennessee where we were originally headed and then by rail to Nashville, if the line hasn’t been cut yet.”

  “What are our casualties?” Philip asked. It looked like most of the men were present.

  “Three killed, ten wounded and two severely. Your brother is fine; he’s on detail filling canteens,” Wofford said, noting the concern in Philip’s eyes.

  “The fresh fish handled themselves well these past two days. The sergeants and corporals did their job well,” Philip replied.

  Wofford nodded wearily. The strain on him had been great; thrusting men barely out of Ohio into the seat of the war was not the most advantageous thing to do. “You lost your carbine.”

  Philip nodded sadly. “Impractical to carry about on foot, cost me.”

  “You handled yourself well,” Wofford conceded.

  Nodding, Philip said, “Not that I want to repeat that—not my place to command men about. Why didn’t you or anyone else assert your right to command?”

  Wofford shrugged. “Was concerned with keeping my men safe; reckon so were the other officers who’d gathered around you. No one wanted the blame for failing, either.”

  “I suppose I’d be easy to blame, as I wasn’t to be doing a fool thing like that anyway.”

  “That those fragments of companies stayed their ground at all was a miracle. I’ve seen men ignore even the flat end of a sword whipping them to stay in place during a rout. Keeping men in place after they’ve run is no easy task.”

  “That weren’t me; don’t know why anyone stopped at all.”

  “There was a calmness about you, I suppose. Men gather around that in times of distress. We anchored the line and kept it anchored; we did what General Davies wanted. I’ll be glad to get back to our own army and regiment.”

  Philip looked about him at the activity. Though everyone was tired, there was a nervous energy about those who were walking around and a stream of couriers on horseback riding up and down the roadway, to and from Rosecrans’s headquarters.

  “Saw them bringing in the dead and wounded by the cord from the Rebel side,” Philip said after a minute of silence. “Reminded me too much of Shiloh.”

  “The regiment has not been in a major engagement, not like this. We’ve been marching all over creation. Alabama was the last place the regiment was at for any length of time before we were sent back to recruit.”

  “I don’t think the 24th ever sent anyone back to recruit,” Philip replied. “But Ohio’s still raising regiments—saw several training at Camp Chase and Camp Dennison.”

  Paul and two others arrived, weighed down by ten canteens each, and began distributing the water. Hands greedily reached for their own canteen, and the men eagerly drank down thankful gulps of the liquid. They had been on empty canteens since marching into Corinth the day before. Paul nodded in Philip’s direction and sat down with a group of men, his group, as the fresh fish had sequestered themselves into groups of five, men each felt comfortable with and men whom they had been standing beside during the fighting. Pine was there, but Bushy was absent.

  “And Bushy, the one the men call Bushy?”

  “Wounded, I think. Chapel said he and Pine had to be brought back at pistol point before we all ran like rabbits.”

  “Paul?”

  Wofford nodded, telling Philip that he was aware of Paul’s earlier flights of desertion. “Chapel didn’t say. Think your brother got his backbone straight and stayed the line. Good thing, too. In the fight in the town he kept several of the fresh fish from bolting when all we had was rocks to throw. I think the boys have passed their test with the elephant.”

  Philip nodded in the direction of Pine, who nodded in return. That was enough to tell him Pine had found that little extra courage to see it through. Philip took a seat next to Lieutenant Chapel and leaned back on the rough boards of the porch they were calling home for the moment. This would be camp for the night, though he was under no illusion of getting any real sleep with the activit
y carrying on about them.

  Chapter 18

  Freedom Isn’t Free

  Seth was weary. Moving bodies for burial and fetching water and bandages for the wounded was carrying on without respite. More of the supine forms were being moved from the rows of wounded to the rows of the dead. The other men from the contraband camp seemed to be relegated to moving the dead, the wounded whites disliking to be touched by their black hands. The white chaplains didn’t seem to mind, but some of the wounded Rebels did and put up a fuss enough that those who had volunteered their arms and legs to help them just left them alone. The dead didn’t fuss at all.

  “You come in today?” a man the others were calling Ben asked.

  Seth nodded as he and Ben lifted the body of a dead Rebel and carried him to the dead line. They laid him down gently, a boy much younger than either of them whose chest was torn open by shrapnel. He’d lasted only a little while once he was brought in and expired amidst a crowd of his fellows. No bandage had been offered him, as all knew it would be wasted. Seth remembered the boy when he’d arrived at the scene—he had suffered from want of water and made whimpering noises for a time. He’d died long before Seth and Ben moved his body out of the row.

  Seth stood a moment, hands on his hips, and surveyed the line they were building of the deceased. “I’se looks for Chap’lin Alxander,” Seth said at length.

  “That be him over dere.” Ben nodded in the direction of the chaplain.

  “I’se suppose to ask permission to stay in de camp; matron tole me so.”

  Ben grinned. “Ole Auntie herself done approve you? Lawd, even Chap’in Alex no go agin’ what Auntie done approve.”

  “You come from aroun’ here?” Seth asked.

  “‘Bama, come from ‘Bama when de Yankees done take dis town. Heared it were safe to get away an’ close. Yanks left ‘Bama some time ago an’ left me an’ my own alone. We travel here moons ago.”

  “I’se from around Huntsville. Escape befo’ de war but gots taken by a Rebel an’ escapes agin jus’ yest’aday.”

  “You in good company. Mos’ de niggers in de camp from ‘Bama, an’ made they way here after Yankees left dem hepless. Den de Rebels come, an’ we all think we done for, but Lawd knowd what his chillin done suffer enough an’ saves dem, Lawd yes.”

  Ben and Seth watched the other men at work. Some were even now starting to dig a pit to bury the Rebel dead in.

  “You fink Chap’lin Alex lets me stay?” Seth asked.

  “Chap’in Alex a good man, fer a white man. He has plans, Lawd yes, has plans fer us what not mean havin’ to cook or clean for de white soldiers or drive a wagon. Many of us already doin’ dat, but dat not the life for mos’. We wants to work for ourse’ves. He gots a plan,” Ben stated with pride, a look of satisfaction and honesty in his eyes. “Dese white soldiers don’t got much use fer a nigger ‘less he be cookin’ his food or drivin’ his wagon. Once de army move on, he leaves de nigger there wif nuthin’ but the clothes on his back. Or you follow de army about an’ hope dat dey let you into de camp, but Rebels ever’where, an’ none too kindly to no free niggers.” Ben looked sadly at the corpses around them.

  “I’se know’d dat; we fell in wif some Rebel guerrillas who liked to have cut my feet off if Massah Will let dem. He an’ Massah Stephen wouldn’t let dem hurt me, but I’se sure glad when we separated from dem,” Seth replied.

  “No man you massah now,” Ben corrected.

  “I’se knowed; I’se been free for over a year an’ still finds dat I calls dem massah. Been my own massah an’ had it rough, but was glad for de rough an’ be free.”

  “Den you be free longer dan mos’ here in de camp. Mos’ come in an’ be free only a few moons an’ don’ know what to make of they’s se’ves. But let’s get back to layin’ dese Rebel corpses to dey’s final rest.” Ben gingerly stepped over the corpse of the boy they’d carried, leading the way back to work.

  It was near sunup when the gang of contrabands trudged back into the camp. The work had carried on without letup, and all were weary and hungry. No one had complained while the work went on, even at the point when once the dead were gathered, the burying began, nor when the white soldiers who were initially tasked with taking care of the dead were called away and left it all to the blacks to handle.

  Seth was bleary-eyed when they came up to the camp, but as the others dispersed each to his own tent, he was left standing alone. The cook fires were long dead and the camp quiet. The two white soldiers guarding the road were looking listless and bored, and no one else was around to see to his deportment. The tent where he’d encountered Auntie and Emma was nearest the road, and its fire pit was a blanket of white ash. Not knowing what else to do, Seth made himself comfortable near the fire pit. Someone would soon emerge from the tent and start stoking it, and he’d be there to find out who. He’d not yet spoken with the chaplain. Ben had regaled him with his tale of making it out of Alabama and the journey along the railroad to Corinth. Bandits and guerrillas had threatened to overtake them several times, but pockets of Yankee habitation along the way offered some protection. Iuka changed hands too often for them to find a place to rest, so they pressed on to Corinth. Every house along the way contained leery and angry-looking whites who had already lost their own slaves to the Yankee invaders and were none too accommodating of other runaways.

  “Wall, here be a sight; you sleepin’ outside mah tent all de night?” a voice rudely intruded on Seth’s sleep.

  Seth opened his eyes to take in the matron, Auntie, standing with her hands on her hips and looking down on him with a stern expression.

  “No, Missus; I’se jus’ come back wif de udder mens from buryin’ de Rebels jus’ an hour ago,” Seth said and yawned widely. He stood as quickly as his tired limbs would allow and nodded at the woman.

  “Wall, you kin he’p den with de morning cookin’ if you is goin’ to take up de space about the fire pit. De men’ll be wantin’ dey vittles when dey wakes, an’ since you ain’t got a tent, you get to heps Auntie.”

  Dutifully obeying, Seth gathered fresh kindling for the fire and stoked it while the coffeepot was readied with grounds and hung over it by an iron spit. A large cauldron of iron was also placed close enough to the fire to toss meat and vegetables into it, and Auntie busied herself with the slicing of the stew that would be supper for a large portion of the camp residents. She was a stern-faced black with a command of all who entered her sphere, with a no-nonsense approach to anyone, male or female, she happened to stare down.

  “You take de coffee to dem sojurs what standin’ guard,” Auntie commanded more than suggested.

  “To dem?” Seth asked, surprised.

  “What I tell you? Take de coffee to dem sojurs. Dey’s been standin’ guard over you worthless hide all night,” Auntie scolded and thrust the two tin coffee mugs toward him. The sun was just beginning to peek above the tree line, and the morning was chilly.

  Seth dutifully walked to the road and offered the hot mugs to each man, who gladly sipped. The camp guards were assigned to the roadway in two-hour intervals day and night.

  The two soldiers just sipped and relaxed a little while Seth stood nearby, unsure if he should let the tin cups out of his sight. The two men were not much older than he, though he could rarely tell age with white men, the beards and facial hair concealing the presence or lack of wrinkles and weathered-looking skin. These men were weathered and sported untrimmed beards. They seemed innocent-looking enough, but neither offered anything but a thanks and a nod in his direction.

  “You like bein’ a soldier?” Seth finally asked one as he waited for the man to finish his cup.

  “Uh? Did you like bein’ a slave?” was the curt reply.

  Taken aback, Seth just stared.

  “I volunteered to save the Union, fight these Rebels. Do I like standin’ here or anywhere or cold nights or hot days out in the open? Would you like it? It’s a duty.”

  Seth nodded, chastised a little for his im
pertinent question. It was a curiosity for him—why anyone would do this if someone wasn’t making him. “Jus’ curious is all, Massah. Why you volunteer to do dis?”

  “Ain’t your massah. Now leave me be, but thank Auntie kindly for the cup,” the man said and handed Seth his empty cup. The other man had also just gulped the last mouthful from his cup and tossed it toward Seth.

  “What you doin’ mouthin’ at dem sojurs for? Now take that fool mouth o’ yourn an’ call up Emma; she gots chores to do an’ breakfast to cook.” Auntie motioned to the tent behind her where Emma apparently slept.

  Seth obeyed hurriedly. If there was one person in the camp you didn’t want to cross, it appeared to be Auntie. Poking his head tentatively through the tent flap, he saw several bodies bundled up in blankets spread about the floor. Any one of them could have been Emma.

  “Emma, Auntie wants you,” Seth said quietly. No one stirred. “Emma,” he repeated a little louder.

  “Emma! Git yo’sef up, you gots chores to do! All of you gets up!” Auntie shouted into the tent, causing even Seth to jump as she thrust him aside and bellowed through the tent flap.

  Four bodies turned and writhed under the blankets and yawned and complained, all without uttering a single intelligible word—just the whining and yawning and moaning that attended any wake-up call of the unwilling.

  Seth hadn’t slept for very long in two days. It was like he wasn’t even here; he was just watching things happen in a cloud of fog. Emma stepped out of the tent and looked at him with a smile, and he absently nodded in return.

  “You back?” she said and then hurried to the cauldron under the glare of Auntie. As the other girls emerged from the tent, the same girls who were with Auntie when Seth first arrived the day before, they all went on to doing what they were expected to do, leaving Seth standing there like a statue.

  “Seth, right?” Emma asked as she approached him with a cup brimming with coffee. “You take dis; clear yore head right up.”

  The women of the camp were up, seeing to washing and other chores, followed by the men who emerged from tents like sleepwalkers. His new friend, Ben, came to join him around the matron’s fire.