And they had been branded cowards.
That irked everyone in the regiment. Matt Bryson and scores more had died. Little Sam Houston, Gibb Gideon, and many more were prisoners. Colonel Smith, Ryan, and just about anyone who had taken part in that battle now wore scars from those two days. They had given their all, and the only reason they had broken and run on that second awful day at Shiloh was because of stupid orders, coupled with a murderous spray of grapeshot, Minié balls, and canister. The Yanks had fresh troops. The Confederates had none, and Albert Sidney Johnston had been killed on the afternoon of the first day. Newspaper reports, however, labeled the Second a blight on the late General Johnston’s glorious record. Newspaper reporters, Ryan thought with contempt, wrote from second- and third-hand reports from the comfort of their Houston offices seven hundred miles from the bloody banks of the Tennessee River. Colonel Rogers swore he would prove the Second Texas’ bravery to the world.
The first step would be to execute a coward and a deserter.
It made Ryan sick, but he followed Sergeant Rutherford and the rest of the regiment to the open field, forming a square, the head open where a grave had already been dug and a post set in the ground. What was left of Company C faced Company A. For an eternity, they waited until a fife began playing a dirge, and a drum tapped out a solemn rhythm. Four men from Company D carried the coffin, the condemned prisoner, sobbing, marching behind it. Bringing up the rear came the chaplain, fifer and drummer, and then twelve men, their shouldered muskets capped and loaded.
When they reached the grave, the coffin was placed on the ground, and the prisoner sat on top of it. The preacher prayed, the lieutenant got the firing squad ready, while Colonel Rogers and the Second waited.
For thirty minutes.
“This isn’t right, Sergeant,” Ryan heard himself whispering bitterly, and, to his surprise, the sergeant answered: “No, it’s not, McCalla.”
Ryan pressed his luck. “He’s not a coward.”
“But he is a deserter.”
He started to say more, but Ryan stopped. There was nothing he could do to save Harry Cravey, who had joined the Second—no, it wasn’t even the Second when he had enlisted—with the understanding that he would stay in Texas, defend the Lone Star State against Yankee invaders. Baby Cravey had never dreamed he would be shipped off to Mississippi and ordered to fight in Tennessee.
Two weeks ago—five months after the Shiloh disaster—some of Bedford Forrest’s scouts had found Cravey, half starved, sobbing, and wearing rags, hiding in a hayloft at a farm this side of Vicksburg.
At last, on Colonel Rogers’ orders, Harry Cravey was told to stand, but his legs wouldn’t work, so the chaplain, provost marshal, and fifer and drummer had to help him. His arms were bound behind the post. The provost marshal said something, the chaplain prayed again, and Colonel Rogers placed a blindfold over Cravey’s eyes.
Cravey wailed.
“Ready.”
Ryan closed his eyes.
“Aim.”
He mouthed a prayer.
“Fire!”
Ryan’s body jerked at the crash of the muskets, and, eyes squeezed shut, he heard Baby Cravey cry out: “Oh, oh, Lord, oh!”
When he looked up, he saw Cravey, head dropped, held upright by the ropes and the post, his white shirt stained crimson. Colonel Rogers had each company march past the dead boy on their way back to camp.
It was there that Ryan saw Gibb Gideon.
Dressed like some tatterdemalion, Gideon slapped a weathered, miserable rag for a hat against his thigh, and raced ahead. Sergeant Rutherford hugged him, then Ryan got to embrace the foul-smelling Texian, and the rest of Company C whooped and hollered and slapped the filthy Gideon on his back.
“You old coot!” Rutherford said. “I thought you were captured.”
Corporal McGilloway tossed Gideon a brown clay jug.
“I was!” Gideon pulled the hat back on his head, and took a slug from the jug. “We got exchanged.” He coughed as the liquor exploded, shook his head, grinned, and took another pull. “Took me forever to find you boys.” He coughed again.
“Is Little Sam with you?” Ryan asked.
“No. Was he caught, too?”
Ryan nodded. “And wounded. They sent him to some place called Camp Douglas near Chicago. I guess Sam’s back home with his folks in Huntsville now.”
“I was in Alton, Illinois.” Gideon stoppered the jug, and handed it back to Corporal McGilloway. “Least, that’s what the Yanks told me. Never want to go back there again. They exchanged me and five other fellows in July, but I had the dickens of a time finding you boys.”
“We’re glad you did,” Sergeant Rutherford said.
“Looks like I missed a good show.” Gibb Gideon abruptly ended the joyous reunion. “What?” Gibb took a step back. “What did I say?”
Ryan knew he couldn’t answer, and Rutherford struggled with the words. “It …” he began, but then Lieutenant Woodall was spitting out orders, and Ryan started reaching for his knapsack and musket.
“Thunderation,” Gideon said, “I just got here.”
Rutherford no longer showed any familiarity. He started growling at the remnants of Company C.
“You heard the lieutenant. Come on, you miserable petticoats. We’re moving out.”
Chapter
Twenty-Five
September 24, 1862
Corinth, Mississippi
Memphis had surrendered. The Confederates had abandoned Fort Pillow. Southern armies had retaken Baton Rouge, and whipped the Yankees at Manassas, Virginia, for a second time, but reports were trickling in of a slaughter of troops at some town in Maryland. No one seemed to know yet whether the Confederates or bluecoats had won the battle, and Grace Dehner really didn’t care. Closer to home, less than a week ago, Grant’s Army had driven back a Confederate attack at Iuka, a small railroad town on the Memphis & Chattanooga line just a few miles north.
Grace wondered if Ryan McCalla had taken part in the fight at Iuka. Wondered if he were still alive.
Standing on Waldron Street, she stared at what remained of the church she had called home since June. Yankees had dismantled the brick walls to build ovens for baking bread. All that remained of the church was a shell, and those wooden frames were slowly being torn down for firewood.
Yankees—at least those not sick from heat and disease—ate well. Grace was living off seed-tick coffee and dandyfunk, a stew of salt pork, molasses, and hardtack. She had to barter with the bluebelly webfeet, those infantry troopers like that Missourian named Caleb Cole, for the hardtack and salt pork. Well, she never had to barter with Caleb. He wouldn’t take anything. Not that she had much to offer.
The battle at Iuka had sparked the Yankees to stop lying around, sweating in the heat. Realizing the Rebels still had fight left in them, they had begun to erect fortifications, building earthen breastworks and redoubts. Slaves worked alongside the bluecoats, but even the former slaves, who had set up a contraband camp on the woods at the edge of town, had grown weary of the Yankee presence.
Tightly gripping the black satchel that held Ryan McCalla’s precious violin, she turned away from the church and wandered down Waldron Street.
Most of the Southern wounded had either recovered and been sent to Northern prison camps or had died, but that would likely change. Dr. Landon had gone to Iuka with two other surgeons to care for Rebels and Yankees wounded there. She didn’t know when he would return, even if he would return. Why would anybody return to this squalid place?
Corinth stank. The temperatures no longer topped one hundred degrees in the afternoon, but ninety degrees proved miserable enough, and the air remained thick with dirt and dust. She couldn’t remember the last time it had rained. Creeks had turned into sand, and so had a number of wells. Mosquitoes, however, still thrived … somehow. So did horseflies. One buzzed her
neck as she made her way to the Corona Female College.
That had changed, too.
With most of the Southern wounded gone, Yankees had turned it into their hospital, treating the myriad felled by dysentery, diarrhea, and various swamp fevers.
From the campus, she could see one of the Union fortifications atop the hill to the south. The Yankees called it Battery Tanrath. It was three hundred yards west of Battery Lathrop. North of the college stood Battery Phillips, and beyond that the Yanks and slaves were constructing Battery Williams on a knoll south of the Memphis and Charleston rails. Across those rails, maybe seven hundred yards west of town, towered Battery Robinett. The Yanks were moving in twenty-pound Parrott guns, siege cannon, or so she had heard in passing. She knew the names, but not who Tanrath, Lathrop, Phillips, Williams, and Robinett were. Dead soldiers, she figured. Heroes to the Northern cause.
She stopped, the notes of a banjo coming to her, hearing a Yankee version of a Southern song.
I’ll put my knapsack on my back,
My rifle on my shoulder.
I’m going to Pittsburg Landing,
And there I’ll be a soldier.
“Miss Grace!”
She turned, smiling as Caleb Cole ran toward her, hat in hand. He stopped, out of breath, and nodded.
“Mister Cole,” she said.
“I’ve been … looking for you.”
“You found me.”
After he put on his hat, he reached inside his blouse and pulled out several items. “We’re pulling out, ma’am. I was hoping you might … keep these … for me.”
She set the satchel at her feet, and awkwardly accepted his offerings. “Where are you …?”
“Oh, like as not we’ll just be repairing train tracks the Rebs keep tearing up. It’s not like they’ll ever let the Eighteenth Missouri fight any more. General Roscrans seems to have forgotten all about us. But, well, after Iuka …” He swallowed. “I’d just be obliged if you’d keep these for me.”
She saw a letter addressed to a Miss Maryanne Corneilison, another addressed to Mrs. Ethel Cole. She fought back a tear, remembering walking around the depot back in April with a wicker basket, accepting letters from Rebel soldiers about to march north to the Tennessee River. She saw a Bible underneath the letters.
“Caleb,” she began.
“It’s not a family Bible,” he said. “A sky pilot gave it to me in Saint Louis. Mama wanted me to take our Bible with me, but I told her I couldn’t do that, that I’d get one. But … well … it’s just this feeling I got.”
“You want me to mail these letters.”
His face froze. His Adam’s apple bobbed. She knew before he tried to explain. “Not right yet, ma’am. Only …” He smiled.
“I understand.” The words took all the effort she could muster.
Almost devoutly she opened the satchel, and put Bible and letters beside the Miremont’s case. There was another item, and she held it up, shooting Caleb a quizzical stare.
“Oh, that.” Grinning, he reached down and took it from her. “That was a gift. I reckon I’d best keep it.”
“I didn’t know you chewed tobacco, Caleb Cole.”
He stuffed the plug back inside his coat pocket. “I’ll be back, Miss Grace. God’s will be done, I’ll …”
She came to her feet and kissed him before he could finish. The fool Yankee would never know how much he and Ryan McCalla were alike. He staggered back, and before he could return her kiss, she had turned, grabbed the satchel, and hurried back toward town.
Chapter
Twenty-Six
October 3, 1862
Corinth, Mississippi
For days, since settling into rifle pits they had dug two miles north of Corinth, they had been expecting a fight. Scouts and couriers galloped through the thickly wooded hills. Trains had all but stopped running. Officers kept reminding the soldiers to “Keep a sharp look-out,” or “Fortify your position.” All that night, Caleb Cole had clutched his rifle, listening to his heartbeat, his stomach growl. It had been so quiet he could have sworn he could have heard his own sweat dripping off his chin.
The silence was awful.
It ended at dawn.
Cannon blasted in rapid succession, shattering the stillness. Caleb shot to his feet, pulling back the hammer of his rifle, hearing Seb Woolard do the same.
They waited for orders, which never came.
Rebels pored through the woods, engaging Federal troops. Cheers ran up and down the rifle pits, but no shots were fired. The boys in blue stopped the gray assault, but not for long. Too many more Rebs came forward, piercing the woods with that terrifying scream. Union soldiers blew up the bridge over Cane Creek, yet even that couldn’t stop the Rebs.
“Sergeant Master—” Seb Woolard stopped. “Oh …” His voice trailed off as he remembered Sergeant Masterson had died months ago at Pittsburg Landing. “Caleb, what do we do?”
Caleb could answer only with a sigh.
Finally Jake Ault began barking orders. “Come on, Missouri lads. We’re pulling back.”
It wasn’t the order the Eighteenth expected.
“Dang, Capt’n!” someone cried. “Them Secesh will just shoot us in the back!”
Seb was already moving, and Caleb followed, half expecting a bullet to pierce his heart. He could hear lead balls slamming into trees, could make out a few prayers. They reached Corinth, stopping only to let teams of mules pulling cannon and caisson pass, then let a platoon of cheering Wisconsin recruits hurry to try to thwart the Confederate tide.
Pass Battery Robinett, finally pausing briefly at the Memphis & Charleston rails. Officers yelled at other officers. Enlisted men stood, sweating, shaking. Caleb stared across the street. A house was burning, and no one tried to put it out. A shell burst in the woods a quarter mile from the depot. He found himself looking for a tall girl in the streets only to see soldiers in blue running pell-mell in various directions.
“Heaven help us.”
The voice caused Caleb to turn. Seb Woolard caught his breath, and Caleb took a step back to let litter bearers rush the wounded through, their screams piercing his already pricked nerves.
“Eighteenth Missouri!” came the command. “Follow me, boys.”
Double-quick time, they hurried. A shell exploded, flinging Caleb to the ground, peppering him with dirt and twigs. For a moment his ears rang, and he sat up, shaking his head, spitting out sand. A moment later, he heard the wails of his fellow Missourians. He smelled blood, manure, death.
A hand pulled him to his feet. “Come on, Caleb!” Seb Woolard said, and Caleb, legs still wobbly, somehow managed to follow Woolard through the smoke up a ridge, finally dropping into rifle pits.
“What do we do?” Seb yelled at a passing sergeant, who did not stop to answer.
“You keep your head down,” came a weary reply from a dirty Wisconsin private. “If you want to live.”
* * * * *
Hugging the earthen walls, listening to Minié balls pass overhead, they waited. Behind them, Union artillery answered Confederate charges, shaking the ground, loosening the dirt above Caleb’s head.
An hour passed. Then two. Caleb moved only his legs to keep them from going to sleep. Two Missourians had gotten overly curious, and dared to peek over the rifle pits. Uncle Bill Smith had caught a bullet in his mouth. Harley Greene had been shot through his left eye. Their bodies remained where they had fallen.
At 3:00 p.m. new orders came, and Caleb pushed himself to his feet, keeping his head down below the dirt fortification. “We’re moving back,” came a whispered command.
Someone answered the order with a barrage of profanity. “Is that all we get to do? Run away?”
Caleb understood that feeling. Lowering the hammer on his rifle, he realized he had not fired one shot all day.
“Let’s go, Mis
souri!” came a cry, and they climbed out of the pits, started running toward Battery Robinett.
He couldn’t see the sun. Wasn’t sure if it was sinking behind the forests or just obscured by smoke. Lead sang over his head. Then he heard those sounds.
Thud. Thud.
Thud.
A corporal next to him pitched into the dirt. Seb Woolard swore. He leaped over a dead body. Another.
Thud.
Thud.
Grapeshot tore through the ranks. The Rebs had gotten that close. Men screamed. Caleb spotted flashes from the siege guns inside Battery Robinett, felt the ground trembling like an earthquake.
Thud.
“Caleb!”
He stopped, turned, let a bloody Missourian stumble on, then ran to Seb Woolard. As Caleb dropped his rifle, a Rebel ball tore off his hat. He reached forward, rolled Seb Woolard on his back.
“Oh, Lordy, just look at me.” Seb bent his head, shook it, lay down, and spit out a mist of pink froth. “My shirt’s ruint, Caleb. Oh, Lordy, if I could just have a clean shirt. I’d feel a mite better if only I had on a clean shirt.”
Seb Woolard, farmer, thief, and coward, had likely never owned a clean shirt.
A bullet plowed through the dirt that separated Caleb and Seb. He slung off his knapsack. Rummaging, dropping socks into the dirt, tin plate and cup, razor (which he had never used), he finally located the muslin shirt rolled into a ball. He moved closer to Seb.
“Here you go,” he started, but Seb Woolard couldn’t hear him.
Anguish roared out of his mouth. Groping, he found his rifle, turned, cocking it as he brought the stock to his shoulder. He felt the kick, smelled the smoke. Dropped the rifle, picked up Seb’s, and left him in the dirt, a muslin shirt atop his cold face like a shroud.
Nightmarish memories flashed before him. Hiding in that pigpen, swearing how he would never hide again. Faces of Sergeant Masterson, Boone Masterson, Captain Clark, Uncle Bill Smith, Folker, the Ehrenreich twins, Seb Woolard, all those others dead, wounded, captured. Seb Woolard’s rifle boomed. Caleb stopped, reloaded, backing up, trying to remember all those commands and drills. He might die today, figured he would, but he sure wouldn’t catch a bullet through his shoulder blades running from a bunch of Secesh.
And There I’ll Be a Soldier Page 20