There was little to do but attempt to console the grieving mother. Beatrice was aloof and troubled but said little to Philip, and he was glad to exit the room when it seemed he’d said all that could be said. Elizabeth was still seated on the porch as he stepped through the door.
“There is not much that can be said that really matters,” Philip said gloomily as he sat.
“Mother probably appreciated the gesture,” Elizabeth replied.
“I confess it was just platitudes, things I’ve heard Father say over and over to relatives who’ve lost someone. They all seem so meaningless to say.”
“She wanted someone to say them.” Elizabeth laid a gentle hand on his arm and gave Philip a half-smile. Her eyes were red and cheeks flushed.
“Well, I tried to say something that would make her feel better, but I don’t think I succeeded. Where’s Lee?”
“He rode off a while ago.” She replied looked in the direction of the road.
“I hope he doesn’t get revenge in his mind. There’s been enough grief for one day.”
“Will you officiate the funeral?” Elizabeth asked after a period of silence had passed.
“Yes, probably. Will you bury him on the farm?”
“Why on the farm? We’ve family buried in the churchyard,” Elizabeth replied with a quizzical look.
He hesitated. “What with the scandal and all, I just supposed … “
“What scandal? Robert was murdered,” she replied quickly, her tone sharpened.
“Mr. Puget shouldn’t have taken things into his own hands, but what husband wouldn’t in that position?” Philip replied and leaned forward. He was torn between loyalty to the family of the woman who might one day be his betrothed and his office.
Elizabeth blanched, and her expression grew dark. “You do not really condone what Ingersoll Puget did?”
“No, I do not. If he is guilty of murder … “
“Of course he is!” Elizabeth straightened and glowered at Philip.
“I cannot pass judgment on what I do not know. I do know Robert was shot and left for dead—that tells me Puget is guilty at least of that. Did he plan it, or did he come upon Robert and his wife … “ Philip stopped short and blushed. It was not the company to be speaking of such things.
“I’ll take you back home,” Elizabeth said and stood, brushing past him and making for the wagon.
Philip followed meekly, baffled at what was going on and what he was going to do about the problem. The ride back home was taken in silence, Philip too preoccupied to make conversation and Elizabeth regarding him darkly on occasion as if to tell him he was in error.
Philip climbed down from the seat slowly. Walking to the other side of the wagon, he put a tentative hand out to touch her arm. “Will you send for me if I can do more? Tell your mother the church is available for the burial and I’ll officiate.”
Elizabeth looked down on him but only nodded and then withdrew her hand. Philip backed away as she put the team in motion and turned the wagon around. He watched it clatter down the road before slowly walking into the house. Charles was there at his desk reading.
“Robert Harper was shot and killed today by Farmer Puget,” Philip announced as he sank heavily into a chair.
“I heard, son. The police took him to the jail this evening and sent for you, but since you were not here, they wanted me instead. He is of our flock.” Charles turned in his chair to regard his son with a kindly expression. His deep-set eyes gave him a sympathetic expression and put people at their ease.
“What did he have to say for himself?”
“He confessed he knew what was going on and planned to trap the boy, but when he got him alone he lost his temper and decided to shoot and kill him instead.”
“We have a problem, sir. The Harpers want to bury him in the churchyard, and I may have told them they could, but I can’t stomach the scandal nor the willful way he carried on in life. I do not think it best that he should be laid to rest with the other pious souls in the yard.” Philip studied his hands and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
“Burial is not for the dead, but the living, son. Only God knows the heart.”
“If I officiate the funeral, am I not condoning the life the boy lived and giving credence to the sin? What do you say about someone who died unrepentant and debauching another man’s wife? How can we say anything about the man that would lead to anything of comfort?”
“A funeral is no place for the truth, son. The family will want to bury their boy and have that be their parting. You leave the gossip and the sin behind, as far as the east is from the west,” Charles said with a grave look.
“How can I lie? I understand what you are saying, sir, but how can I lie?”
“You don’t—you just do not go to the truth. You speak to what he was to the family.”
“And if I recuse myself?” Philip stood and walked to the window. The evening light was fading quickly upon a day he wished he could have avoided.
“You are their minister, son. Avoiding the problem is not going to settle the question of young Robert’s conduct. What of Elizabeth? Do you think preventing her brother from being buried in the church cemetery is going to affect your courtship?”
Philip turned to his father. “Don’t you think I’ve not thought of that? But you’re right. I’ll have to deal with my scruples in another way.”
“You should do what is right for the grieving family. It is for Christ to judge, not us.”
Philip watched the chasing shadows in the front yard and the advent of sunset. It was a simple thing: ignore a youth wasted on debauchery so the family could lay the wretch to rest and pretend he was a saint, greeted with loving arms by St. Peter. Were Elizabeth’s attentions not worth a little lie?
Chapter 5
Corinth, Mississippi, March 30, 1862
Will Hunter strolled to the horse picket to see to his mount. The Confederate army that was daily gathering in Corinth was making a racket the likes of which he’d never heard before. The 1st Alabama, the regiment of horse the state had organized from all of the independent troops it had collected since the days after Sumter fell, had been called into Confederate service with something of officialdom. Aside from drill and occasional parades, the war as experienced by the Montgomery Rifles thus far had been dull. Now in full service and active campaigning, the regiment was conducting screening or reconnaissance operations and always in the saddle. So much so that Will’s mount had already given out, leaving him scraping together his meager funds to buy another horse. The best he could find on short notice was hardly a choice animal, but it was find something to ride or join the ranks of the dismounted who trailed behind the regiment on foot. Other officers had two mounts if they could keep up with the feed and expenses required to keep on a spare, but Will was not capable of purchasing more than one.
The days of internal troop politics were over. Kearns was now captain of Troop A and Clanton colonel of the regiment. When word reached him that Governor Barry Moore was going to raise a cavalry regiment, Will had petitioned Moore for a captain’s commission but was ignored. The political favors went to those families one could count on for money or patronage. Kearns was given the commission instead, but by this time, Will had enough reputation in the Rifles to be elected lieutenant. Fortunately, his commission this time was confirmed by the governor’s office, whereas his election by his comrades had meant little to official Alabama. Gone were the sharp blue blouses of their militia days, privately purchased; they were replaced by nappy grey shell jackets bearing the seal of the State of Alabama on the twelve-button front. Gone too were the beds and beer. Rusty water from canteens and barely edible food had taken their place, even on an officer’s pay. A steady stream of supply trains rumbled along the Corinth road and into vast parks of canvas.
Since arriving in Corinth, the regiment was constantly on horseback, sent off in small detachments for picket duty or reconnaissance. Today was to be no different.
“Lieutenant, relay to Captain Kearns: saddle up A Troop and prepare to move and break camp,” Major Allen called out.
William Allen, the one man Will trusted in the regiment to at least speak straight, was at last in a position of influence and power to check the gross abuse of the same by those like Kearns whose rank was owed to family.
“Major Allen, yes, sir. How many days rations will be drawn?” Will asked as he saluted. Allen’s name was good for a lieutenant colonelcy if he wanted it.
“Two days, Lieutenant. Tell Captain Kearns to report to me at my tent for his orders, and get your men ready to march.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kearns, Will thought and grimaced. The pompous baboon.
Will found Kearns washing his face after a shave. Bending over a hand mirror, the captain was grooming his mustache and admiring his profile.
“Sir, Major Allen wants to you report to him; says A Troop is to draw two days’ rations and be prepared to march,” Will reported without waiting to be recognized by his commander.
“He say where?” Kearns didn’t look up from the mirror but continued grooming.
“Yes, sir, his tent,” Will said derisively.
Kearns looked up from his mirror and glared at Will. “He say where we’re going, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir, just to report for your orders and get the troop ready.”
“Dismissed.” Kearns waved him off. “I trust you will see to the troop while I get our orders.”
“Sir.” Will turned on his heels. The men of A Troop were already seeing to their horses after their boiled-rye coffee substitute, a substance that was barely palatable. His friend Mitchell, also a lieutenant, was just finishing up his toilet when Will bounded up.
“We’re to break camp and march. Don’t know where, but Kearns is off getting our orders now.”
“Oh, another frolic in the woods? More Yankees to spy out?”
“Something. Here comes Kearns.”
“Hunter, Mitchell, we’re to ride ahead of an infantry battalion on a reconnaissance in force. Look here.” Kearns unrolled a crude map and laid it on the ground. “We’re to accompany Gibson’s brigade and march north, crossing Lick Creek here. We’ll split into squadrons and reconnoiter as far as we dare toward Pittsburg Landing without drawing the Yankees’ attention and then march by the Ridge Road and around the head of Lick Creek, joining with the rest of the regiment here, at Monterrey. Command wants to ascertain how close the enemy’s camps at Pittsburg Landing are to this little crossroads here.”
Kearns laid a stubby finger on a little dot called Michie’s. “We know the enemy has his camps here along the Corinth road. We’re going to attack the enemy in his camps and soon.”
“Attack?” Will exclaimed.
“That’s what I said, Lieutenant.”
“That ass,” Mitchell growled as Kearns walked away. “He only knows what Major Allen bothers to tell ‘im. Acting like he knows what Johnston’s grand strategy is as if he was the one plannin’ the campaign!”
“A lord needs to lord,” Will grumped.
The men of A Troop were in the saddle and marching down the Corinth road while the rest of the 1st Alabama were still in preparation for their own march to follow. The cavalry arm had been marching to and fro for weeks, occupying positions around a town for a day or two before returning to Corinth or moving to another location. They brushed now and again with Union cavalry, but never anything to get the blood up—no dashes into the enemy with sabers flashing. Just a dismounted firing line to ward off the enemy or a quick ride through an enemy picket. Mere moments of excitement to punctuate days of tiresome riding or lonesome picket duty. The war so far had been a colossal bore.
The rainy season was in earnest in early spring, and the roadways were muddy. The troop marched two by two down the Corinth road, observing little in the way of concern; not a single Yank had been spotted this far south in their whole time in Corinth, Mississippi, where Albert Sidney Johnston and P.G.T. Beauregard were gathering their forces for what everyone hoped would be a campaign to take back middle Tennessee. They knew where the enemy was concentrated, but they did not know if he was beginning to move south toward Corinth. The Confederate cavalry was not operating as a cohesive whole, at least that the 1st Alabama could observe. There had been larger raids by brigades under Joseph Wheeler and Nathan Forrest, but the 1st had missed them all. This was just another screening operation to hide the infantry from prying enemy eyes. They had little reason to expect to run into any Yankee until they arrived at the head of Lick Creek, ten miles away.
They would keep a slow marching pace, something that taxed their patience for action and overworked their mounts, and the infantry behind them would keep an even slower one. Kearn’s orders for the troop were to divide into small detachments and fan out, some going as far as Michie’s and others linking up with Wheeler’s brigade at Monterey. Like most of the young men in the cavalry regiments, the troopers burned for something other than scouting parties. This was, perhaps, the opening to something big.
Passing down quiet country lanes, the troop bounced lightly in their stirrups, an air of excitement clear on every face. Will’s place in the line of march was mid-column, with the seventh, eighth, and ninth squadrons under his command. Mitchell commanded the first, second, and third squadrons, and Lieutenant Peters commanded the fourth, fifth, and sixth. Kearns had the command element of the troop.
“Peters!” Will called out.
Lieutenant Peters trotted up to Will.
“We headin’ down Lick Creek to Michie’s now; see ya back in Monterrey,” Will said.
“What ya orders?”
“Ride to Michie’s, look fer enemy activity; report back,” Will said with a wink.
“Now don’t go an’ stir up a hornets’ nest,” Peters said. “Kearns say nothin’ about observe or engage?”
“Observe; don’t engage a superior force.” Will smiled. “You know they ain’t no such thing as a superior Yankee force.”
Peters shook his head. “You know the captain ain’t going to order you to engage a force this close to the enemy camps.”
“If they ain’t a superior force there, I’m going to follow my orders and occupy Michie’s an’ observe the road for enemy movement. Can’t earn the bars by not bein’ bold.”
“Gettin’ captain an’ gettin’ half your troop killed or in the stockade are mutually exclusive things,” Peters reminded him.
Will nodded and with a smile tipped his hat before moving to catch up with his column.
Cut loose from the rest of the troop, Will’s squadrons pushed off on their own as they entered and exited the village of Monterey. Lick Creek flowed eastward and emptied into the Tennessee River close to what was noted as Pittsburg Landing, a natural low spot on the western riverbank where a man named Pitt had established a house and a place for riverboats to unload their cargo for wagon transport into the interior farms and villages. The enemy was definitely at and around the landing. A month earlier, a force of infantry and cavalry had repulsed an attempt by river transports to land Union troops at the very spot.
Will’s squadrons followed the flow of the creek cautiously through the thickets. Following it for three miles without seeing any sign of enemy movement or presence, Will turned north to cross the creek and head toward Michie’s Tavern and Crossroads.
“Sergeant, keep well closed up with the tail of the column. Don’t want anyone lost,” Will said softly. “Once we strike the Corinth road, direct the men to follow it to the tavern an’ halt an’ wait fer orders. Private, ride south down the road an’ make contact with Captain Kearns. Report we crossed Lick Creek and approaching Michie’s Tavern. Go.”
Turning his horse quickly, the sweat-soaked private trotted out of sight, but Will’s attention was drawn to the sound of galloping hooves approaching him.
“Lieutenant, Federal cavalry sighted at Michie’s, at least a squadron!” the man yelled as he reined to a halt.
“They look like a patrol, and they don’t seem to have seen us yet,” Sergeant Wilks noted.
“Them don’t look like a picket. If we show ourselves, they’ll report it unless we bag the whole lot,” Will said to no one in particular.
“They don’t look like too many; I think we got them numbered. Don’t seem like much to go in an’ gather the whole lot,” the sergeant said.
Will panned back and forth. The Federals were dismounted and lazing about the few buildings that made up the crossroads. He didn’t need convincing.
“Sergeant, take your squad an’ double back an’ strike the Corinth road from the south,we’ll move along the road an’ make them think we’ve got them surrounded. We take the whole lot, we’ll clear Michie’s and keep them none the wiser. I want you to charge ‘em an’ make as much noise as you can; we’ll charge hard once we hear you go.”
With sabers drawn, the rest of his men waited impatiently for the word. Will chewed his mustache nervously; if there were more cavalry that they didn’t see, this would turn out to be their own unpleasant surprise. Soon, a wild yell and carbine firing rang out, signaling Sergeant Wilks’s charge, and the Federal troopers sprang to their horses to meet the sudden onslaught. Yelling at the tops of their lungs, Will’s detachment charged recklessly down the road, causing a panic in the Federal ranks. Caught between a vice, the Federals surrendered as they found their line of retreat cut off.
Elated, Will’s troopers disarmed their captives and appropriated whatever equipment they lacked from the saddles, revolvers, carbines, and mounts that took their fancy. Feeling confident of their haul and their occupation of Michie’s in accordance with orders, Will dispatched another courier and two men to prod their dozen prisoners along the Corinth road. His orders did not state how long to reconnoiter around Michie’s, but the absence of the Federal cavalry would soon be discovered.
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 36
