“Do they really shoot deserters?”
Philip blanched. Grabbing Paul by the arm, he moved him away from the group. “Yes, if they are caught. They also punish men with lashes, quartering, standing on a suspended beam all day long, walking around with a board lettered with your infraction, sitting in a guard tent, or worse, being sent to Camp Leavenworth or someplace doing hard labor. You don’t want to go absent.”
Paul nodded.
Philip looked at the other fresh fish and then back at Paul. “Any of the others talking about deserting?” Philip asked, concern raising the pitch of his voice.
“Yeah, the boy an’ that big fella.”
“And you?”
Paul lowered his head. “Yeah, an’ me.” He turned away and looked out over the water.
“You mad? They will catch you! Them others leave, they will be caught and punished. See that you are there every morning for roll. You want to die, do it on the line and not in front of one!” Philip slapped the railing.
“Was a mistake to sign papers for Sally Henson’s hand, nor for her father’s approval.” Paul sighed.
“Damn right it was a mistake, but it’s not a mistake you can fix! If those men skedaddle, you make sure you aren’t taken along with them.”
Paul nodded slowly, then wandered back to his group.
Philip felt like walking away himself, wishing the conversation hadn’t happened. There was no father to intervene in this predicament and no move of his that was going to relieve these men of their trepidation at what lay before them. Further, it was more than just the routine and discipline that lay ahead, but a long and hard march on feet that were not used to carrying a load or spending all day on the move. Philip’s own feet were now soft and his heels beyond the days of daily marching and toil under a burning sun. The reality was upon them all.
Philip took a seat upon a stack of wooden crates and boxes and pulled out the letter he’d been working on, absently scanning the lines he’d already penned. They were of the journey so far and of his thoughts about his new ministry.
Picking up at the end of his last line, he added,
The fresh fish are an odd lot, it is weird to see them fumbling about as if they had never before stood in line or handled a musket, but I suppose many may not have. I find out only after being assigned to the 21st Ohio that they have had troubles in Alabama and of all things a mutiny! Paul is also finding life to be hard and I feel for him, but it was his own choice to volunteer and now he’s having second thoughts.
Hours later, how long had he been sitting and working on his letter Philip lost track, the steamer slowed as the sounds of the paddles slapping the river’s surface abated in cadence. Pittsburg Landing was changed. There were still paddle-wheel steamers crowding the natural dock and soldiers teeming like fish around the tents, but the big tent hospital was now gone and the countryside turning rough and overgrown. The large tent city had replaced the neatness of the army camps. Philip followed the company of bedraggled volunteers down the gangplank and up the slope as the other passengers disembarked and looked after their baggage. Captain Wofford motioned to Philip to follow as the corporal marshaled his charges into a single file, the beginnings of their introduction to movements and facing.
Though glad to be back on dry land, the volunteers did not take to the new surroundings with any joy.
Wofford walked to what used to be the Pitt Dry Goods Store, then Grant’s headquarters during the late battle, and was now a telegraph hut. Army clerks were busy passing on handwritten notes tapped out from the dot, dot, dash dot dash dot dot dot that echoed noisily about the barren wood walls. Enlisted men and officers hung about in clusters, smoking and waiting on some missive to be relayed from St. Louis or other points of concern.
Philip felt out of place; the officers strutted with airs and dangling swords while the enlisted men looked askance at the man with no rank carrying a carbine on his shoulder. A crowd was gathering around the new volunteers, enjoying the show of ignorance of left versus right and the frequent explosions of profanity from the put-upon corporal.
“Sent a message off to Nashville about where we are, and how we might expect to get there finally,” Wofford said as he appeared at Philip’s side.
“Capital,” was Philip’s only reply, mesmerized by the manual of arms being executed by the volunteers.
“Clerk’s relayed that Corinth is being threatened by attack by Price and Van Dorn; they may be there now.”
Philip looked about for anyone of major or higher rank who might be slinking about. “Probably was not the right time to come looking for equipment; someone’s going to see this rabble and decide they want another company to go to Corinth.”
Wofford nodded and looked about.
“Captain Wofford; reply from Nashville, sir,” a voice from the hut called out. Wofford returned to the hut and reappeared moments later.
“We’ve been ordered to escort some trains on their way to Corinth,” Wofford said in a huff.
“Don’t they know this company is green?” Philip said, aghast.
“This company is practically a battalion to someone looking for rifles, so no, they need muskets and in a hurry. We’re to draw equipment and force-march to Corinth now!” A serious and worried expression creased Wofford’s brows.
Another regiment, previously arrived, was lounging alongside the Corinth road, their rifle stacks gleaming in the sun; the men sitting, lying, or sleeping not far off in the shade of trees while the regimental officers gathered around their colonel. The men looked tired and worn, veterans of many miles of marching and possibly fighting. They looked like the 36th Indiana, the green regiment that had been brigaded with Philip’s old regiment, after Shiloh—green going into the battle and battle-scarred when they came out. These men did not look like they were itching for a fight and wouldn’t have minded being given a pass.
The corporal finished his instruction and marched the men to the large tent loaded with crates, packages of clothing, boxes of food, and rows upon rows of shoes.
Wofford exited the telegraph hut once more and called out, “Chaplain, we are going to fall in with that train there waiting to move.”
“Is that all? Just escort this train? Seems doable for the fresh fish,” Philip said.
Wofford shook his head and whispered, “Your brother is going to see the elephant sooner than he wants.”
Chapter 3
Coming Full Circle
Major Michael Grierson was tickled, but waiting for the colonel to acknowledge his presence was getting a little old, if not downright tiresome. Evening was setting, and the air was just starting to chill as Michael stood at attention just outside Colonel Rogers’s open tent flap. Michael was still riding the high of having taken command of the left wing days before, and there were only a few things that could wage war against his high spirits. There was a weariness about the camp, the long miles of the last several days showing on uniforms and countenances. But the miles marched and retreat from Iuka hadn’t dimmed the latent anticipation of another march. If all went to plan, and his hopes were high, he would soon be back almost where he had started a year ago: back in Corinth, Mississippi, and this time having beat the Yankees but good.
The only thing that could dampen this mood was his inevitable report to Colonel Rogers and having the man make him wait. Still, he thought, he could do worse. Acting lieutenant colonel had its advantages—he was second in command. It had its disadvantages too; he was now under Rogers’s thumb more than ever.
Michael Grierson was the son of a five-time failure of an Irish immigrant who had refused to give up and finally landed his family in the new state of Texas, planting his roots there. Michael had lived in Arkansas, Mississippi, and Texas as his father followed the prescription for wealth from growing cotton on a small farm in Arkansas to shipping cotton down the Mississippi to growing cotton again in Texas. Michael’s own moderate ambitions were to at least do in the war what his father had not in peace: make a
name for himself. He was finding the rise in rank and responsibility somewhat dampened by his superior. But, like all Griersons, he was not going to stop for one obstacle. He had grumbled when he lost command of his 5th Texas Light Artillery but ended up commanding the whole of Polk’s Battery at Shiloh. A few days ago he had commanded a battalion in a fight. His mother would have said it was providence. His confidant in the battery, First Sergeant Mahoney, would have said it was God’s will. To himself, it was just his persistence.
Ripley, Mississippi, was teeming with the combined armies of Generals Price and Van Dorn, gathered not unlike the armies of Beauregard and Johnston had been that early winter before striking out from Corinth to attack Grant at Pittsburg Landing. That was a long time ago, but not so long that the sting of memory was dulled. That sting was still strong in the loss of friends whose faces were still clear in the mind’s eye.
The Texas boys of the old 5th Texas Battery were now all but dispersed. Michael played second fiddle to Marshall Polk, who had command, but Polk’s wound at Shiloh put Michael back in charge long enough to pull what was left of the battery back into Corinth, where its survivors were added to other commands, and Michael found himself adrift. The remaining Texans and himself were given rifles and added to Colonel William Rogers’s 2nd Texas Infantry. They made barely a company. Glad to be back with their fellows, however, the former 5th Texas Light Artillery settled into their new role as infantry.
He was confident that would change.
His 2nd Texas was ready for a brawl. The enthusiasm was absent now—no hopeful tidings of victory, no quick march to overtake an enemy unaware, no opportunity to drive the enemy into the river. The enemy would be prepared and the fighting severe.
Michael was an older man now, old by war and old by the loss of so much of what he’d taken for granted in those early days of enthused, rapturous joy at chasing adventure. The 2nd Texas was his home now, more by personal appeal to then-Colonel John Moore, an old family friend who was now a brigade commander. Michael liked Moore, but his replacement, Lieutenant Colonel William Rogers, was a different story. Moore had been elevated to brigadier general on the field of Shiloh, and Rogers commanded the regiment on the second day of combat. If Michael had a friend in brigade command, he had an enemy for more than just a rival for command of the regiment. The 2nd Texas broke under fire, leaving Michael’s cannon at the mercy of Buell’s victorious Federals on that second day, and as Michael struggled to pull his artillery back to a hasty line of defense, he lost a piece and several good men. After that, he lost his command in the reorganization.
The Texans were exhausted and the Federals numerous, but that did not mollify Michael’s own sense of pride, and now he was under the very man who should have controlled his regiment instead of allowing them to break in disgrace. Rogers, an attorney and veteran of the Mexican-American War, was not an easy man to get along with—if one ever “got along” with one’s superior officer. Rogers didn’t have a say regarding the transfer of Michael into the regiment, but he refused to give him a company command, noting that his men would not take kindly to any outsider in command. Michael accepted a post to Rogers’s staff, and a rank of captain of infantry was bestowed on him.
Despite not getting his command, Michael was never far away from responsibility and action, acting as adjutant and commanding the left wing of the regiment when called upon in the absence of Lieutenant Colonel Ashbel Smith, which was often. Rogers was not a forgiving man, taciturn in habit and countenance with a rounded face and sagging jowls that shook whenever he was agitated or excited. Thanks to then-colonel Moore, Michael had been rewarded with a promotion to major in spite of opposition by Colonel Rogers. Michael wasn’t going to complain. This day, the regiment was lying on arms and lounging in the grass, awaiting the order to fall in and make the last few miles’ march to the attack.
The intervening months after the retreat from Corinth had been filled with marching and countermarching, small skirmishes and retreats. The morale of the men was in ebb despite the chance at striking the Federals at a moment of weakness in Corinth. The signs were all there, however. Defeat was more likely than victory when assaulting entrenchments, and the choice of the ground meant they would be charging into defenses they themselves had perfected before being forced out months ago. Moore’s brigade was no stranger to privation, but even the most stalwart of men required rest and something to hang their hat on before they were at their potential. They needed a victory.
Iuka was just another in a long list of Confederate failures as the numerical superiority of the Federals consistently thwarted any attempt to hang on to any gain long-term. The only bright spot about Iuka was that Michael was now one step closer to command. Acting lieutenant colonel was just as good as being a lieutenant colonel. The Federals held a long line of important cities. West Tennessee was controlled by Sherman’s army in Memphis, Mississippi’s line by Corinth under Rosecrans, and Nashville in the east by Ord. Numerous smaller villages and towns were garrisoned by Federal brigades and regiments. It appeared to Michael that for every gain made, there were two setbacks elsewhere. Now General Van Dorn was trying once again to break into the Federal cordon and reverse the tide of failure.
Michael was beginning to fidget, impatiently waiting for his chief to complete dictating orders to one of the lieutenants, a young man named Busse. He was busily trying to keep up with Rogers, who was spewing out details faster than anyone could be expected to keep up, but Busse always seemed to do so and with ease. Rogers did not have a temper for anyone who made a mess of orders, so Busse was always the one to do it. Michael waited for his turn to be barked at.
“. . . send to General Moore my compliments and tell him the 2nd will fall into line of march at 0430 hours as ordered. Send him our returns and request orders for our placement in the brigade line of battle.” Rogers never looked up when dictating but always spoke gruffly with his nose in a book, as if he were reading from it. He seldom looked anyone in the eye when addressing them, unless it was a superior. “Major, you will deliver this to General Maury and accompany him in line of march; take Lieutenant Hoff with you as messenger; I want to keep abreast of developments from General Maury.”
Michael rolled his eyes and took the paper Rogers thrust out as if it were something detestable. The commander continued reading his book, ignoring Michael’s salute. He gladly stepped back out the open tent flap and beheld the camps of Maury’s division spread out in the fields outside of Ripley, the sea of tent canvas like inverted, snow-covered tree limbs, wafts of smoke from company cook fires like wispy gray trunks. If there was anything characteristic of army life, it was pervasive smell of burning wood.
Michael replaced his broad-brimmed hat and looked for his courier. The news was good, as far as Michael was concerned, despite Rogers’s reasoning in sending Michael off on pointless errands, and it would afford him some chances to score some points with Moore over his chief. It was his place to be with the regiment as acting lieutenant colonel, not being Rogers’s runner, but he couldn’t have it both ways.
“C’mon, Hoff, get your mount. We’re over with Maury’s staff for the march,” Michael called to the young lieutenant.
Lieutenant Hoff was sitting with a group of other lieutenants eating when Michael disrupted his repast of crackers and broth that looked like it needed more meat to flavor it. The commissary for the brigade and much of Price’s army had been left for the Yankees at Iuka five days before; officers and enlisted men alike were hungry for something to eat that wasn’t a cracker.
The young man sprang up from the group and trotted after Michael. Hoff was always eager to please as long as it was a superior. He was from Austin, Texas, and his father sat in the state legislature. A commission in any regiment was his for the taking.
“I need a messenger,” Michael said as he walked to the horse picket. “We march with General Moore and Maury.”
Arriving at Moore’s headquarters in a house on the other side of Ripley, Mich
ael handed the reins to a black man with his hand out and a subservient look in his eye. Michael gave a quick look after them as the man led the two horses off to a pile of straw and oats set aside for the mounts of Moore and his staff. Michael’s good navy pistols were hanging loosely by the pommel. A fleeting thought of securing them flitted through his mind.
“We going to wait here until we march?” Hoff asked.
“Just deliver this message from Rogers and get our order of march from the general. We aren’t stepping off for a day, I think. No one’s on the road yet.”
The two men mounted the steps to the house. The usual collection of orderlies and subalterns were standing about the porch talking with the front door to the house open. Michael stepped into a gloom that was hard to make out.
The house was not the finest in furnishings nor in wealth, but a couch and a settee and several rough-looking wooden chairs were arranged in the small sitting room. A camp desk was set against the wall, with a captain scribbling notes on a pad while several other officers chain-smoked cigars. The room was cloudy and smelled of cooked bacon and stale cigar smoke.
In an adjoining room voices were heard, one being Moore’s. The door was closed and the others about the house sat around looking bored.
Michael handed the captain at the desk the message from Colonel Rogers and started a visual inspection of the walls for lack of anything else to do. His shadow pretended to do the same. The walls were bare save for a small family portrait over the mantel of the well-worn fireplace; every other surface was taken up by candles. The rough wood floor was littered with careless piles of cigar ashes and crumpled wads of paper. Whoever owned the house was not going to appreciate the gestures.
The meeting soon broke, and regimental commanders spilled out of the room, donned headgear, and walked outside followed by their personal retinues. The rooms suddenly cleared of officers, leaving Michael and Hoff alone to make the time.
“Major,” General Moore said warmly and grasped Michael’s hand.
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 73
