General Bowen was getting impatient. Every courier he’d sent to General Lovell asking for permission to advance and pressure the enemy line with Villepigue was given the rebuff of “hold the position until further orders.” The further orders were not coming. What was worse, it now appeared that the enemy was sallying forth on Villepigue’s right flank, the enemy apparently not content to allow them to stay put.
“I count three regiments, General,” Captain Parks said as he studied through his glasses.
Union regiments gathering out of range signaled the makings of an attempt to strike at the far right flank of the army, now held by Villepigue’s small brigade. Lovell’s division on this part of the field was to keep the enemy pinned down, but now that the true strength of the enemy line had been determined, Bowen and Villepigue had done little else but make targets of themselves. Now the enemy was emboldened enough to move on the Confederate flank, hitting the weakest brigade in Van Dorn’s army.
“Send to General Lovell, if we do not advance the enemy will be allowed to move on Villepigue’s right flank at will. Will he allow us to advance instead?” He already knew the answer, the same answer he’d gotten all morning long. He had to try. They had one last shot at redeeming the morning and spoiling the intentions the enemy was clearly telegraphing. Move forward now and force that enemy brigade to get back to their line. If his brigade were just going to sit and wait, the enemy was going to reinforce other parts of his line. They could not see clearly what was happening with Price’s divisions, but things looked hotly contested. A move forward now might save the day.
As the courier rode off, the enemy brigade marshaling on the outskirts of the town, under the protection of a large earthen fortification, did indeed sally forth and make straight for Villepigue. Bowen watched as the enemy sorted his regiments out, five sets of colors forming a long double line of glinting steel bayonets and brass buckles of what he guessed might be a thousand rabid abolitionists come angling toward Villepigue. Several hundred or several thousand, the waving banners and marching feet were going to roll up their flank like a scroll, and there was nothing he could do about it now.
“Damnit!” General Bowen muttered. “Lovell’s given up the game!”
If Villepigue crumbled, his own flank would be up in the air, and he’d have no choice but to retreat. Re-forming to meet the enemy would expose his own brigade to enfilade fire from the same guns trained on them now, only they would be a lot easier to kill by firing solid shot down the exposed lanes of infantry. He could refuse his right regiments, but that might not be enough to stem the tide if Villepigue broke and ran. The entire flank of the army would then be rolled up. Already Villepigue was turning his two regiments about to face the oncoming enemy battle line, and finally the Coupee battery was swinging into position.
“Get the Watson battery back up and give Villepigue a hand,” Bowen ordered. “Get the brigade up and ready to retrograde if we have to in a hurry.”
Cursing silently to himself, Bowen studied the progress of the enemy as he marched across the open field, his own guns barking now and the enemy cannon fire slackening lest they inadvertently shell their own troops. The enemy brigade was too damn strong, they were too damn weak, and if they won the battle it would be a damn miracle, Bowen thought to himself.
As the command to “Rise up!” was shouted and the anxious Mississippians shook themselves out, Stephen straightened himself and his traps and exhaled, a slow, nervous release for what all thought was going to be another forward march. All eyes were on what was happening on their right with the enemy moving on Villepigue, an occasional minié ball sailing harmlessly overhead or a spent round landing with a soft thud into the earth.
“They gonna pull us back, you watch,” Pops muttered.
“Back?” Stephen asked.
“Can’t take that line. They movin’ on our flank, we gonna be marchin’ back soon.”
As if to punctuate the declaration, a slackening of fire and sound from their left drew Stephen’s attention to what had been the close fighting around the town in the direction of Price’s divisions and a streaming back of the colors of Moore’s, Cabell’s, and Phifer’s brigades from whence they had come. They’d had front-row seats to what was shaping up to be a victory, or the start of one, but now they had to watch a retreat instead, one that was raising a cloud of dust beyond the hills and trees in the direction of the railroad.
“Look,” Stephen said and nodded in the direction of the remnants of the 2nd Texas, running from the pounding they’d been delivered amidst the earthen mound. Seeing a unit flee was commonplace in an engagement. They would be rallied and turned about and marched right back into the fray. But a whole brigade? Several? That was something rarely seen.
“See,” Pops said.
Stephen didn’t know if it was elation or disappointment, or a little of both, that arched his back and loosened his grip on the finger guard of his musket, but he was relaxing for the first time since sunup when they’d first heard the sounds of the cannon firing into the town, knowing that an engagement was going to happen and being ready for it. There was a sense of mixed emotion in the eyes of those around him—glad to not march forward, sad to have come this far only to accomplish nothing. The wounded were carried off to the rear and given no recompense for the sacrifice, others dead for nothing but having been caught at the wrong time, with nothing to show for it after.
****
For Van Dorn’s little army, it was another encampment made alongside another road, one they’d traversed before. After falling back and acting as rear guard for a time, the brigade took up the line of march and stopped at sundown to rest and replenish ammunition, though little of that was needed as the regiments had not fired a shot on this day. Food, though, was a welcome replenishment, and sore and tired limbs were given a respite from carrying the load of knapsack and musket.
The campfires were scattered about the fields to either side of the Chewallah road, and the soldiery looked and acted as if all movement was on ground covered in molasses. Round his own fire, Stephen saw in the countenances and the demeanor of his fellows a level of disgust as the stories of what had transpired that day made the rounds—of the triumphant crushing of the enemy line and the taking of his batteries, then the rout as his reinforcements came to bear. The men boiled coffee and chewed on hardtack as if mesmerized by the flames of the fires. Stephen himself was confused as to his own role in all of this, a war that had lost its meaning to him when he buried William Banks on Shiloh’s field. Willie had given the adventure meaning, and Stephen’s surrender, then escape, had been another road to getting home. Now back again and having witnessed the elephant once more, they all seemed to have had their fill of it.
Unkind words were also floating about—of their generals’ conduct, of their brigade’s orders, and of the whole army’s failure and who was to blame for it. Despite their having stopped for a rest, the Chewallah road was teeming with traffic. Wagons and horsemen plied the way westward, and a stream of hobbling wounded from every command slowly made their way along its side. Stephen happened to turn to watch the silhouettes make their sad processional when a form caught his eye.
Running over, Stephen grabbed the halter of a horseman, startling the man. “Lieutenant?”
Will was shaken awake by the sudden stopping of his mount and looked down at the beaming face of Stephen. “Murdoch, you made it through!” Will exclaimed. He moved his mount out of the traffic and slid out of the saddle, grabbing Stephen’s hand in a wearied embrace.
“Yes sir, made it through as did most of us,” Stephen replied with a quick look over his shoulder.
“Well, Murdoch, you got yer wish. I run across Seth ‘bout fifty or sixty yards out, an’ the damned fool was out in the middle of a field bein’ swept with artillery. And then the attack begun.” Will bowed his head a little. “I seen what became of the grand attack on the town but didn’t get a chance to go fetch Seth once the retreat happened. He gone fer good
now.”
Stephen nodded, unsure of what to say really. He wasn’t sad that Seth had gotten away or that Hunter had failed. He had nothing against Seth, and the lieutenant had been solely focused on getting him back to Alabama. Having gotten away again must make Seth the luckiest former slave there was, twice over. He could see that it clearly bugged the lieutenant. “Sorry, sir.”
“No matter,” Will conceded. “I’m going to make my way back to Tennessee to rejoin the 1st Alabama.”
Stephen nodded. The light of the fires flickered on the lieutenant’s features. His eyes were tired. The last several days had worn heavily upon them both—the guerrillas, the running into the army, the fighting they’d heard the day before, and then what was left of today’s events all weighed heavy upon Hunter’s eyelids. Stephen owed this man for more than his safe passage out of Ohio. He owed him his very life at the hands of Lewis Hopewell. “Sir, take care of yourself,” Stephen said after a few moments of silence.
“We got you back to yer fellows, you be in good stead now,” Will replied and held out his hand once more. There was a brotherly kindness in the gesture, something that was not extended from an officer to a private but from a friend to a friend. Their commonality of shared experience brought a feeling of warmth between the two men despite rank.
“See you in hell, sir,” Stephen said with a wan smile.
Will Hunter pursed his lips and nodded. He hoisted himself back onto his mount and gave Stephen another nod before turning the steed back into the flow of traffic along the road. Stephen watched him go, a little sad at the parting. The men behind him in the 6th Mississippi were home of a sorts, but the lieutenant was the only human being he’d spent any significant time with these weeks in close quarters and association. He barely knew his new company, the reunion not being what he’d expected. Watching the lieutenant ride off underscored the change: the adventure to get home was over.
Chapter 17
Now I Lay Me Down to Rest
It was pitch black save for the fires, some lit on purpose and others sparked by the fighting, consuming houses and buildings in the center of the town where the fighting had been fiercest. Philip was dead on his feet as the rows and rows of wounded never ceased to grow, nor did the line of dead. Oil lamps flickered from house windows and porches, and bonfires burned brightly around the buildings being used as hospitals. There was no skirmishing this night, the enemy having been reported as retreating even from around their old fortifications.
The Negro Seth was still hanging about, fetching whatever the chaplains and hospital stewards requested, but Philip was beginning to worry about where his new companions and his brother had gotten off to. During the fighting Paul had been a distraction; everything Philip did while in command of those stragglers had been colored by what might happen to his brother. He was glad indeed that he would never have to do that again—make some choice that would put his brother into the ground. It had not been entirely of his own will, to have to choose. It was the soldier in him, he decided, that had moved his feet toward instead of away from the fighting. He couldn’t stay his feet.
By the light of the torches and the fires, those carried back from the fields were still being laid out to suffer one last moment or to the dead line to await burial. Hours of bloodied hands and suffering souls had been comforted with what little Philip had in his store of words to say, but after a while he felt himself just mouthing them. No, not everything was going to be all right with the suffering man whose intestines were protruding; there was little sense in pretending that he would make it through the night. Philip’s prayer was that the end would come swiftly, as his chances of lingering beyond this night were good.
The prayers for these men were the hardest. They wanted some hope to cling to for recovery, pleading with God not to take them yet. The pleas weighed heavily upon his conscience. There had been moments of quiet for him when the need to rest was too strong, and even insisted upon by one of his own number, Chaplain Alexander.
“Come, sir; take a drink and rest the feet.” Alexander motioned to Philip. He had kindly eyes and a clean-shaven face, though whiskers were showing from the several days of excitement that always disrupted one’s routine when in the field.
Philip wearily made his way out of the throng of supine forms. It was just nearing dusk, and he and the others had been ministering for several hours, their own hands caked with dried blood.
Alexander handed him a flask. Philip raised an inquisitive brow. Smiling, Alexander added, “Fruit of the vine, a little brandy and water for revitalizing the spirit.”
Philip accepted and took a shallow sip. It did indeed brighten his mouth, and cut by the water, it did not burn terribly as it went down. Looking back across the vast collection of suffering humanity, he saw several blacks going from man to man with water. “Man there says you’ve established a camp for the coloreds?”
“Yes, but I don’t recognize that one. They started coming into Corinth when we took the town, in pitiful little bands at first. Some of them were absorbed almost immediately into the regiments as cooks and drivers, but eventually there came too many, and when units marched away they stayed, too afraid to leave or unwilling. So several of the regimental chaplains took it upon ourselves to establish them in their own camp and see to their needs.” Alexander sat upon the stump of a felled tree, hands resting on his knees, a tired expression curving the ends of his lips into a frown.
“This one says he just come into the town,” Philip said and nodded in Seth’s direction. “Says he escaped from a Southern soldier during the battle.”
“They are pitiful, you know. Pitifully treated by these sons of the South and pitifully treated by we sons of the North. Neither side seems to have any idea what to do with them. These Southerners want to keep them on the plantations, and we want to keep them out of our lines. When we liberate them or they come crawling to us for protection, we have nothing to give them and little else to do with them but use them as they’ve been used all their lives.” Alexander sighed.
“Lincoln’s proclamation hasn’t made this any clearer either,” Philip replied. “Declared free in Mississippi or in Tennessee or in Alabama, but the army is not to interfere with the local civilian population or their property. The fighting man, the soldier with the musket, is just as in the dark about what to make of this as anyone.”
“That is why we established them in their own camp in the town, to keep them from being preyed upon by Southern civilians and our own soldiers alike. Not all see them as a positive, and in freedom they are more vulnerable than they were in captivity. Universally they are glad to breathe free air, even if it is under the guard of white soldiers posted about their camp. One day, we hope to do something more than just protect and house them.” Alexander offered the flask once more.
Philip took another sip. On his empty stomach, even the first sip was going to his head, and he was feeling a little happy. Holding up the flask, he quoted, “For I say unto you, I will not drink of the fruit of the vine until the kingdom of God shall come.”
“The feast of the Lamb of God, at the last trumpet sound.” Alexander nodded.
Philip took another sip. “What do you propose to do with them?” He motioned toward Seth and several other men from the contraband camp.
“These wretches have been in a state of depravity and ill use for so long, generations, that they know not what to do with themselves when they do make it into our lines. Their natural tendency was to do as little work as possible when under the threat of the lash, but here they have the freedom to work for their own benefit and not the benefit of another. But that does not always seem to comport to their state of new freedom. We’ve found that we need to keep them busy doing something lest they act like a soldier released from duty. I will say, though, they are a cut above some of our own soldiers who seek sloth over industry when they have time on their hands.”
“You are trying to employ them? How has that gone?” Philip asked.
“Once the enemy has been driven back, we will see that they are planting and farming again, doing what they did before, but this time for themselves; and we’ll see that the produce from that labor goes to benefit them as a whole. They will see that the sweat of their own brows goes for the earning of their own benefit. That is what we’d like to see. We’ve petitioned General Grant and General Dodge for supplies and means to make a more permanent settlement for these people and for resources from the Christian Commission for teachers, a church, and a means for them to become self-sufficient. We’ve no word yet, but we’re hopeful.”
“Had the enemy succeeded in driving us out of Corinth, these people would have been at the mercy of recapture or worse,” Philip noted. “It would have been strategic loss for our own arms, but one that we might have righted eventually. For these it would have been catastrophe.”
Alexander listened intently as Philip described the encounter with the two escaped Rebel prisoners in his hometown and of the harrowing attempt to get the misfits of the 7th Ohio cavalry back to their training camp in Cincinnati. “You find you miss being a soldier?”
“No, but I find that being a soldier seems to miss me. By some fate I found myself commanding a line of stragglers earlier this morning when the enemy broke our lines and we were holding them in the city square. I was even captured for a brief time.”
Alexander raised his eyebrows in wonder. “You seem to find contradiction.”
“We have certainly been faced with it in trying to get to Nashville to the regiment. This little detour was unexpected. You find you have a place? As a chaplain, that is?” Philip asked, fingering the flask absently.
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 100
