“Oh, we’ll fight. The Second Texas … that’s my outfit … we’re far from whipped. We’re …” His voice trailed off.
A pistol popped somewhere deep in the woods.
The Secesh’s head shook. “Never got off the bay much till I joined up. Thought this soldiering would be …” His head fell. “Well, I’ve seen enough of Tennessee, thank you kindly.”
Caleb tried to wash off Sergeant Masterson’s blood from his tunic. “I’d never seen anything other than Putnam County before …” A scream stopped him in mid-sentence.
“Curse you Yankee dogs!” a voice shot from the woods to the south. “You’ve kilt Gen’ral Johnston! I’ll kill ever’ last one of you black Republicans tomorrow!”
“Come ahead, Rebel trash!” answered someone from the opposite bank. “You can join your treasonous general in Hades!”
No one spoke for a minute or more, unless they were calling for their mothers or for water.
The Secesh shook his head. “Lord, I hope that’s not true. About General Johnston. He …” Grimacing, the boy gripped his wounded leg.
Caleb looked at the blood-soaked trousers. “How bad you hurt?”
“Didn’t get the bone. I don’t think.”
“You ought to find your hospital.”
The Reb stiffened. “No, sir.” He backed up to a dead man, and began unlacing the soldier’s brogans.
“What are you doing?” Caleb demanded in dismay.
“He’s got no use for these,” the Reb shot back. “And I have.”
That was enough. Caleb pulled his bullet-riddled hat onto his wet hair, stood, began staggering away.
“Hey, Yank.”
Caleb stopped, turned. The Reb reached inside his blouse, and withdrew a plug of tobacco. “I would have drowned if you hadn’t pulled me out of that pond.” His hand, blackened with blood, powder, and grit, stretched toward him.
“Take it. Tobacco’s one thing the Confederacy isn’t short on. That and corn, salt, and apples. That’s the joke down in Corinth. ‘What does the CSA stand for?’” He winked. “‘Why, corn, salt, and apples, of course.’”
Caleb shook his head.
“Take it,” the Reb demanded.
Caleb couldn’t control his hand. He watched his fingers grip the tobacco, and shove the plug into the inside pocket of his tunic.
“It’s apple-cured,” the Reb said.
Caleb just stared.
“My name’s, McCalla,” the Reb said. “Ryan McCalla.”
“Caleb Cole.”
“Good luck, tomorrow, Cole.”
Caleb nodded. “You, too, McCalla.”
He walked away, trying to avoid the legs of men, living and dead, that lined the bloody pond, then walked across the dead as fast as he could.
Chapter Twenty
April 7, 1862
Near Shiloh Meeting House, Tennessee
It was midnight before Ryan McCalla made his way back to the Second Texas. After packing the wound in his thigh with moss and mud, he used a sturdy branch as a cane and left the bloody pond. The branch broke after a half mile, but he replaced it with an Enfield rifle he found near a dead man. The woods and fields still smelled like smoke, like death. Most of the men he found were dead, and those still living couldn’t help him locate his regiment. One said: “Mister, I don’t even know where I am.” Another joined him and they wandered through the woods together until Ryan’s travel partner happened to run into someone from the Nineteenth Alabama. The Alabamans moved west. Ryan continued north.
Finally Ryan found Sergeant Rutherford, a blanket over his shoulder, chewing on a pig’s foot in front of a fire. Rutherford rose, filled a cup with hot coffee, and passed it to Ryan.
Staring at Ryan’s leg, Rutherford said: “You should go to a hospital, Corporal McCalla.”
His head shook violently. “No. I won’t do that.”
He had passed too many of those makeshift tents on his way from the bloody pond. Beside one, he had stumbled and thrown up, the screams from inside pricking every nerve. When a doctor knelt beside him, his hands covered in blood, and said, “Son, we need to get you inside,” Ryan had found more strength that he could imagine, pulled himself away, scrambled into the nearest thicket. Nor could he forget walking through that hospital in Corinth looking for Harry Cravey.
“Harry Cravey,” he said, remembering.
“Back in Corinth, I warrant,” Sergeant Rutherford said. “Maybe on his way to Galveston Island.” He tossed the pig’s feet into the fire. “By jacks, I wish I was with him.”
“Captain Smith?” Ryan asked hopefully.
“Took a ball in the arm,” Rutherford answered, “but he’ll live.”
Desperately he wanted to ask about Matt Bryson, to be told that Matt was fine, that Ryan had imagined him being shot down by filthy Northern swine. That, however, had been no dream.
“Gibb Gideon? Sam Jr.?”
“Sam’s all right. Haven’t seen Gideon since late afternoon.” Rutherford answered listlessly.
Ryan wanted to sit, but wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to stand again if he did. Leaning on the Enfield, sipping coffee, he watched Texas soldiers move from the fires to the tents that, earlier Sunday morning, had been part of Grant’s army. Now, the Second Texas Infantry had made the Union camp their home for the night.
“Colonel Moore’s been trying to find Jackson.” Rutherford shook his head. “No luck. He came back about fifteen minutes ago. Guess we’ll find a new brigade to fight with tomorrow. The colonel did send Lieutenant Gallaher to fetch any powder and lead. Gallaher hasn’t come back yet.” Rutherford pointed at the Enfield. “I see you got a new weapon. Any ammunition for it?”
Ryan shook his head. “You don’t think the Yankees will retreat.”
In reply, artillery crashed overhead and far into the woods.
“Yanks don’t plan on letting us sleep,” Rutherford said.
Ryan emptied the dregs of the coffee onto the ground. “Don’t reckon I’d sleep, anyway.”
Pulling the blanket back over his shoulder, Sergeant Rutherford pointed toward a tent illuminated from the inside by a candle. “You’ll find Little Sam in that one. Try to get some rest, Ryan. You’ll need it tomorrow.” That had to be the first time Sergeant Rutherford had ever called him by his first name.
Another shell exploded, lighting up the night sky with brilliant orange and red flames. A Texian shouted toward the Tennessee River: “Can’t you Yanks do better’n that?”
Ryan moved away from the fire, his leg throbbing, calling out Little Sam’s name before stepping inside the canvas.
Houston rose, setting a Bible on a folding table, and helped ease Ryan down into a rocking chair.
A rocking chair. Yankees sure knew how to fight a war. Ryan leaned the Enfield against a mess chest.
“I thought you were dead,” Little Sam said. Another shell exploded nearby, causing both to flinch.
With a weary smile, Ryan shook his head. “Almost drowned.” He let out a small laugh. “A bluecoat pulled me out of that pond over yonder.”
“I’ve thought about going to that pond,” Houston said. “Filling my canteen.”
“Don’t. You’ll want no water from that place.”
Houston pointed at Ryan’s leg. “You all right?”
He shrugged. “It didn’t hit bone, I don’t think. Went plumb through. No way I’m going to let some sawbones see it, though.”
Instead of pushing the subject, Little Sam Houston sat back on the bedroll, picked up the Bible he had been reading, handed it to Ryan.
Ryan’s forefinger pressed inside the hole in the back cover. He opened the little book until he found where the ball had finally stopped.
“‘Make haste, O God, to deliver me; make haste to help me, O Lord,’” he read, and then closed the Bible, which he returned to his fr
iend. “You suppose that means anything?”
“That I’m lucky,” Houston answered.
“That God’s looking after you?” Ryan tried again.
Houston grinned. “Ask me that tomorrow evening.”
Another shell exploded, but this one knocked Ryan off the chair, left his ears humming, rocked the ground. Little Sam, blasted off the bedroll, scrambled to his feet, helped Ryan up, led him outside. Seven tents down they found a smoking crater. A few of the Texana Guards from Company K were screaming out names. A sergeant rushed into the hole. A lieutenant fired a string of curses at the gunboats on the river. The sergeant crawled out of the crater, shaking his head.
A soldier sobbed: “They were playing monte. That’s all they were doing. Playing monte.”
At that moment, the skies opened again, a cold, biting rain, as if Yankee mortars had punctured another hole in the clouds.
“Come on,” Little Sam Houston said, and helped Ryan back inside the tent. “There’s nothing we can do for those poor …” He choked out the last words. Inside, they stopped, staring. Water poured through bullet holes in the tent’s roof, drenching the bedrolls, putting out the candle. Ryan collapsed in the rocking chair, and pulled down his hat. Rain water dripped off the brim.
* * * * *
Somehow, Ryan did sleep, long, hard, dreamless. When Little Sam tugged his shoulder, however, he woke instantly. Outside the tent came sounds of soldiers, the beat of a drum, whispers, curses.
They stepped outside into the predawn blackness, gulping down coffee with the remnants of Company C.
“Colonel Moore’s been promoted,” Rutherford told his men. “He’s commanding a brigade that includes us and a couple regiments from Alabama. Lieutenant Colonel Rogers is now Colonel Rogers, commanding the Second Texas. We’re to re-form at Lick Creek.” He spit. “Corporal McCalla, you need to march yourself to a hospital.”
“I don’t think so, Sergeant.”
That prompted a cheer from his comrades, and they turned and moved through the woods, Ryan using the Enfield as a crutch, determined not to fall behind. They stopped only to strip the dead of ammunition. Even before the sun broke, sounds of musket and artillery swept all around them.
* * * * *
Ryan couldn’t figure it out. As big a hurt as the Confederate Army had put on those Yankees yesterday, they still kept coming. Through a wheat field, into the woods, across a cotton field. The Confederates kept driving the Federals back, only to be forced to fall back themselves.
His knee no longer would bend. A ball had carved a furrow above his right ear, and blood matted his hair.
“Charge!” Colonel Rogers ordered.
“McCalla!”
Ryan turned painfully. Sergeant Rutherford handed him another rifle, this one sporting a long brass telescope. “You stay here. Cover us with this here gun. Kill as many Yankees as you can.”
He took the weapon awkwardly, wanting to protest but knowing Sergeant Rutherford was right. He couldn’t keep up with the charging men. Instead, he leaned against a tree, bracing the barrel of the rifle against another hickory, watching Sergeant Rutherford run to catch up with his men.
Looking through the telescope, he tried to find a bluecoat in the distance, but saw nothing but smoke and timber. In the center of the cotton field, the soldiers stopped. Gunfire erupted. He fired into the belching smoke. The kick of the rifle knocked him on his butt, and his leg throbbed painfully.
By the time he could push himself up, fumbling to reload the Sharps, he heard the panic in the voices of the men, his regiment, as they stormed off the field, through the brush. Officers yelled at them, but the Texians kept retreating.
“Colonel!” A general in a gray coat galloped over. “You command a pack of cowards, Colonel. Those men bring disfavor to the Southern cause.” Without waiting to hear Colonel Rogers’ defense, the general spurred his mount in front of the cotton field.
A bullet spit bark into Ryan’s eyes, and he heard the Federals screaming as they charged across the field.
“Come on!” It was Sergeant Rutherford again. “We’re falling back. We’ll regroup. Come on!” He felt Rutherford’s powerful hands under his arms, felt himself being half carried, half dragged through the timbers.
“Where’s Little Sam?” Ryan asked.
Rutherford did not answer.
A quarter mile later, they stumbled. Cursing, Rutherford pushed himself to his knees. Ryan looked up at him, briefly, then closed his eyes.
* * * * *
He woke to the sounds of cries, prayers, pitiful moans, and realized he was lying on his back. A tree limb passed over his head, blocking out the stars. He was moving. He turned his head to find himself staring into the eyes of a dead man. Ryan tried to sit up, couldn’t, although he managed to push himself up on an elbow.
The wagon he was in hit a hole, and the jarring bolt sent Ryan crashing down, crying out, but others crammed into the wagon like cordwood hurt even more. Again he looked around, and now saw a man leaning on the other side of the wagon, staring at a bloody, empty coat sleeve.
In a panic, Ryan rolled onto his back, made himself look down his body, and let out a prayer when he saw he still had both of his legs, though one was massively swollen, drenched in blood and mud. Fighting down the bile rising in his throat, he looked the other way, and spotted a corporal clutching his stomach, his pallid face drenched in sweat.
It appeared to be dusk.
“Hey,” Ryan said to the wounded soldier. “Where are we? Where are they taking us?”
The man blinked, and did not answer.
He didn’t have to. The truth struck Ryan, and he slumped down, using the dead man’s stomach as a pillow, and not caring. He was in a wagon, moving south, back toward Corinth.
General Albert Sidney Johnson’s Army of the Mississippi—or whoever commanded it now that the general was dead—was leaving Shiloh, abandoning the bodies of Matt Bryson and countless others on that hallowed battlefield.
Retreating.
Chapter
Twenty-One
April 7, 1862
Pittsburg Landing, Tennessee
“Your name’s Cole, isn’t that right?”
Caleb opened his eyes to find a somewhat familiar face only inches from him. When the head moved back, icy rain blasted Caleb, and he sat up quickly.
“I’m Joseph von Arx,” the face said. “You get shot?”
Slowly Caleb Cole remembered where he was. The moans, the begging, the shouts of the dying and wounded reminded him. He had been walking away from that filthy, bloody pond when suddenly he had merely collapsed. His legs just would not function, so he had crawled to a bullet-riddled tree, leaned against the trunk, and shut his eyes.
“No.” Caleb slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so.” His hand throbbed. He remembered cutting it on that canteen.
“I did.” Joseph von Arx smiled, and showed off a bloody left arm. “Reckon they’ll give me a medal?”
“Who?” he asked tiredly.
“The Eighteenth Missouri, of course.”
That hadn’t been Caleb’s meaning. Who was left in the Eighteenth?
“You sure you’re all right?”
Caleb nodded, and pulled himself up. His legs had found their muscles.
“We best find Colonel Miller. You sure you ain’t shot?”
“I’m all right.” Caleb glanced at his hand, but it didn’t look too bad. “Just tired.”
“I took a ball.” Joseph von Arx showed off his bloody arm again. “It’s just a scratch, but it bled like the dickens.”
Through chilling rain, they walked north, Caleb hoped, toward Pittsburg Landing, past makeshift hospitals, and stacks of bloody arms and legs, the screams of men hurrying along Caleb and his new partner. Shells burst overhead every few minutes, lighting their path.
Finally they heard laughter, so out of place after all they had been through, and walked down toward the landing. In the dim light from the ships, dark-clad soldiers filed onto the ships as a band triumphantly played “Hail, Columbia.”
It doesn’t seem right, Caleb thought. Retreating. Men laughing. A band playing.
He stopped so abruptly, Joseph von Arx continued a few rods before he halted and turned around.
“What’s up?” von Arx asked.
Caleb tilted his head toward the ships. “They’re not getting on those ships. They’re getting off!” A loud cheer shot from his mouth, and he pumped his fist in the air. More Union soldiers, fresh troops.
He caught up with von Arx, and they veered out of the path of a marching group of men in blue uniforms, heard their sergeants barking out commands.
Caleb led his friend toward a tree, where a man sat underneath, lantern at his side, puffing a cigar. Another officer slogged over toward the seated, weary figure.
“Where we going?” von Arx asked.
“Ask one of those officers if they know where we can find our regiment. Or where we should go …” Left unsaid was: if the Eighteenth has been wiped out.
Caleb stopped, shivered, realizing who he had intended on asking for directions.
“Well, Grant,” said the slim man with the red beard, “we’ve had the devil’s own day, haven’t we?”
Caleb turned, grabbed von Arx’s arm, led him back toward the river.
“Yes,” he heard General Ulysses S. Grant answer General Cump Sherman. “Lick ’em tomorrow, though.”
* * * * *
They waited for another company of infantry to pass, then moved toward some fires along the riverbank.
A gruff major stopped them, spitting tobacco juice between their legs, waving a lantern in their faces. “Where are you heading?” the major asked. Rain water poured off his bummer cap, and the lantern hissed as drops splattered down its chimney and along the sides of the glass.
“Trying to find the Eighteenth Missouri Infantry,” Joseph von Arx answered.
“The Eighteenth? Those who aren’t dead are prisoners,” he said. “C’mon. You’ve just been conscripted into the Fifty-Third Ohio.” He started to turn, stopped, and held the lantern closer to von Arx. Slowly the major removed his cigar. “Not you, boy. You take that arm onto that ship.” The cigar pointed. “Let a doctor look at it.”
And There I’ll Be a Soldier Page 17
