Harper's Shiloh: A Novel of the First Bloodiest Battle

By Sean K Gabhann

April 1862. The War of the Rebellion threatens the Deep South after Grant's army occupies most of west Tennessee. The Federals grow in strength as new recruits arrive every day and veteran divisions march from Nashville. Expectation rides the air in the Federal army. Meanwhile Confederate forces remain undetected behind their screen of first-cla

• Language: English
• Publisher: Natchez Trail Press
• Release date: Nov 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781734397451

Sean K Gabhann

Sean Kevin Gabhann grew up in Pennsauken, New Jersey. He graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy and spent the next several years in the Navy, including seven and a half years serving in the Western Pacific. He saw combat with Coastal Forces, Vietnam in 1971-73 and served afloat with Seventh Fleet during the final evacuation in April 1975. He completed graduate studies in Applied Sciences at the University of California San Diego followed by a twenty-five year civil service career in the defense acquisition community. Several anecdotes from his career have made their way his books. He first became interested in American Civil War history during the centennial celebration and he owns an extensive library of primary and secondary material related to Civil War. Shortly before retiring, Gabhann became aware of the works of Bernard Cornwell. These excellent stories triggered a long-postponed desire first inspired by the Hornblower novels of C.S. Forrester to write adventure novels about the lives of common people during the Civil War. He especially wants to write about campaigns in the West because of a fascination with the careers of Ulysses S. Grant and William T. Sherman. Sean reports, "My approach to writing historical fiction is to begin with a framework of the historical timeline and local geography derived from primary and secondary sources and then fit the plot within the framework. Then I edit for character development, followed by historical setting. Finally I edit for the reading experience: reorganizing chapters and scenes to enhance the flow before turning the manuscript over to my reading circle and to the beta readers. Accordingly, each manuscript undergoes at least five edits or revisions." Sean enjoys living in San Diego, California. For more information about Harper, Magnusson, Malloy or other topics covered in Sean's books go to Harper's War Stories website: http://harperswarstories.com/ and sign up on Sean's blog.

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Harper's Shiloh

Harper's Shiloh

Harper's Shiloh

A Novel of the First Bloodiest Battle

Sean Gabhann

Natchez Trail Press

Contents

Copyright Page

Dedication

Grant's Winter Campaign

List of Characters

PURDY COACH ROAD, TENNESSEE

Monday, March 31st, 1862

PART 1

Tuesday, April 1st, 1862

Wednesday, April 2nd, 1862

Thursday, April 3rd, 1862

Friday, April 4th, 1862

Saturday, April 5th, 1862

PART 2

Sunday, April 6th, 1862

Monday, April 7th, 1862

PART 3

Monday, April 7th, 1862

EPILOGUE

Tuesday, April 8th, 1862

OTHER BOOKS BY SEAN K. GABHANN

Copyright Page

Harper’s Shiloh

First Edition

Copyright© 2020 Sean K. Gabhann

Cover Design Monkey C Media

Cover Photo: Magdalena Russocka © Arcangel Images

Cover Painting: The Black Hats, 19th Indiana Regiment, Iron Brigade at Gettysburg (Courtesy of Don Troiani , artist)

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 978-1-7343974-4-4

LCCN: 2020908516

BISAC: FIC014060, FIC032000, FIC 031050

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and while based on the history of real people, they are not to be construed as real. Except for certain historical personages, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Dedication

For Richard

This work includes depictions of war violence, women’s rights, slavery, and prostitution which, although authentic to mid-nineteenth century America, may disturb some modern readers.

Grant's Winter Campaign

Map by Sean K. Gabhann,

based on original contained in Official Records of the War of the Rebellion

List of Characters

Lieutenant James Harper - Supernumerary, 1st Iowa Mounted Infantry

Corporal Gustav Magnusson - Corporal, Lead Skirmisher, Company B

Katherine (Katie) Malloy – Former saloon girl, Nurse Trainee

Army of the Tennessee, USA

Brigadier General Ulysses Grant – Commander

Brigadier General John A. McClernand – First Division

Brigadier General Stephen A. Hurlbut – Second Division

Brigadier General Lewis Wallace - Third Division

Brigadier General Stephen A. Hurlbut – Fourth Division

Brigadier General William T. Sherman – Fifth Division

Brigadier General Benjamin M. Prenstiss – Sixth Division

Lieutenant Colonel John Norman - Director, Civilian Affairs

First Iowa Volunteer Mounted Infantry Officers

Lieutenant Colonel Wesley Monroe - Commander,

Major Asbury Porter - Executive Officer

Captain Theodore Guerlich - Adjutant

Captain Marcoe Compton - Commanding Officer, Company A

Captain Brice McKinsey - Commanding Officer, Company B

Captain William Pierson - Commanding Officer, Company C

Lieutenant Andrew Reynolds – First Lieutenant, Company B

Lieutenant George Zook – Second Lieutenant, Company B

Lieutenant Stephen Gunderson – First Lieutenant, Company C

First Iowa Volunteer Mounted Infantry Enlisted Men

Sergeant Charles Hayes – First Sergeant, Company B

Sergeant Charles Lee – Third Sergeant, Company B

Sergeant Joshua Featherstone – Fourth Sergeant, Company B

Private Edward Carpenter – Soldier, Company B

Private William Halbert – Soldier, Company B

Private Hermann Eberhart - Horse Wrangler, Company B

Private Ira Ford – Soldier, Company B

Private Jim Gettings – Soldier, Company B

Private Nathan Johns – Soldier, Company B

Private Frank Kerns – Soldier, Company B

Sixth Iowa Volunteer Infantry

Captain Maddison Walden – Commanding Officer, Company C

Captain Will Deniston – Commanding Officer, Company K

Lieutenant John Bashore – First Lieutenant, Company C

Forty-Sixth Ohio Volunteer Infantry

Lieutenant Kevin Riley

Lieutenant Watson Hall

Sergeant Joseph Beacham

Army of the Mississippi, CSA

General Albert S. Johnston – Commander

General Pierre G.T. Beauregard – Deputy Commander

Major General Leonidas K. Polk – I Corps

Major General William J. Hardee - III Corps

Eighth Texas Cavalry Volunteers

Colonel William Wharton - Commanding Officer

Captain Francois Dupree – Adjutant

The Women

Sarah Featherstone – Ombudsman for 1st Iowa Wives

Eleanor St. Croix – Paducah Saloon/Brothel Owner

Elsa - Contraband of War/Escaped Slave

Florida - Contraband of War/Escaped Slave

PURDY COACH ROAD, TENNESSEE

Image by Author

Courtesy of Harper’s War Stories

Monday, March 31st, 1862

LIEUTENANT CHARLES MURRAY had gone less than a dozen yards when Sergeant Cook, one of the men at Post 1, appeared from the underbrush to signal the approach of the Rebels.

Bring up the rest of the men, sergeant.

Yes, sir. Cook, who had served with Murray since the Fourth Ohio Cavalry had been sworn-in, spun his horse and launched her towards the picket relief station where the Adamsville-to-Purdy Stagecoach Road crossed over Snake Creek. There, the off-duty men had lit campfires and begun the nightly routine.

And call in the other pickets, Murray called after him before he spiked spurs into his horse’s flanks and galloped to the top of the hill.

Below him, the west-bound road to Purdy angled around the northern edge of Murray’s hillock. A series of large pastures and fields with crops stretched for at least a mile on the left side of the road divided by three gullies. A minor branch of the Snake Creek bound the pastures and fields to the south, while hilly woods dominated the area north of the road.

In the evening twilight, Murray counted files – at least eighty men, a full company and more than three times his own force. The low hill where his own picket knelt dominated the eastern side of the fields and pastures. Soon the Rebel force would come within range of his carbineers.

A small, tidy farmhouse sat a mile away in the midst of the fields with a well-tended barn and several ill-made shacks in the rear. About four or five miles in the distance, the smoke from the chimneys in Purdy rose above the intervening woods in vertical columns.

The Confederates aligned themselves along a fence across the road from the farmhouse, a double rank of horses carrying men in uniforms with so much variation that they could hardly be called uniform – mostly shades of grey, brown and butternut. Likewise, their mounts showed little in common other than their ability to maintain the ranks and files during the advance.

Safely beyond the range of the weapons Murray’s men carried, the Rebels came at the walk, stopping to dismantle the fences in their way and slowing when they crossed the gullies. They reformed with patient confidence after passing each obstacle.

Murray glanced back. His reserve troopers were already across the main branch of Snake Creek. They would arrive well before the Rebels if the attackers maintained their current pace.

Halt them there, Murray called when the reserve column was within hailing distance. He pointed to a spot at the bottom of the slope. It was a low hill but still high enough to protect the men from the enemy’s fire.

Murray turned back to see the Rebel cavalry clearing the last fence between themselves and him, half a mile away. They set a dozen advanced riders in front while their main body reformed for what Murray knew would be a rapid charge up the shallow hill and into his force. He needed all of his firepower on this hill to keep the Rebs from the top, the most defensible terrain in the vicinity. Send up the carbineers!

Four men armed with carbines dismounted and ran up the hill towards Murray, the total number allocated to his company by the penurious state armory. Hardly enough to stop the approaching enemy. He would do his duty but what would be the cost? He could not be expected to defeat an attack by triple his number. Murray licked his lips.

The first of the Rebel shotguns blasted from a quarter mile away. At that range, they did no damage. Murray walked his horse to where the three men of the picket-post waited. He forced his voice to remain calm. Weapons ready.

Two hundred yards away, the Rebels increased to a canter. Many of the riders let loose with a war-whoop.

The four carbineers fell prone along the brow of the hill while the others around Murray prepared their pistols. The carbineers appeared calm. They had been selected for their skill with the weapons and should take some toll. Although they could see the numbers of the enemy approaching, they focused on the task at hand.

The eight men on the hill could not defeat the mob of Rebels by themselves but they might be able to break-up the formation. That might make the Rebels vulnerable to a surprise attack by the sabre-armed horsemen waiting below. It would be up to Murray to time their withdraw and to signal the charge to surprise the Rebels. Murray’s spine tensed and tingled while he waited for the Rebels to reach effective range.

The first Federal volley blasted and brought the advanced scouts to a halt at the foot of the hill. There they dismounted and returned fire. Positioned at the crest of the ridge, the Federals could fire down at the enemy while exposing only their head and shoulders. The sulfurous odor of burnt gunpowder drifted past.

He needed all of his men in this fight. He looked for the men at Post Two, half-a-mile to his right. They had fled the small shack and galloped towards the main body pursued by five Rebels. On the other flank, the two men at Post Three made their way along the creek bed and joined the reserve without interference. The men from the northern guard, Post Four, trotted their horses across the ford accompanied by the messenger sent to collect them.

I’m nearly out of ammo, Lieutenant. A carbineer drew Murray’s attention back to the advancing Rebels.

Me, too, Lieutenant. The two men beyond the first raised their empty ammo boxes. These men at been in skirmishes with Rebel cavalry before. They weren’t panicked but raised eyebrows revealed their concern. The men of the original picket had two pistols apiece and they both nodded to show that they had nearly exhausted their ammunition.

With the slackening Federal fire, the Rebel advanced scouts fired their shotguns but without effect. Murray rose in his stirrups to observe the Rebel advance. Their leading skirmishers had begun the climb up the hill, with each man’s partner providing covering fire while the first advanced.

The Rebel attack did not halt due to the pitiful firepower provided by his troopers. Murray would have to rely on the sabers of his reserve. Hopefully, the surprise of an unexpected cavalry charge would break up the attack.

The Rebel formation had reached the foot of the hill. With his carbineers out of ammunition, the sabers constituted the last of the limited number of tools he had at his disposal.

Murray tried to predict the timing of the advancing Rebels. If he withdrew the firing line at the top of the hill too early, the Rebel horsemen might refuse to charge up the hill, a maneuver which could disorder their formation and make them more vulnerable to the counter-charge. If he held them in place too long, the shooters atop the hill would be cut down by the charging Rebels before they reached Sergeant Cook and the others.

The Rebel skirmishers had passed half-way up the slope. Still in a in a rough line, although two of their comrades had fallen to the carbineers. The troopers took it in turns to discharge their double-barrel shotguns at Murray’s men.

Murray’s fourth carbineer had slowed his fire significantly while he took more careful aim, trying to make each of the remaining cartridges account for a Rebel. The weapons of the others on the hill fell silent, out of ammunition. As soon as the Rebel commander realized Murray’s men could no longer shoot, he would no doubt order a charge.

Fall back, Murray waited until each of the seven men acknowledged the order. It would take several seconds for the Rebels to react. That should give these men time to escape before the Rebels charges. It would be a near-run thing but he had surprise on his side.

Quicker, run! Murray followed his men, all sprinting down the hill. When he reached shouting distance to the reserve, Murray ordered, Draw sabers! With a wicked scraping sound, twenty large, wide-bladed, cavalry sabers slid from their scabbards while the men on foot angled towards their tethered horses. Murray took position in front of his mounted men, ready to do his duty with his own saber ready to taste Rebel blood.

The first of the Rebel skirmishers came into view at the top of the hillock.

Forward! Murray swung his saber-arm to point at the Rebels and spurred his horse as two dozen shotguns discharged from the top of the hill.

Shotgun pellets hit a number of the lead horses which tried to turn away from the blasts. The men behind collided with the injured animals and Murray’s well-ordered reserve instantly resolved into a mob of pushing, crowded horses and cursing men.

More Rebels appeared at the top of the slope and the sounds of their shotgun blasts merged into the pops of pistol shots as the first arrivals charged down the hill. More Federal horses became injured while others balked at their riders’ commands to advance. The men in the rear rank, frozen in place by the front rank’s confusion, could see how badly they were outnumbered. That was where the panic began. First singly, then in groups of three or four, they turned and fled in spite of Murray’s exhortations to stand fast. Some galloped for the ford, others disappeared into the gully of the creek. Stripped of half their numbers, the riders in the front rank who tried yet to reform saw they had lost the support rank. They spun away to join in the retreat.

For Murray, there was nothing left except to follow his troopers in ignominy. He pounded the hilt of his sword on his saddle pommel before turning to follow. The closest Rebels were mere yards from him. He put spurs to horse at the same time that he heard the angry buzz of a bullet passing too close to his head. Separating himself from the fleeing troopers, Sergeant Cook galloped past, yelling incoherently, waving his saber at the Rebel closest to Murray. Murray’s horse now found its stride. Rider and horse were in a full gallop towards the ford where his men had collapsed into a snarl trying to get across. He would rally them on the other side.

Murray looked over his shoulder to gauge his pursuers. Instead of chasing him, the lead Rebels surrounded Cook. The Rebels grunted when they pushed the points of their sabers at Cook. A blue-clad arm raised a saber amidst the mass of men. Accompanied by a bloodthirsty scream, it fell to slice open one Rebel’s chest. The fight ended when one of the Rebels pushed a pistol into the sergeant’s side and fired. Cook’s fate was now in God’s hands. Any of Murray’s men who might have helped were fleeing.

Across the creek, Murray raced to join his retreating men down the road towards Adamsville. They appeared to have rallied in front of a farmstead a quarter-mile from the ford. When Murray approached, an officer separated from the group. It was his friend Rossman, Company L, whom Murray had relieved not more than thirty minutes earlier.

We heard the gunfire and came back. I’ve sent a courier to get help.

Murray reined his horse. They hit us with a whole damned company, maybe two. He turned to face the distant enemy. They used shotguns and fired from the saddle. There was nothing to do but get the hell out. Murray surveyed his surviving men. Looks like I lost three. He shook his head slowly, sadly. Sergeant Cook died protecting me.

Rossman scanned the scene across the creek with binoculars. I wonder why they didn’t keep up the chase. It doesn’t make any sense. They had you in the bag.

The Confederate cavalry had not pursued beyond Snake Creek and now lined their side of the creek bed. From there, they hurled insults and made rude gestures at the Federal column but they presented no serious threat of continuing their attack to the regiment’s camp outside Adamsville or to the rest of the Third Division camped between there and the supply dump at Crump’s Landing.

Dejected at his defeat and the loss of his men, Murray took a deep breath before answering. I have no idea. He looked at the Rebels along the creek and at the hill behind, now occupied by a small command group.

Rossman returned the binoculars to their case. Why risk losing men just to push us back a half a mile or so, especially right before nightfall?

They were intent about it, that’s for sure.

You said they stopped after you had given up the hill?

Uh-hunh. Except for killin' poor Sergeant Cook. Murray watched the last of his men straggle down the road to rejoin.

So, it looks like what they really wanted was for us to be gone from that hill tonight. Rossman paused. I wonder what they don’t want us to see over by Purdy-ville.

Image by Kevin M. Smith

(Courtesy of Harper’s War Stories)

PART 1

Southwest Tennessee

Map by Kevin M. Smith,

based on original contained in Official Records of the War of the Rebellion

(Courtesy of Harper’s War Stories)

Tuesday, April 1st, 1862

WAKE UP!

Lieutenant James Harper rolled onto his back and pulled the single woolen blanket back over his shoulders. Major Asbury Porter, Executive Officer of the First Iowa Volunteer Infantry (Mounted) stood at the open flap of the two-man tent, silhouetted against a gloomy grey, eastern sky, kicking Harper’s unshod feet.

Harper had returned to the battalion four days ago from Paducah with Privates Gustav Magnusson and Johnny Cooke following their prisoner exchanges. They had brought the escaped saloon-girl with them, disguised as a nurse, and a new recruit, Private Wrangler Eberhart, with replacement horses.

What do you want? It ain’t even sun-up.

It’s past sun-up and ya need to be at morning muster this morning.

I don’t even have a real job, yet. Harper groaned and rolled away to face the sloping wall of the tent. Besides, reveille ain’t sounded yet. He dug his head into the rolled-up overcoat which served as a pillow. Since returning to the battalion, Harper had taken the reveille bugle call as a notice that he still had ninety minutes left to sleep before breakfast.

City life’s made ya soft, Jamie. Porter crouched so he could look inside the tent. Besides, I think you’ll want to be at muster this particular morning. Now roll out, soldier!

With Porter silhouetted against the overcast sky, Harper could not see the expression on the man’s face. What was Porter up to? His friend gave a chuckle as he stood, turned and walked away. Shave and get into a clean uniform.

Harper hadn’t attended a formation since he returned to the battalion. His official position, Assistant Quartermaster, was a made-up job to keep him on the rolls. With campaigning season already begun, that was the most important assignment the commander could come up with for a man who had spent nearly a decade as a deputy marshal in the Nebraska-Dakota Territories and who had overseen the battalion’s conversion from foot infantry to mounted infantry. By rights, he should be a captain now and commanding one of the battalion’s five remaining companies.

Thirty minutes later, Harper walked onto the battalion’s rain-softened parade ground west of Adamsville, Tennessee. Porter had wanted him here for a reason. Normally, each company held its daily muster at the head of its company street but today all five companies were on the parade ground and in an open-box formation, with two companies on Porter’s left facing inwards, two companies in front, and Company E and the enlisted members of the battalion staff on the right. The sergeants and corporals arranged each company into two formal ranks, with their officers in front in their customary three-man triangles.

Harper walked up to his friend and former roommate, Theodore Guelich, now the battalion adjutant. Any idea what’s going on?

No idea. Guelich shook his head and glanced away as Major Porter appeared from the commander’s tent and walked towards the two staff officers.

This was going to be some sort of an awards ceremony. Beside the quartermasters, hospital stewards, clerks, and other enlisted staff, the few remaining soldiers’ wives and the other camp followers continued to assemble beside the command tent. It reminded Harper of the way crowds gather to watch a hanging. Maybe that is what Porter had planned – a public punishment for some poor soul.

Are we ready, Lieutenant? Porter asked Guelich.

Nearly so, sir.

Alright then, let’s get this over with. Porter strode to a position in front of the lines of companies where he could be easily seen by all of the men in the battalion.

Guelich and the battalion’s quartermaster, newly-commissioned Lieutenant Sam Howard, followed and took their respective positions behind Porter. Two months ago, Harper had been the Adjutant, the senior lieutenant in the battalion. Now, as Assistant Quartermaster, he was the junior lieutenant, placed in a made-up position created during his recent parole. He had returned to the same mistreatment he had left a month ago.

The battalion chaplain and the surgeon with his assistant surgeon were also all in attendance – something which only happened for very special ceremonies. They formed into a sloppy rank behind Guelich and Howard. A horse fly buzzed past Harper’s face, distracting him. It returned to alight on his nose. After he brushed it away, the thought came to him that he had missed his weekly bath on Sunday. He would remedy that this morning.

With no obvious, official position in the formation, Harper strolled over to where the enlisted members of the staff had formed. It would look best if he formed alongside the quartermaster sergeant who was the real authority. Although Assistant Quartermaster might be a meaningless job in an organization that required only one officer and one sergeant, at least he was back with the fighting part of the army, deep in Sesesh Tennessee. He would find something useful to do in spite of his commanding officer’s insults. The national crisis was too great for him to stay at home.

He refused to believe that everything that he had done, everything that had happened to him, everything he had lost, would amount to this. No. Emily would have told him to keep his head down and be smart. He would do that. Although he wished for no man’s death, even Monroe’s, vacancies among the officers must inevitably occur.

****

This is so exciting!

Former saloon girl and current nurses’ assistant Katie Malloy had never seen a proper military formation before. There were so many soldiers on the field and each one seemed to know where he was supposed to be, their hats in perfect lines and rows, some sloppier than others but all cleaned with their insignia shining bright and their hat brims pinned up on the left side. Five men carried the staffs of five small blue flags with bald eagles sewn into them which fluttered with each passing breeze. The officers even wore black feathers tucked into those up-turned brims.

Katie brushed the imaginary dust from her collar. She looked at her shoes. Missus Featherstone had required her to clean and press her spare uniform last night during Bible-reading and now Katie knew why. She would not look ridiculous next to all these sharp-uniformed men. She straightened her spine as much as she could with the aid of her walking stick to contend with the healing knife wound in her thigh. She would fit in.

Corporal Gustav Magnusson sat with them in his wheelchair. Missus Featherstone had ordered the darkies, Elsa and Florida, to push him from the Featherstone’s tent and through the wet grass while Katie watched in her role as Gustav’s special nurse. With the soldiers on parade, Katie understood now why he was so eager to return to full duty with his friends. The sight of so many men organized into a single creature would give anyone a desire to belong there.

The last of the blue-coated men passed from each company’s tent street and crossed through the gathering crowd of women to join the formation. Each carried the odors of fresh boot black and metal polish. Gustav’s friend, Private Johnny Cooke had stopped to chat when he came past, looking so handsome in his fresh-pressed uniform with shiny brass buttons on the front and the stiff black hat which she knew as the symbol of her own rescue from Lafitte’s Hideout four days ago.

Private Wrangler Eberhart had also stopped to say hello. Of all the soldiers, Katie liked Eberhart maybe the best – except for Gustav – of course. Like her, Wrangler had been in the Army only since they landed three days ago and was also trying to learn the ways of camp life. Unlike most of the soldiers, he wore only the day-to-day service uniform and the hat that the others called a kepi. There had been no time for him to draw the full uniform before they had all fled Paducah. Wrangler found a place in the rear rank of Gustav’s Company B.

Normally, Sarah Featherstone, the sergeant’s wife, required that Katie stay close by the family’s tent when she was not tending to the injured. It helped Katie avoid the disdain that many of the soldiers’ wives showed her because of her background. They could not know the struggles Katie had gone through to escape that life, killing two men herself during her escape.

Katie had worn her hair up in the style that many of the wives wore, a thick braid twisted into a small bun and tucked under a linen skullcap. She wasn’t a little girl anymore and should not wear her hair free. Maybe if she dressed like one of them, the camp women would stop being so nasty. Today though, none of them said anything. Neither Sarah nor Gustav would tolerate insults towards her. Instead, the ladies chose to ignore her as best they could, even while greeting her escorts.

Mister Harper appeared from his tent and joined the officers standing in the middle of the formation. His uniform was spotless, thanks to her work yesterday. Sarah had told her to make sure it was pressed and clean for this morning but had refused to tell her why. She had only said that he would need to look his best. After ironing the uniform, Katie had brushed his black hat, re-stiffened it with corn starch, and polished the gilded insignia. She had to wait until he fell asleep last night before she could sneak away with his boots and polish them properly. The extra effort was worth it. He looked very handsome today though his expression only showed confusion.

She was not sure what she should call Mister Harper now that he was her protector. She was not his best girl and he had shown no interest in bedding with her. In fact, he had told her that she must never again lay with a man until she was married, otherwise no one would believe that she wanted to reform from being a whore. Maybe she was his adopted daughter, except there were no papers that said such and he was not old enough to be her father. Somehow, she belonged to Mister Harper and her dead friend Maggie had told her she could trust him. Mister Harper earned that trust when he had helped her escape, even though he did not want to.

Katie glanced at Gustav again. She bit her lip.

The saloon owners had beaten him nearly to death for helping her escape. Loreena Bosley and her husband were both dead now but no one knew how many friends they might have, so Mister Harper had insisted that Gustav come to the Army instead of staying behind in the Paducah hospital. Nurse Wells had made Mister Harper take Katie as well. She was in the same danger as Gustav if she stayed in Paducah. For the time being, their mutual safety lay in having the entire battalion surrounding them.

Are you warm enough, Gustav? Katie pulled the blanket higher around his shoulders.

His condition had improved in each of the days that they had been in the camp. His urine no longer showed any signs of blood and the reduced swelling over the bruises on his chest and face meant that his features had returned almost to normal, although the wicked purple bruising remained on nearly every inch of his skin on his face and chest.

Yeah. No problem, eh? Gustav clutched the edges of the blanket but did not look at her.

Gustav had changed since their nights together in Paducah. He was colder now and avoided her except when she had to inspect his bruises. Even then he would flinch when she touched him, avoiding her eyes, and clenching his teeth together in something other than physical pain. Perhaps it was because of the way his friends had treated her at first until Missus Featherstone had laid down the law. Or maybe it was because the battalion doctor said that he shouldn’t be out and about. In fact, he should be on bed rest in the hospital as far away from the war as he could get. Katie wasn’t sure who or what Gustav hated the most. She longed for the closeness they enjoyed before the escape. Maybe the pain from his injuries had caused him to pull away but Katie suspected that might not be the only reason. She had decided to stay some distance away while he sorted things out in his own mind.

Even though Mister Harper had convinced the doctor to give Gustav a few days to heal before the battalion went off to fight, Katie knew that without at least two months of rest, Gustav would not heal. He would ask whenever she treated him and he always became angry when she told him what she knew. Now they had not spoken to each other for the past two days except for what was needed for her to nurse him. Instead, he kept reading the letter from that girl back in Iowa. Perhaps one day they could be friends again; maybe that could only happen after his body healed.

****

The battalion’s sergeant-major appeared before the commander’s tent, standing as proud as ever with his perfectly-formed Hardee hat and his three blue stripes with three rockers clearly visible on both arms. On signal from him, the bugler sounded Attention and the men of the companies ended their conversations and stood-to. Lieutenant Colonel Monroe emerged from his tent and eyed the formation. His gaze fell on Harper a moment longer than necessary at the end of the sweep of the battalion.

From his position in front of the staff enlistees, Harper saw the girl in her grey nurse’s frock buttoned to the collar and green armband, short locks of her red hair clearly visible among the drab clothes of the battalion’s women where they poked out from the bottom of her skullcap. It seemed impossible that she could get her apron so clean that it flashed with white brilliance whenever a stray ray of sunshine stuck it. She must have worked on it for hours. He caught her eye and ran his hand over the breast of his uniform before he winked. That brought a bright smile.

Apparently satisfied after seeing Harper, Monroe squared his hat and marched forward with the sergeant major formed en echelon. The pair halted three paces in front of Major Porter. Seen from the side, Monroe’s mutton-chop whiskers hid most of his face from Harper’s view but the buttons of his jacket stretched clearly over the round belly.

Useless bastard.

Monroe seemed peeved about something if his pursed lips were any indication. The bastard must be angry at having to return to the battalion from his comfortable hotel in Crump’s Landing.

Porter gave a formal salute. First Iowa Volunteers assembled.

Very well. Monroe returned the salute. He executed a military about-face towards the color guard, waiting beside the commander’s tent. Present the colors!

Somehow, Monroe had avoided being relieved of command after the battle at Fort Donelson. The Republican governor had ordered Monroe replaced once he learned that the man who had run against him in the last election now commanded the first of Iowa’s volunteer regiments. Harper had been there when Monroe learned of the dismissal but Grant had issued a reprieve because of the approaching campaign. Harper still wondered how the inept politician-soldier had retained his command. These men deserved a better commander than Monroe – a politician who was here for no higher purpose than to build a reputation for the next time he planned to run for office.

The color guard marched towards the battalion square keeping cadence with the five company drummers following behind. One drummer boy clicked his drum sticks against each other to set the pace.

It had not surprised Harper when Monroe stared at him. Although Harper had been back with the battalion for three days, he had avoided a face-to-face meeting until now. A month ago, the battalion commander had attempted to organize a general court-martial while Harper, Corporal Gustav Magnusson, and Private Johnny Cooke waited out their paroles in Paducah. Soon there would be a reckoning over that.

The color guard halted ten yards in front of Monroe. The group marched in place for four beats and then came to a smart halt. The two flags drooped in the still air, one the symbol of a unified nation, the other the symbol of the State of Iowa’s faith in the valor of the men of the battalion. On signal, the bugler sounded Attention followed by a drum roll from the drummers. At the end of the drum roll, the bugler played To The Colors while Monroe, Porter and the company commanders saluted. The left flag bearer dipped the battalion’s flag while the national colors remained standing tall.

While the bugler played, Harper glanced at Magnusson sitting erect in his wheelchair in front of the girl. The stout Sarah Featherstone hovered nearby. If Magnusson were sent home, he would be the fourth man to be killed or injured while under Harper’s direct command, including the Monroe’s own son. Not only would the battalion lose one of its best corporals and Harper lose a good friend, but losing him would not help in his effort to restore his reputation within the battalion.

The music ended. Harper brought his attention back to Monroe. The color guard wheeled right and returned to their original position in front of the command tent with a drummer clicking the pace. Again, they wheeled until they faced the center of the square, marked four beats and halted. The two flag bearers grounded their flagpoles.

There must be one hell of an occasion for all of this folderol.

He glanced around the square formation to try to discern who might be the recipient of whatever award was about to be made. Monroe did not make it a habit of honoring common soldiers, so it must be an officer – probably McKinsey, Monroe’s favorite hatchet-man. Certainly not Monroe himself. Unless it came from one of his political connections back home.

Lieutenant Colonel Monroe turned to face the battalion. At ease. The men of the battalion opened their stance but remained in formation. Some flexed their knees. Harper glanced over his shoulder to observe the reactions of the men behind him when he heard his name.

Lieutenant James Harper, front and center. Major Porter had called him.

Was he supposed to do something? No one had told him he had a part in the ceremony.

Next to him, the sergeant growled with a low voice. Mister Harper, front and center! In front of the entire battalion, Major Porter stared at Harper with a sadistic smile.

Harper composed himself quickly and came to attention. He marched forward, making three more-or-less regulation turns until he stood facing Monroe. For better or worse, whatever was about to happen, he must look composed and unsurprised.

The sergeant-major handed the battalion commander a scroll which Monroe unrolled and read:

To all who shall see these presents, greeting: Know ye that reposing special trust and confidence in the patriotism, valor, fidelity, and abilities of James Thomas Harper, I do, by and with the advice and consent of the Legislature, appoint him a Captain of Iowa State Volunteers to rank as such from the first day of February, eighteen hundred and sixty-two. This officer will therefore carefully and diligently discharge the duties of the office to which appointed by doing and performing all manner of things thereunto belonging.

Harper was being promoted. Of all the things this ceremony could have been about, this was the least likely. Surprised at the unexpected recognition, he glanced first at Monroe and chuckled at the irony before he caught himself and forced himself to present an emotionless countenance. It must have been some powerful leverage to force Monroe to approve any promotion, especially for Harper.

Monroe continued to read:

This commission is to continue in force during the pleasure of the Governor of the State of Iowa for the duration of the current emergency under the provisions of the Public Laws relating to Officers of Iowa Volunteers.

Samuel L. Kirkwood,

Governor

Monroe read without emotion but his pinched, knitted brows connecting atop the side whiskers showed Harper all he needed to know. Almost as if he’s trying to piss with a dose of the clap.

After six months of effort, the big moment was here.

Monroe handed Harper the commission without enthusiasm. Congratulations, Captain. Monroe saluted rather than offer a handshake.

Confused, Harper’s mind jumped from thought to thought about how a promotion could have come to pass. Someone must have spoken on his behalf. But who? He focused on Monroe and took the paper before he returned the salute.

You can return to your place, Mister Harper.

Harper collected himself. He stood as straight as he could and performed a passable about face. Porter had a huge grin that contrasted with Monroe’s painful scowl. The promotion had been Porter’s idea. Harper shook his head and cast a half-smile at his old friend. He should’ve known something was up. Harper would get the full story later.

When he stepped off to return to his place in formation, a cheer started in Company C which his friend Bill Pierson commanded, Hip-hip, . . . hurrah! The other companies picked up the cheer on the second Hip-hip … hurrah. All of the battalion and most of the wives joined in the third, Hip-hip … hurrah! However, each of the cheers were weak and shrieking whistles pierced the last one. Obviously, not everyone in the battalion believed he deserved the promotion. Harper could feel the warm blood reddening his face at the overt show of scorn.

Monroe addressed Major Porter. If there is no more business, Major, you may dismiss the men.

Yes, sir. Porter saluted but Monroe had already turned and walked away.

****

From where he sat, Magnusson watched Harper’s tight jaw and red face as he returned to his place in the formation. The uncomfortable silence around him showed that others in the crowd saw it as well. This was a day that Harper had worked for, ever since the First Iowa reorganized last August but the jeers had ruined it for him. Most of the men still did not trust him, all because of what happened at the Belmont battle.

Certainly, Colonel Monroe was no help. He had done nothing in the six weeks he and Harper had been gone to kill the rumor that Harper had no regard for casualties. Probably Monroe was still bitter about how his son lost his leg. Harper had made a mistake at Belmont, but Magnusson now understood how anyone could have made the choice Harper had in the same situation.

Captain Brice McKinsey, Magnusson’s company commander, was no better than Monroe. McKinsey knew the true and full story of Belmont and of their capture at Fort Donelson but he did nothing to stop the gossip. In fact, he had actually made matters worse by trying to falsify Magnusson’s and Cooke’s statements about what had happened during their capture. With Monroe’s help, McKinsey had successfully hidden his own misconduct during that battle. McKinsey had proven that he did not understand modern warfare and it seemed likely that he would get everyone killed before the war ended.

Magnusson would be Harper’s man if they ever gave Harper a command. He had seen Harper’s bravery and the fact that Harper had rejected his own parole in Nashville until all of them had a parole. Magnusson had even seen Harper fight the Confederate spies in Paducah. He and Cooke had told the men in their platoon and those men seemed willing to give Harper a second chance. Somehow, they must convince the rest of the battalion.

He had the proof of Harper’s ability right here in his pocket, a twenty-dollar gold piece. It served as remembrance of their time in Paducah. He pulled it from his pocket and felt the ridges of the woman’s head on the face of the coin. Fortunately, General Grant’s man in Paducah, the man who had given Magnusson this reward, knew the truth, although it seemed unlikely that would make any difference.

Before he could do anything, however, Magnusson had to get himself back on his feet and back in the saddle. His bottom and lower back ached from too much sitting. Every day, he felt stronger but he could read both the doctor and especially Katie. Neither of them expected he would recover in time. He had been hurt helping Katie escape the whore house and rewarded with a wheelchair for his efforts. It didn’t matter what the doctor – or Katie – thought, he was here now and here he would stay.

****

At mid-afternoon, Harper reported to the commander’s tent after being summoned by the colonel’s orderly. He had taken lunch with Theo Guelich and had been idle thereafter until the messenger found him. Harper was eager to know what the Colonel had planned for him since his promotion meant that he could not work for Sam Howard any longer.

If he could not have a company, maybe Monroe would have the good grace to assign him to one of the flag-officer staffs. The quartermasters probably welcomed Harper’s departure as much as