A Dark and Bloody Ground: Reaping the Whirlwind

By Michael Willever and Michael R. Phelps

THE SAGA CONTINUESPerryville, Kentucky, October 8, 1862. The small town of just under 400 residents has the notable distinction of unwittingly hosting the largest battle ever fought in the State of Kentucky. From before sunrise until well after dark 70,000 soldiers waged war, smashed homes, dismantled fences, trampled crops, shattering the trees and killing one another wholesale. The struggle was, according to one Southern general who was there, the severest and most desperately contested engagement to my knowledge. The reader witnesses this historic carnage through the eyes of eleven different protagonists, both Northern and Southern, both infamous and common. From Brigadier General Phil Sheridan to Private George Kilpatrick and from Brigadier General Pat Cleburne to Private Sam Watkins, the Battle of Perryville is revealed and revered in this strikingly particular fictional narrative.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496913395

Michael Willever

Michael Willever, Author: An ordained Baptist minister and a graduate of the Faith Bible Institute in Corpus Christi Texas, Michael Willever has been an avid writer and Civil War enthusiast since childhood. Having read and reread Michael Shaara’s The Killer Angels when the book first came out in 1975, Michael says he was permanently affected and longed to someday write his own Civil War historical fiction novel. Research for the book series, A Dark and Bloody Ground, began earnestly in early 2004 and the first installment, A Dark and Bloody Ground: Sowing the Wind, was completed in late 2007. The second installment, A Dark and Bloody Ground: Reaping the Whirlwind, has an anticipated release date in the fall of 2010. Michael is a member of The Civil War Preservation Trust and The Perryville Battlefield Preservation Association. A Dark and Bloody Ground: Sowing the Wind is Michael’s first novel. Michael R Phelps, Co-Author: Michael R. Phelps is the Researcher and Liaison for the book series, A Dark and Bloody Ground. In this role, Michael coordinates, manages and provides the author with detailed information found in many facets of literature, documents, memoirs and archived items. As a Liaison, Michael coordinates and schedules all book signings and lectures. Michael Phelps is no stranger to researching and writing and spending several years in these various capacities has taught him the importance of detail, accuracy, and originality. Drawing on years of experience in public service, the US Army, and his religious activities, Michael now focuses mainly on his research and serving as the author’s liaison. Michael has had poetry published in the past and has done extensive research for this book.  Michael is a member of The Civil War Preservation Trust and The Perryville Battlefield Preservation Association.

Book preview

A Dark and

Bloody Ground

Reaping the Whirlwind

Michael Willever

&

Michael R. Phelps

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AuthorHouse™

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© 2014 Michael Willever & Michael R. Phelps. All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Jim Hoffmann

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/17/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-1340-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-1339-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014909139

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

List of Maps

Acknowledgements

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 8, 1862

1 Pat Cleburne, C.S.A. 2 A.M.

2 Phil Sheridan, U.S.A. 2:30 A.M

3 Bishop Polk, C.S.A. 2:36 A.M.

4 George Thomas, U.S.A. 2:45 A.M.

5 Bishop Polk, C.S.A. 3:20 A.M.

6 William H. Lytle, U.S.A. 5 A.M

7 Bishop Polk, C.S.A. 5:30 A.M.

8 Phil Sheridan, U.S.A. 7 A.M.

9 Bishop Polk, C.S.A. 7:20 A.M.

10 Phil Sheridan, U.S.A. 7:20 A.M.

11 J. Stoddard Johnston, C.S.A. 7:30 A.M.

12 William H. Lytle, U.S.A. 9:30 A.M.

13 J. Stoddard Johnston, C.S.A. 9:30 A.M.

14 William H. Lytle, U.S.A. 9:55 A.M.

15 Bishop Polk, C.S.A. 9:55 A.M.

16 J. Stoddard Johnston, C.S.A. 10:05 A.M.

17 Pat Cleburne, C.S.A. 10:30 A.M.

18 Phil Sheridan, U.S.A. 10:30 A.M.

19 J. Stoddard Johnston, C.S.A. 10:45 A.M.

20 Joe Wheeler, C.S.A. 11 A.M.

21 George Thomas, U.S.A. 11 A.M.

22 William H. Lytle, U.S.A. 11 A.M.

23 Bishop Polk, C.S.A. 11 A.M.

24 Pat Cleburne, C.S.A. Noon

25 William H. Lytle, U.S.A. Noon

26 Phil Sheridan, U.S.A. 12:17 P.M.

27 J. Stoddard Johnston, C.S.A. 12:30 P.M.

28 Bishop Polk, C.S.A. 1:22 P.M.

29 William H. Lytle, U.S.A. 1:30 P.M.

30 J. Stoddard Johnston, C.S.A. 2:15 P.M.

31 William H. Lytle, U.S.A. 2:45 P.M.

32 Private George Kilpatrick, U.S.A. 2:45 P.M.

33 Bishop Polk, C.S.A. 2:45 P.M.

34 Sergeant A. J. West, C.S.A. 2:50 P.M.

35 William H. Lytle, U.S.A. 3 P.M.

36 J. Stoddard Johnston, C.S.A. 3 P.M.

37 Sergeant A.J. West, C.S.A. 3 P.M.

38 Bishop Polk, C.S.A. 3:30 P.M.

39 Phil Sheridan, U.S.A. 3:30 P.M.

40 Pat Cleburne, C.S.A. 3:30 P.M.

41 William H. Lytle, U.S.A. 3:36 P.M.

42 J. Stoddard Johnston, C.S.A. 3:38 P.M.

43 Pat Cleburne, C.S.A. 3:40 P.M.

44 George Thomas, U.S.A. 3:45 P.M.

45 Pvt. Sam Watkins, C.S.A. 3:45 P.M.

46 William H. Lytle 3:45 P.M.

47 Pat Cleburne, C.S.A. 3:50 P.M.

48 Phil Sheridan, U.S.A. 4 P.M.

49 William H. Lytle, U.S.A. 4:10 P.M.

50 Pat Cleburne, C.S.A. 4:12 P.M.

51 William H. Lytle, U.S.A. 4:15 P.M.

52 Private George Kilpatrick, U.S.A. 4:20 P.M.

53 J. Stoddard Johnston, C.S.A. 4:20 P.M.

54 Pat Cleburne, C.S.A. 4:30 P.M.

55 Private George Kilpatrick, U.S.A. 4:30 P.M.

56 George Thomas, U.S.A. 4:30 P.M.

57 Phil Sheridan, U.S.A. 4:40 P.M.

58 Private George Kilpatrick, U.S.A. 5 P.M.

59 Pat Cleburne, C.S.A. 5 P.M.

60 George Thomas, U.S.A. 6 P.M.

61 J. Stoddard Johnston, C.S.A. 6 P.M.

62 Bishop Polk, C.S.A. 6:30 P.M.

63 Phil Sheridan, U.S.A. 6:30 P.M.

64 Joe Wheeler, C.S.A. 7:30 P.M.

65 J. Stoddard Johnston, C.S.A. 8 P.M.

66 Phil Sheridan, U.S.A. 8 P.M.

67 Bishop Polk, C.S.A. 8:30 P.M.

68 Private Sam Watkins, C.S.A. 8:40 P.M.

69 J. Stoddard Johnston, C.S.A. 10 P.M.

70 Pvt. Maurice Marion Clark, U.S.A. 10:30 P.M.

71 Joe Wheeler, C.S.A. 11:42 P.M.

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 9, 1862

72 Sergeant A. J. West, C.S.A. Midnight

73 Phil Sheridan, U.S.A. 4 A.M.

74 Pvt. Sam Watkins, C.S.A. 6 A.M.

75 J. Stoddard Johnston, C.S.A. 7 A.M.

76 George Thomas, U.S.A. 8 A.M.

77 Pvt. Maurice Marion Clark, U.S.A. 3 P.M.

78 Bishop Polk, C.S.A. 6 P.M.

79 J. Stoddard Johnston, C.S.A. 6 P.M.

Postscript

Author’s Note

About The Author

LIST OF MAPS

1. Situation at 1 A.M. Perryville and Surrounding Area. Courtesy of John P. Walsh and used by permission.

2. Situation at 2:30 A.M. Peters Hill. Courtesy of Christian Larsen and Used by Permission.

3. Situation at 7 A.M. Peters Hill and Bottom Hill. Courtesy of Christian Larsen and used by permission.

4. Situation at 7:45 A.M. Peters Hill and Bottom Hill. Courtesy of Christian Larsen and used by permission.

5. Situation at 2:00 P.M. Perryville and Surrounding Area. Courtesy of Christian Larsen and used by permission

6. Situation at 2:45 P.M. The Henry Bottom Farm. Courtesy of John P. Walsh and used by permission.

7. Situation 2:45 P.M. Open Knob. Courtesy of John P. Walsh and used by permission.

8. Situation 3:45 P.M. The Henry Bottom Farm. Courtesy of John P. Walsh and used by permission

9. Situation at 4:45 P.M. Peters Hill. Courtesy of John P. Walsh and used by permission.

10. Situation 5 P.M. Dixville Crossroads. Courtesy of John P. Walsh and used by permission.

11. Fight for the Dixville Crossroads. 6:30 P.M. Courtesy of John P. Walsh and used by permission.

12. Situation at 8 P.M. Perryville and Surrounding Area. Courtesy of John P. Walsh and used by permission.

Footnote: The Benton road as is sited on several maps is the same as the Dixville road. The Benton Baptist Church was located in Dixville, Kentucky, thus the two names for this road are interchangeable.

Our Cover: Baptism of Blood by Artist Jim Hoffmann, 1992.

The 15th Kentucky U.S. Volunteer Infantry Regiment stubbornly holds its position against overwhelming odds in its first battle at Perryville, Kentucky–October 8, 1862.

Jim resides in Versailles, Kentucky and is currently employed with the State of Kentucky in Frankfort as a graphic artist for the Office of Creative Services. He graduated from Western Kentucky University with BFA degree in Commercial Art. Since 2002, Hoffmann has been attending civil war reenactments as a special artist correspondent working for (Harper’s Weekly) newspaper. Jim enjoys the challenge of sketching live action at events, as it was done during the war. When Hoffmann is off the battlefield and in his studio, he enjoys creating detailed illustrations of historical battles and events. For more information and to browse Jim’s artwork go to [e-mail]

Maps: The cartographers whose maps are used in this book are Christian Larsen (The maps featured in the written work, A Dark and Bloody Ground: Reaping the Whirlwind are the sole property of Christian Larsen and Mr. Larsen retains all rights of ownership as pertaining to all forms of distribution.) and John P. Walsh Jr. (The maps featured in the written work, A Dark and Bloody Ground: Reaping the Whirlwind are the sole property of John P. Walsh Jr. and Mr. Walsh retains all rights of ownership as pertaining to all forms of distribution.)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am deeply indebted to all those who had a hand in this work. First and foremost I wish to thank my co-author, Michael R. Phelps, for his extensive help with the research and all of his efforts as the author’s liaison. Without him this would not have been possible. I want to thank Kurt Holman for keeping me honest with the history and providing us with an open door to the Perryville Battlefield Park. His assistance to us has been immense. I wish to thank Robin Martinez and Scott Richardson, our editors, and Jeff Burris for his work on layout and graphics design. I want to thank Jim Hoffmann for allowing us the use of his artwork for our book cover. I wish to thank the Strange Brew Coffee House for supporting local artists and for providing such a positive work environment for the author. And I wish to thank John P. Walsh and Christian Larsen for granting us the use of their maps.

The poetry selections of William Haines Lytle are from The Poems of William Haines Lytle, Edited with memoir, by William H. Venable 1894. The quotations from Josiah Stoddard Johnston’s journals are from, Bragg’s Campaign in Kentucky. By a Staff Officer, Written October, 1866. The J. Stoddard Johnston papers are secured for posterity at the Filson Historical Society in Louisville, Kentucky. All dispatches are from War of the Rebellion / Records of the Union and Confederate Armies / Series 1 / Volume XVI / Part 1 & 2, 1886.

Dedicated to

Private Maurice Marion Clark

Company H, 82nd Indiana Volunteers

1st Brigade, 1st Division, 3rd Corps

Army of the Ohio

WEDNESDAY,

OCTOBER 8, 1862

01.jpg

Situation at 1 A.M. Perryville and Surrounding Area.

Courtesy of John P. Walsh and used by permission.

CHAPTER 1

Pat Cleburne, C.S.A.

Perryville, 2 A.M.

T he night sky forcibly relinquished its hold on the Chaplin Hills, being held aloft by firelight from the encampments of General Buckner’s Confederate division. All up and down the Harrodsburg Turnpike the spotty campfires threw up bright streamers in homage to the gods of battle and all were sure the sacrificial rites demanded of these gods would not be long with held.

General Pat Cleburne tightened the leather strap beneath Dixie’s speckled belly, brushing the steed’s gray coat a time or two, running his fingers though her dark, wiry mane. Dixie snickered and nestled against Cleburne’s arm. He took the animal’s muzzle into both of his hands and held her with affection. Dixie bobbed her head a time or two and pawed the ground with her left foreleg. Extending the reins up over the pommel of the saddle, Cleburne footed a stirrup. Swinging up into the saddle Dixie stirred, clopping a step or two away, adjusting to the weight, and then, at the general’s encouragement, she trotted beyond the fires of the headquarters encampment, through the grassy field, and out onto the stone-paved turnpike.

Cleburne rode south and then turned right to head west and through the unlit town. Perryville sat shadow-like in the vale near the river bottom. Up onto a rise of ground overlooking the river, the covered bridge stood spanning the vein like a defiant sentinel. Beyond the bridge and a little south of the road sat the local cemetery, its tombstones glistened in the moonlight reflected by the slivered pools that still remained in the basin of Chaplin Fork.

Crossing the covered bridge with a clomping echo off the wooden planking and then onto the west bank, Cleburne dismounted in the graveyard and tethered Dixie to a small sapling. He strolled among the dead, absent-mindedly gazing at the scant sprinkling of vertical stones, the names and the rolling script blending into one long blur within his idled mind. His jaw continued to throb; even more so now. He had just ignited the pipe. That was the worst of the pain, however. Now that it had been lit, the tingling caused by the smoke he held back of his teeth had a soothing effect, calming the throbbing nerves of his still writhing facial wound.

It isn’t anything much and won’t prove to be fatal, General, but its going to hurt like hell for quite a long time. The surgeon pronounced his diagnosis nearly six weeks ago. Unfortunately for Cleburne’s presence of mind, the doctor’s diagnosis was entirely correct. It did hurt like hell and it had for a long, long time.

General Cleburne leaned against the wall that bordered the cemetery’s northern portion. He gazed up at the flickering stars as they hovered over the town. Just then a few random shots echoed from the hills and valleys surrounding the streams that flowed off toward the west. The enemy was near, they all knew it.

There’ll be few of us sleeping peacefully this night. Patrick considered. Frowning thoughtfully, he took another long draw from the pipe and held the smoke back, feeling the comfort if its warmth, and then he exhaled a long plume of smoke. Someone was riding up from behind him. Cleburne looked back. It was Lieutenant Mangum. Nodding, the general returned to his thoughtful pose. The lieutenant dismounted, releasing his black sorrel to nibble on the cemetery grass.

How’s the wound, General?

Nags me a bit…I guess it’s the price to be paid for surviving, don’t you reckon?

Yes, well, I’d prefer not to pay the price–if it’s all the same to you. Lieutenant Mangum chuckled.

If you can get by without paying, then fine; I’d keep your head down though.

Can’t do that, for you keep me far too busy to be ducking around all the time, the lieutenant replied.

Aye, Lieutenant Mangum, that I do. Cleburne smiled.

Just then another growling ascended from the west, a spattering of rifle shots, obviously. Mangum turned and looked to his commander askance.

It’s been going on since a little before midnight, skirmish lines are drawing in close to each other, a waste of ammunition. Cleburne explained, annoyed.

It is just like before the fight at Richmond, Mangum recounted.

Yes. It was with the Yankee cavalry too. They seem to have developed better sense now, though. They tend not to charge in headlong–fighting blind, I mean.

Too bad for us, Mangum sighed.

Yes, too bad, Cleburne grinned whimsically. We’d be ready for them, wouldn’t we?

That night before the battle of Richmond, Kentucky, Union cavalry rode wildly into the Confederate camp driving Colonel Scott’s cavalry screen before them. Fortunately, General Cleburne had ordered his men to form into line of battle and sleep on their arms. The 48th Tennessee Regiment, all formed up, waited patiently for Colonel Scott’s cavalry to bypass them before letting go a volley into the faces of the Yankee horsemen no more than twenty-five feet away. The Federals fell back, and then dismounted to advance again. The darkness had fully sequestered the woods by then and the Confederate battlelines lay invisible. The Yankees continued shooting wildly at the Rebel campfires. But by then General Cleburne had had his fill of this Tom Foolery and advanced a team of sharpshooters who inched up and fired upon the Yankee cavalrymen with grim accuracy, felling many. That ended it as the Union horsemen returned to their lines.

Well now, there’ll be no more of that, Cleburne avowed.

I don’t reckon they’d catch us napping, General. Most of the boys are too nervous to sleep anyway. Mangum supposed.

No, they know what’s coming; besides, I imagine they’re trying to get in one more poker game before they throw their cards to the roadside. Cleburne snickered thoughtfully.

Mangum smiled and chuckled, Wouldn’t want to enter Heaven’s pearly gates with a deck of cards in your pocket!

No, that wouldn’t do at all, Cleburne imagined. The boys ought to take up chess.

Can’t you just see that? Mangum envisioned it. A chess board at every campfire, mess mates stewing over their next move. Ha!

Check mates? Patrick Cleburne asked–a play on the words.

Oh, bosh! Mangum taunted, No, General, mess mates! They both chuckled off together into the night, their friendship burning through. Patrick Cleburne looked to Leonard Mangum and the years of their collected memories welled up in a moment. He then looked away, regaining the present. Just then cannon rumbled from way out west. Mangum perked up, listening. There was another one, a growl and then a dull thud.

The Yankees? Horse artillery? Mangum solicited.

Let’s not forget about Wheeler. He has Hanley’s section from Calvert’s battery out there with him, Cleburne reminded the lieutenant.

True. It could be Wheeler–probably is. Lieutenant Mangum released a big yawn. I think I’ll turn in. You ought to get some rest yourself, General Cleburne, Mangum advised while recovering his horse. "We’ve got the big show tomorrow."

Don’t think I can sleep just yet, Lieutenant Mangum, Cleburne replied.

Well, good night, anyway, the lieutenant hailed, remounted and cantered off.

Good night, Cleburne responded as Lieutenant Mangum disappeared into the still night air.

Sighing, Patrick Cleburne thought on it all in that short moment, all of the opportunities he had acted upon, all of the tragedies he had endured, the losses, the triumphs, and the finality of change. A wind blew in from the southwest, stirring the trees. He looked up at that pale orb of a moon as it hung on the western sky like a glistening white pearl on a black velvet sash. How romantic, he thought. He remembered Hindman’s wedding.

He’d been Tom’s best man; such happy times. He pictured all of those beautiful women and then he frowned. Beautiful women always made him feel awkward.

Funny, he pondered, how often I’ve commanded soldiers in battle, fearless among the crashing shells and the bullets as they would zip past my head but one pretty face, a whitened lily of a hand, and I’m petrified, frozen with fear. He laughed a hollow laugh. No matter. No time for all of that now anyway, he considered.

Everything is going to change; it already has. Cleburne mumbled his thoughts aloud. Nothing will ever be the same as it was, neither here within my little army or even back at home. Will Helena ever be the same? Providence assures me that it will not. Change, that’s the only thing you can count on. War changes everything.

CHAPTER 2

Phil Sheridan, U.S.A.

Before Peters Hill, 2:30 A.M.

D ark shapes descended, mingling in the valley between the two hills. There were soldiers there, several thousand, shifting from marching columns into lines of battle as the moon hung noticeably lower on the dark morning sky. General Phil Sheridan sat his chocolate charger, Rienzi, just below the crest of the ridgeline, his newly appointed post, surrounded by members of his headquarters staff; among them: Captain Beck, Lieutenant Denning and Lieutenant Lee. With his long glass Sheridan spied dark silhouettes intermittently moving along the wooded crest of the towering black hill, their shapes lined by silvery moonl ight.

I can see them moving about…by God, they’re up there, Sheridan thought with assurance. He had received express written orders from the commanding general to dispatch a brigade for the purpose of taking the black hill. Peters Hill, they were calling it.

You see that, Captain Beck? Sheridan mentioned, his glass still pressed to his eye. They’re up there.

That hill was occupied by the enemy and Sheridan’s task was to drive them off. The corps desperately needed to secure the water lying in the bottom of the creek between the two hills; it was reported to be enough water to supply the entire army.

Why then have we dispatched the 36th Brigade? Captain Beck inquired with barely concealed disdain.

"It is because they are new to this, Captain. The job should be simple enough and, besides, it will serve as their first real blood-letting."

Let’s them see the elephant, Lieutenant Lee put in.

Exactly, Lieutenant, Sheridan affirmed, lowering his spyglass and turning back toward the rest. Lieutenant Denning.

Yes, General?

What of the battery?

Sir, ah, four of Captain Barnett’s guns were preparing to move forward when I left them.

"Four? That’s a six gun battery, Lieutenant."

Well, yes, sir, it is, but Sergeant Rich was detached with his two-gun section to guard the ammunition train, if you’ll recall. The lieutenant reluctantly explained.

Nevertheless, where are they? Sheridan asked with a scowl.

Should be here any minute, General.

Upon receipt of General Sheridan’s dispatch orders, the 36th Brigade’s commander, Colonel Daniel McCook, exhibited a notable nervousness once he had reported to Sheridan for clarification. Colonel McCook’s nervousness was understandable as he was one of the fourteen odd Fighting McCooks. He thus had an illustrious reputation to maintain. Although Colonel McCook had been in combat and his courage was not in question, his brigade was green and therefore was under scrutiny. This was to be the first test of their nerve. Little Phil sent the colonel off to inquire of General Fry concerning the tactical situation and to look over the terrain. If you should need assistance, go to General Fry. Sheridan had instructed him. Earlier in the evening, General Speed Fry had advanced the 10th Indiana Infantry to the creek and then, skirting the base of the hill toward the north, they drew fire farther up. The muzzle flashes and volume of fire they were drawing convinced the Hoosiers that they were overmatched and so they withdrew. Although still poised at the hill’s base north of the Springfield Road, they were stopped nonetheless. General Fry had requested reinforcements; Sheridan was to provide them.

With the support of Barnett’s battery of cannon and with Fry’s troops over there covering his flank, Colonel McCook ought to do just fine, Captain Beck. Sheridan assured his skeptical adjutant.

Whatever the general thinks is best, Beck retorted smugly. Sheridan ignored him.

The 36th Brigade, while forming up at the lower end of Peters Hill, strung itself out into several long battle lines with a full regiment to either side of the road and a third forming to the rear to serve in close support. Several companies were thrown forward in a skirmish line, and the brigade began to advance. Moonlight glistened off of the steel barrels of the muskets.

Listening, Sheridan could hear them tramping up through the brush and he quickly raised his spyglass to observe, scanning towards the hill’s thicketed summit.

02.jpg

Situation at 2:30 A.M. Peters Hill.

Courtesy of Christian Larsen and Used by Permission.

Just then reports from two muskets cracked the still night air in rapid succession. A tense pause and then, yellow-orange flames spit like angry tongues all along the crest of Peters Hill. A scattering of return fire was offered from the dark masses staggering across the skirmish line. Denoting an exaggeration of movement with his spyglass, Sheridan panned back and clearly defined one soldier as he threw up his arms, faltered near the road, and then lay unmoving. By now there was a large blast of fire and smoke from back down in the valley followed by several reverberate concussions.

Barnett’s battery at last, General Sheridan rejoiced. Streaking comets exploded with blinding flashes of lightning, white amongst the Rebels on the hill’s forested top. The bough of a tree toppling with a ripping crunch; the illuminating burst revealed a trim, white structure.

Well, there’s a house up there on that hill. Never noticed it before, Sheridan observed. Just then a ripple of volley fire emanated from the twin Federal regiments advancing up the slope. The entire eastern face of Peters Hill was now alight with angry growls and bright yellow tails of sparks. A ghastly white fog began to dull the edges of this light display: battle smoke.

The regiment at the back and to the right of the road was having difficulty keeping pace due to the dense foliage that fenced the crest of the hill. Meanwhile, the left regiment then wheeled right, driving into the enemy’s flank.

General Sheridan rose higher in the saddle, eventually standing in the stirrups. Yes. It is in my blood…the thrill of combat, the greatest of man’s adventures! Oh, I was indeed made for this! Phil Sheridan gleamed, adrenaline coursing its way mightily through his veins.

Can’t you see them, Captain? Sheridan suddenly shouted to Beck, waving an arm, his dark, fiery eyes still fixed on the point of impact.

Clearly, General! Clearly I can see them advancing like veterans! Captain Beck’s voice was thick with emotion as he too was overcome by the moment and by his commander’s passion.

Go my dear boys! Go! GO! Would you look at them, Denning? Would you look at them go?

It is glorious, General! Lieutenant Denning shouted back. Just then another crash echoed from the northeast; the rumble of the voluminous thunder increased to a deafening degree. New flashes were discerned, crowning the hillside with a glowing halo.

There they are at last. General Fry’s flanking force come to our assistance. It’s only a matter of time now. Sheridan’s eyes gleamed with triumph. We’ve outflanked those Rebels. They must retreat.

The enemy’s gun flashes were beginning to fade and then, at length, ceased all together, only an intermittent crackle remained. The hill had been successfully taken–they won the fight.

The battery of cannon in the valley swiftly limbered up and in just a few moments gun limbers, rifled cannon and caissons all trotted up the slope toward the summit. Releasing a broad sigh, General Sheridan heartily turned to smile invisibly from the darkness and say, Now, gentlemen, let us see to the rest of the division.

CHAPTER 3

Bishop Polk, C.S.A.

Northeast of Perryville, 2:36 A.M.

T he quiet was exquisite. The nocturnal descended upon them once they finally ceased their stirrings; the headquarters encampment now slumbered effortlessly as the bishop still lay awake, listening. This silence was pronounced, lending a curious signific ance.

They had ridden the better part of two hours with the headquarters wagon and the mounted staff rumbling through the night. Dr. Quintard, chaplain of the 1st Tennessee Infantry, had joined them earlier and he and the bishop conversed eagerly, waxing joyously in their mutual eloquence; the adjutants maintaining a respectful distance. Then at long last the exhaustion held sway and they sequestered a small barnyard with a fenced lot where they could corral the horses. The bishop’s son, Hamilton, managed to salvage an old barn door upon which the bishop-general and the good doctor bedded down, sharing the army blanket. Soon, all had drifted off. Even the horses, succumbing to weariness, slept quietly.

The bishop rolled from his side to his back, looking up at the moon, full and overt, dangling barely above the trees, accompanied by a vast canopy of stars. As the bishop turned over again to his side, the wood from the barn door groaned ever so slightly and Doctor Quintard stirred.

The bishop mused, the Reverend Charles Quintard, M.D. sleeping in a barnyard with nothing to do with but my old army blanket. My, oh my, but the charges of this war–and the changes, the bishop contemplated. He closed his eyes briefly, and then reopened them.

Archbishop Leonidas Polk and Doctor Charles Todd Quintard sharing this old woolen blanket and sleeping in the dirt; well, not exactly. Hamilton found and wrestled down this barn door then laid it out to keep his father off of the cold ground. Bless you, my boy. Leonidas smiled.

The wind gently rustled the branches in the boughs of the trees before receding to peaceful stillness as well, and along with the stillness the melancholy descended on the archbishop again.

He had forsaken his peace had he not? Or had he? The bishop considered it. He had not disobeyed God. His peace simply fled from him and–honestly–he did not know why.

This morning’s assault is troubling. He whispered the source of his disquiet. But we’ve intelligence from every part. Buell is enroute to Harrodsburg. The Yankees know we occupy it in strength. I must trust our scouts. No choice. He sighed, still unable to garner any comfort from these reassurances. Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.

Formally I acknowledge my Lord, peacefully, he thought. Drifting off toward sleep; drifting off to Louisiana–home–sipping tea from a porcelain cup, rocking on the front porch and watching the servants out in the garden hoeing beans. They were singing their spiritual songs. Done made my vows to the Lord–and I never will turn back–Oh, I will go–I shall go–to see what the end will be. He could smell magnolia blossoms, sticky sweet. There was a dull thudding then silence. There it was again. Thunderer o’ Him be a comin’. A little more–and then–a little more booming in the distance…awake. That was artillery firing from away off. The bishop, having shaken his doze, sat up. Looking over he saw that Dr. Quintard was awake as well, his eyes open and blinking.

I hope we get some rain, the doctor whispered.

That isn’t thunder, the bishop-general answered as he got to his feet and glanced toward the southwest. Sitting up, Doctor Quintard studied it.

Artillery? Quintard asked.

Yes. They’re fighting in Perryville, Polk replied.

Well, Quintard yawned, all I can say is that we must inquire if the Yankees wouldn’t mind conducting these affairs at a decent hour.

Father, that’s artillery firing, isn’t it? Captain Hamilton Polk equated, stepping out of the darkness.

Yes, Hamilton, let’s get them roused up. We’ll need to get into Perryville quickly, General Polk ordered.

Doctor Quintard stretched and scratched his chin, mumbling to no one in particular, And so much for our little siesta.

CHAPTER 4

George Thomas, U.S.A.

Camped along the Rolling Fork, 2:45 A.M.

H e lay upon the cot in his tent, gazing up at the canvas ceiling and just listening to the silence. Viewed through the flap opening, a campfire smoldered, its solitary flame struggling for existence, falling away then briefly resuscitating only to wane once more. Down at his feet, Major General George Thomas could just make out the form of a slumbering Captain Mack, completely still; exhausted but close, nonetheless, in case his services should be requ ired.

With a supreme