Stones River
By StevenMiller Miller, Army
Writing Type: Prose
By Steven Miller
As the Civil War
raged to the south, the 82nd Indiana Infantry was formed in August 1862 to be
prepared to meet the threat of Confederate forces moving north through
Kentucky.
Ethan Newkirk had
left his home in Pike County, Ind., at age 18 and joined the 82nd. His father
had been killed in a hunting accident, and the following year his mother had
died of pneumonia, leaving him and his 14-year-old sister to survive on the
small farm. He had wanted to get away. So, he left his sister in the care of
his grandparents and joined up. Like many of the young recruits, it was an
opportunity to escape the farm and embark on an adventure. The politicians had
told them that rebels would be whipped and that they would probably be home
within three months. The adventure turned into repeated drills followed by
endless marches southward through heat, rain, mud, sleet and snow.
In September,
they joined Union Gen. William Rosencrans’ forces as they pursued Confederate
Gen. Braxton Bragg south toward Murfreesboro. There was a pitched battle at
Perrysville, but the 82nd arrived as the Confederates pulled back. The men were
assigned the task of digging graves and burying the bloody and broken bodies,
both Union and Confederate.
The Union forces
had caught up with the Rebels near Murfreesboro, and the two armies faced off
early in the morning of Dec. 31. Bragg threw his troops against the Union
forces. It was a day-long battle of flanking maneuvers, advances, retreats and
more advances, each leaving the fields and woods littered with dead and
wounded. In the Round Forest, Union troops had dug themselves into rock
formations and repulsed one advance after another by the Rebel forces. At many
points during the day, the Union army was virtually on the brink of folding
into itself and losing it all but was saved by the fact that the Confederate
forces had taken terrible losses and were literally exhausted from the day-long
fighting. The day ended with the battered Union Army digging in along the
Nashville Pike, preparing for another push from the Rebels early the following
day.
Ethan had
survived the bloody fighting of the day and curled up in the trench, and in
spite of the cold wet uniform and blankets, fell fast asleep. It was a little
after midnight when his corporal kicked his thigh to wake him up.
“Git up,
Newkirk.” he said. “You got picket duty.”
Ethan slowly
dragged himself to his feet, gathered his gear and followed him into the
darkness. As sleepy as he was, his senses went on alert immediately, realizing
that he could easily blunder into Confederate pickets in the dark woods. He
gripped his musket firmly and squinted to see all around him into the dark
woods. Finally, the corporal stopped.
“This is your
post,” he said, pointing down the slope through the trees. “You hear anything
coming from that way, you shoot first and talk later, you hear me?”
Then he turned
around and slogged back up the hill through the thick brush.
Ethan settled
down and leaned against a tree, sliding down to a sitting position. Through the
treetops, he could see the clouds breaking up, and the moonlight helped the
woods around him take shape. He knew that if he fell asleep, he could be shot,
or worse; some Rebs might slip past him. It was times like this when his
thoughts turned to home and his sister Rebecca, who was living with her
grandparents. He doubted they would recognize him now. The dirty whiskers that
now covered his gaunt cheeks felt like they had been there forever. The damp,
cold uniform felt stiff and musty.
He sat for a
while until he noticed the sound of running water of a stream to his front. He
thought that he could fill his canteen and splash some water on his face. He
decided to make his way to the creekbank. As he knelt by the water, in the darkness,
he heard the sound of movement on the other side of the creek. He gripped his
musket and peered into the darkness of the bushes.
“Easy, Yank,” a
quiet voice warned from the shadows. “I aint’t fixin to shoot you unless I have
to.”
Ethan squinted
into the bushes across the creek, and the form of a man materialized from the
shadows.
“I just come down
to get some water.”
“Me, too”,
whispered Ethan, still gripping his musket, thumb on the hammer. As his eyes
adjusted to the dim moonlight, he could see a young man in a slouch hat,
whiskers covering his face. He saw the man lean his musket against a log and
squat beside the creek to fill his canteen. Ethan cautiously did the same and
dipped his canteen into the clear creek water. The man sat back and took a
drink.
“Where you from,
Yank?” the Ref asked.
Ethan was silent
for a moment. “Indiana,” he replied.
“I don’t rightly
know where that’s at.”
“Just on the
other side of the Ohio River, north of Kentucky.”
“Yeah. Heard of
it,” said the Reb. “Never been there, though. Never been much of anywhere I
guess.” He took a swig from his canteen. “What’s it like?”
Ethan thought a
minute and looked around at the dark woods.
“About like here,
I reckon.”
“Why’re you
here?”
“You mean here in
Tennessee?”
“I mean here, in
the army.”
Ethan thought for
a minute.
“My ma and pa
died last year, and I didn’t have much else I could do but try to stay there
and work a little piece of land.” He took a sip from his canteen. “I heard the army was recruiting and thought
I could sign up for a few months and get some money.”
“A few months?
That’s what they told us. Said we’d whip you Yanks in a few weeks. We’re still
here and so are you.”
Ethan just
shrugged.
“Sorry to hear
about your ma and pa,” the Reb said. “You got any other kin?”
“Just a little
sister. She’s living with my ma’s folks. I send her money when I can.”
Ethan sat for a
minute. “Where you from, Reb?”
“Near Lynchburg.”
“How far’s that
from here?”
The Reb looked at
him carefully. “Fer enough.”
“You got any
kin?” Ethan asked.
“I got a wife. I
think she’s had my baby by now. Don’t hear much.”
He was quiet for
a minute. He tugged at a scarf tied around his neck to keep the night chill
away.
“She sent me this
scarf. Said she knitted it herself.” He tucked it into the collar of his coat.
“What’re you Yanks doing down here anyways?”
Ethan sat back on
a flat rock by the stream.
“President
Lincoln says that it ain’t right for the Negroes to be owned like cattle. Says
they should be free like everyone else.”
There was a
silence between them.
“I don’t own no
Negroes,” said the Reb. “I’m lucky to own a mule.”
“You don’t own no
Negroes?”
“Hell, no. Only
rich folks own slaves. Most of us are just dirt farmers like you. “
“That don’t make
much sense,” said Ethan. “Why’re you fighting for something you don’t even
have?”
The Reb looked at
him across the stream. “I really didn’t have no choice. They passed a law in
Richmond that said we all had to go. All except kids and old men, that is.”
“Even if you
don’t have no slaves?”
The Reb laughed a
bitter laugh. “Hell, the law says that if you have more than 20 slaves, you get to stay home and watch ‘em.
You don’t have to go and fight. The rich folks that started this goddam thing
don’t even have to fight.”
Ethan shook his
head. “I still don’t know why they wanted to fight a war.”
“You know, Yank,
I guess Southerners just don’t like people who don’t understand us telling us
how to live our lives. What if a bunch from Tennessee or Atlanta came up there
across the river and started telling you what the hell you can and can’t do?,”
he said, pointing up the hill. “What if some important man in Nashville started
telling folks in Indiana what they can own and can’t own. What would you do?”
Ethan thought for
a minute. “Wouldn’t like it much, I reckon.”
“There you go,”
the Reb said, nodding. “You’d fight to run ‘em off.”
Ethan took a sip
from his canteen and thought for a minute. “Yeah, I guess I would.”
“So, if all you
Yanks would just turn around and head back north, this would be over and we
could all go home.”
“Maybe. But it
still ain’t right to own other folks like they were farm animals.”
The Reb began to
gather himself and get to his feet. “Well, I don’t know about that.” He picked
up his musket. “What’s yer name, Yank?”
“Ethan,” he said.
“What’s yours?”
“Ben.”
“I hope you get
back home to see your baby soon,” Ethan said.
The Reb looked at
him for a minute and nodded. “Well, Ethan, you sound all right. I shore hope I
don’t have to kill you tomorrow.”
With that, he
disappeared into the woods.
Before dawn,
another corporal came through the trees with Ethan’s replacement and told Ethan
to return to his unit. Ethan trudged back uphill through the wet underbrush and
back to the camp. As he approached, he saw his sergeant barking orders to men
in the trenches as they were gathering up their gear.
“What’s going
on?” he asked Gritz, his best friend, as he stepped into the muddy trench.
“Them artillery
boys under General Crittenden have set up on a hill over by the river,” Gritz
said, “and they’re sending some of us from E Company over to set up and protect
them.”
“Protect the
artillery?”
“Yep. We need to
set up between the guns and lay down cover fire if they need it.”
“Why us?”
“Believe it or
not, Hoss, they think we’re the freshest troops around here.”
The men followed
the sergeant for a mile or more through the breaking dawn to a hilltop overlooking
the river. Ethan looked through the early mist and saw a row of field guns
lined up almost wheel to wheel along the ridge, their muzzles trained down the
hill toward the river that flowed through the trees below. Past the river, to
the east, he could see Union troops dug in along a small hill, waiting for the
Confederates to do something.
“God,” Ethan
said, looking down the line of artillery, “there must be fifty of them.”
“Listen up!” the
sergeant barked. “You men find a place between these guns where you have an
open field of fire down toward that river. These artillery boys are gonna have
enough to do and ain’t got time to fight off a charge. You’re gonna make damn
sure no Rebs come up this hill.”
There wasn’t much
cover for them, so Ethan and Gritz settled in between two of the cannons and
put their knapsacks in front of them to rest their muskets on. Then they
waited, shivering in the cold air. The day passed slowly, and Ethan could hear
the sounds of battle off to the west.
“I hope the Rebs
aren’t pushing our boys back to the point where they’re behind us,” Ethan said.
Gritz looked back
over his shoulder, then back down the hill toward the river.
“We best not
think about that,” he said.
Late in the
afternoon, the weather began to get worse again. Thick, dark clouds rolled in
and settled low. Suddenly, the scene in front of them became alive. The
Confederate forces had launched a full-fledged frontal assault against the
Yanks on the far side of the river. The Union forces were badly outnumbered but
held for a while. The artillery began to fire over the Union troops at the
advancing Rebel line. Using the artillery for cover, the Union troops abandoned
their position and retreated across the river, up the hill and past the artillery
batteries.
The Rebels,
seeing the men in blue falling back, felt victory was in their reach. They
continued to advance across the river and charged up the hill directly toward
the line of Union guns.
“Load the
cannister!” bellowed the artillery commander. The cannoneers brought the bags
of grapeshot from the wagons and began to ram them down the barrels.
“Good God,” said
Ethan. “Those Rebs aren’t going to keep coming toward these guns, are they?
They’re gonna be slaughtered!”
“Sure looks that
way,” said Gritz, as he sighted down the barrel of his musket. “But I’m fixing
to shoot any of the bastards that are still standing.”
As the Rebels
crossed the stream, 45 Union cannons opened up on them at near point-blank
range. The results were beyond horror. The pieces of metal that comprised the
grapeshot tore through the men, shredding their bodies. The stream immediately
ran bright red with their blood and pieces of their bodies. At that moment, the
clouds opened up, and wind-blown sleet pelted the men on the hill and in the
river below. Rebels that somehow survived the rain of steel were blinded by the
rain of ice. The cannons continued their merciless barrage, and the Rebel
troops turned, struggling desperately to escape back to their positions east of
the river.
Through the
cannon smoke, the mist and the sleet, Ethan could barely make out the scene
below. But he saw well enough.
“Dear God,” he
said as he put his head down on his knapsack in front of him.
“I don’t think
God’s anywhere near here right now,” Gritz said.
The Rebs
continued their retreat, and the cannons fell silent. Ethan’s ears rang from
the sound of the guns, and his nostrils burned from the acrid smoke that hung
thick in the air.
The only noise
was the sound of the screams and cries for help from the human wreckage below.
An artillery
captain hurried along the line.
“Ok, men,” he
said, surveying the carnage. “We have wagons coming. We’re going to hoist the
white flag and see if we can get down there and help any of those poor devils
and get them back to the hospitals. Let’s go.”
Ethan and Gritz
looked at each other for a minute, then stood and began to walk down the hill
toward the river. The sleet had stopped, but the footing was slippery. As they
approached the stream, they saw up close what direct cannon fire can do to a
human being. The bloody bodies, and parts of others, lay in heaps. Rebs who
were still alive reached out and begged for help. A few, with injuries too
horrible to live with, begged to be killed.
Ethan and Gritz
began to push the dead aside, lift wounded men from the heaps and carry them to
the west bank, where several hospital wagons were approaching.
Darkness was
falling, so they worked as fast as they could. The Union men lit torches and
lanterns to see what no man should ever see. They worked into the night to help
as many as they could, but the dead far outnumbered the living. Lantern in
hand, Ethen waded across the stream through the bloody pieces of humanity,
looking and listening for any sign of life. He stepped out on the east bank and
almost stumbled over a body lying in the wet grass. He held the lantern close
and saw the body of a Confederate soldier. His head had almost been severed by
the steel shot, and the features of his face were damaged beyond recognition.
Snug around his neck was a blood-soaked knit scarf.
It was well after
midnight before Ethan and the others were sent back to rejoin the 82nd. They
settled into the line behind the newly constructed breastworks. Ethan saw
Ronald Covert sitting in the mud, back against some logs, chewing on a hardtack
biscuit.
“What’d we miss?”
Ethan asked.
Covert continued
to chew for a minute and said, “We were in it. The Rebs came at us several
times, but we sent ‘em packing.”
Ethan asked, “How
bad did we get it?”
“Not bad. We were
lined up in two lines with all them Ohio boys. One line would fire, then lay
down to load. Then the other line would fire and load. We had the Michigan boys
behind us with the cannons. The Rebs took a pretty good lickin’. Most of the worst of it was off to our left
flank. They got hit pretty hard.”
Ethan looked over
the logs toward the Rebel position and saw nothing but darkness.
“Does the
lieutenant say they’re going to try again tomorrow?” Ethan asked.
“Hell, we’ll
probably charge them. It’s like two stupid bull deer butting heads.”
He looked at
Ethan. “Where’d they send you?”
“They had us up
on a hill over yonder a piece, with the artillery boys. The Rebs tried to take
the hill where we were.”
“Was it bad?”
“The crazy
bastards just charged across the river into the guns.” He took a deep breath.
“The most God-awful thing I’ve ever seen. The artillery slaughtered them.”
His thoughts went
to Ben, the young Rebel at the creek, and felt himself begin to tremble. As he
sat back against the muddy logs, he pulled his hat down over his face to sleep.
And to hide the tears that were leaking into his whiskers.
When the sun came
up the morning of Jan. 3, the men of the 82nd checked their ammunition pouches
and prepared for another day of fighting. But as they looked out at the
Confederate lines, they saw no movement. The Rebel forces had left during the
night.
The Battle of
Stones River was over, leaving more than 13,000 Union and 10,000 Confederate
dead or wounded. General Breckinridge’s troops that charged across Stones River
into the Yankee cannons had lost almost 1,800 men killed or wounded in less
than an hour.
Notes: This is historic fiction. The characters are fictitious, created with the historic context of the Battle of Stones River

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