The horses slipped and slid, struggling to pull the wagons through the mess. My mules did a little better. Being as they were smaller and lighter, they didn’t sink in as deep as horses, and when there was a patch of level ground alongside the road, I steered them onto it and we moved along pretty good. But the wagon train was slowed way down. We’d be a good while getting into Gordonsville, and might not even make it by dark. So I just kept on going through the mud and the rain, walking alongside Regis so as to lighten her load.
The first shot came around noon. I didn’t know what it was. It came from a good distance away and was muffled by the rain. It could have been a dog’s bark, or a shout. I looked back at the Mosby horsemen behind us. They had their heads cocked, listening. Then there came a quick rattle and there wasn’t any question anymore. The Mosbys dug their heels into their horses and shot past me toward the sound of firing. For a minute the thudding of hooves covered all other sounds, and then the Mosbys were around a bend in the road, and I could hear gunfire again, pretty steady now, pop, pop-pop, pop-pop-pop.
The wagon ahead of me came to a stop. The teamster driving it jumped up on the wagon seat and looked off down the road. I climbed up on my wagon seat to have a look. I couldn’t see any fighting, not with the rain and the wagon ahead blocking my view.
I was mighty scared. I reached back into the wagon and pulled out Great-grampa’s sword. I felt all trembly, my breath coming in short gasps, my legs weak. Scared as I was, I was bound and determined I wouldn’t cut and run, but would make a fight of it. But how? All I had to do was wave Great-grampa’s sword at a bluecoat and he’d shoot me dead.
Then what would happen to Ma and the little ones? I dropped my arms down to my side and let the sword dangle. I’d promised Pa I wouldn’t go off to fight, and then I’d lied to Ma about there being no risk, and here I was in the middle of a fight after all. I felt awful, for there was a real chance now I’d get killed, or captured, and lose the mules and wagon in the bargain. What was wrong with me? How could I have gone against my promise to Pa like that? What a blame fool I was. Oh, I’d done wrong, all right, and sticking around to wave Great-grampa’s sword at a half dozen bluecoats just so’s I could say I hadn’t cut and run would make it worse yet.
I looked around. To the left a rocky hillside rose up from the road, the rocks slick with rain. There was no hope of getting the mules up there. I looked the other way. There were trees and brush along the road, going back about fifty feet. Through the trees I could see a field that had just been plowed. If I could get the wagon through those trees into the field, I might have a chance. There wasn’t any telling what lay beyond. Maybe some little village where I could hole up. I had to chance it.
The gunfire was a lot closer now. I flung Great-grampa’s blamed sword back into the wagon, where it clattered down among the barrels of beef. Still feeling mighty shaky, I gave the trees alongside the road a quick look. In a minute I saw a place where there was a gap big enough to drive the wagon through. I jumped up onto Regis and didn’t bother being polite to the mules, but gave Bridget a good crack with the whip and jerked the reins hard to turn them off the road. They heaved the wagon out of the mud, off onto the shoulder, and then we were into the woods, smashing down the brush. Just as we went in among the trees, I caught a glimpse down the road of blue uniforms—Yankees. I couldn’t see how many there were—just a mess of them. But they were running through the rain in my direction, bayonets sticking out from their rifles.
It was slow going in the woods, for Bridget and the others weren’t used to crashing through brush and didn’t like it. But they didn’t like all that banging and shouting on the road behind them, neither, and were willing enough to try, especially as I kept cracking that whip pretty hot.
Now I could see the field through the trees pretty good. Beyond it, in the distance, was a white steeple. There had to be a little village over there somewhere. I gave Bridget another lick, and then I saw something else—a split-rail fence running along the edge of the field, dividing it from the trees.
Blame it! I drove the mules forward through the trees until we reached the fence. Before they even stopped, I was off Regis and onto the ground. Behind me there came a shout. I swung my head around. Through the trees and the rain I could see a patch of Yankee blue. I leapt for the fence and began to wrestle the top rail out of the posts. The shout came again. I took another look. A Yankee bluecoat was coming through the trees toward me on the run. I couldn’t make him out real good, but I could see the bayonet on his rifle, all right, for he was slashing the brush out of his way with it as he came.
I forced the top rail loose from the posts, heaved it onto the ground, and began to wrestle with the next one. Then there came a shot, powerful loud. I jumped, and something slapped through the air by my head. It was too late to get through the fence. I reached into the wagon, pulled the sword out from among the barrels of beef, and turned around to face the Yankee. Now I had to fight him, no matter what Pa said. I didn’t know anything about swords so I raised it over my head.
He wasn’t but a hundred feet from me, but what with the trees and the darkness from the rain, I couldn’t make him out too good. He wouldn’t have much trouble shooting me if he wanted to. My legs felt trembly, and the sweat on my face was as thick as the rain. He kept running toward me and then he shouted, “Put down that sword, Reb, or I’ll blow your damn head off.”
I winced, for I could almost feel that ball smacking me in the face, and all the starch went out of me. I let the sword drop. He charged up to me, the bayonet pointed straight at me. “Now lie flat,” he said.
But I hardly heard what he said, for at that moment his face came out of the shadows of the trees, and I saw he was black. My mouth dropped open and my eyes got wide. I stood staring.
“Lie flat,” he said. He jabbed toward me with the bayonet.
Still shocked, I dropped to the wet, dead leaves and lay there. It didn’t matter about the wetness, for I was soaked through as it was. All around guns popped, horses whinnied and shrieked. It was clear that the Mosbys hadn’t driven the Federals off. We’d lost the wagon train before we hardly got started. The whole thing was finished and the Yankees, not the starving people in Richmond, would get the food we were carrying. And I was captured—and so were the mules and the wagon. And captured by a darky, on top of it.
Oh, I felt terrible sick and ashamed of myself. I lay on the wet leaves with my eyes closed, my fists clenched. “I’m sorry, Pa,” I whispered into the ground. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.”
The black soldier was standing over me. I figured that bayonet was about six inches from my back. “Sit up slow,” he said.
I banged my fists on the ground. “Lord Jesus,” I whispered into the wet leaves, “get me out of here and I’ll never go against Pa again.”
“Sit up.”
I sat up, and gave him a look. He seemed to be about my age, and my size, too. He was wearing a regular Federal uniform—blue jacket down to his waist, light blue trousers, blue cap with a black visor. It was a shock, all right—the world turned upside down. Oh, I’d heard that the Union army was taking blacks in. There’d been plenty about it in the newspapers, saying how it was an insult to our troops to have to fight against niggers—it was beneath the dignity of a white man. Some of our soldiers said they weren’t going to take any colored prisoners, neither, but would kill them on the spot. Wouldn’t waste good bullets on them but would chop them up with bayonets. And from what Pa said, I guess some of them did it. They said it happened at Fort Pillow on the Mississippi after a battle there, and at other places, too. Pa said it wasn’t right and our officers weren’t suppose to let it happen. Besides, once word got around among the black soldiers that they might be chopped up if they surrendered, they’d fight to the death, which would only make it worse for us. But I could understand why our troops would do it, for it was beneath the dignity of a white man to have to fight darkies as equals.
So I’d known
there were darkies in the Union army. But I didn’t have no idea they were regular soldiers dressed in uniforms, drilling and carrying guns just like white soldiers. I pictured them in my mind dressed the way I generally saw them at home—barefoot, tattered shirt, old pair of pants with patches on the seat. I didn’t picture them marching into battle in drill formation, neither, or carrying guns; I saw them charging in a howling mob with shovels, picks, and clubs. The sight of this darky standing over me just didn’t fit anything I knew about colored folks since I was big enough to know anything.
“Git up,” he said.
Taking orders from a darky was another shock, especially one my own age. It was just the strangest thing, for I’d never heard a darky even speak back to a white person, much less give them orders. I wondered: would he back down if I yelled at him? Great-grampa’s sword was lying where I dropped it, just a couple of feet away. What would happen if I snatched it up and lunged at him with it? Did he really know how to shoot that rifle? I reckoned maybe he could: darkies weren’t smart enough for much, which is why they had to have white people over them to tell them how to do things, but it didn’t take a whole lot of brains to shoot a rifle, especially when you were only five feet away. I might get to him with the sword before he shot me, but I doubted it. So I stood up.
He looked me over. The sounds of fighting were dying out now, with only a pop-pop here and there, although a couple of horses were still shrieking out on the road. “Looks like I done captured me a Reb,” he said. He looked mighty pleased with himself. “I wish my pappy could see me—it’d do his heart good.”
I stared at him, but I didn’t say anything. I hated having him lord it over me.
“Hop up on the mule,” he said.
“Don’t push me,” I said.
He shoved the bayonet at me. “You heard me. Climb up there on that there mule.”
My temper got away from me. “I’m not taking orders from no nigger,” I shouted.
He poked the bayonet toward me, so the point of it flicked my shirt. “You’re taking orders from this nigger. Git up on that there mule.”
I didn’t say anything. Would he really stab me?
“Git up there. I’d just as lief run you through where you’re standing as look at your ugly face all the way back down to City Point. Save a lot of trouble and the expense of shipping you north to a prison camp.”
Well, I was stuck. If I didn’t do what he said, he would run me through. He’d have to, for he couldn’t just turn and walk away. He’d leave my body here in the woods to rot and stink like the horses I saw awhile back. That’d be the end of me, and Ma and the little ones would suffer for it. They’d never know what happened to me. I had to get back to them with the mules and wagon. That was the only thing that mattered now, and if it meant taking orders from a nigger, why, I’d have to do it. If I stayed alive, maybe I’d find a way to escape, somehow. So I clambered up on Regis. The darky picked up Great-grampa’s sword and climbed into the wagon. “Head on out to the road,” he said.
I turned the mules around and started them off through the woods the way I’d came. I took a quick look over my shoulder. The black soldier was sitting on the wagon seat with his rifle draped over his lap more or less pointed at the middle of my back. With his free hand he was slashing the sword around in the air.
“That’s my great-grampa’s sword,” I said.
“It ain’t your grampa’s anymore.”
I looked away from him so I wouldn’t lose my temper. A few minutes later we were back on the road, about at the spot where I’d jumped into the woods a half hour before.
Oh, my, it was a different-looking place. The wagon that had been in front of me was turned over on its side, and the horses were all down, still in the harnesses, two of them dead with their tongues hanging out of their mouths, a couple of them whinnying and struggling to get up, but too tangled in the harness to get on their feet. A couple of bodies lay in the road farther along—teamsters, for they had on regular clothes instead of uniforms. Still farther in the distance a wagon stood with the traces empty, the horses gone, taken away by the Yankees. Beyond it were some more bodies tangled up with a couple of dead horses. One of them was dressed in blue, I was glad to see. And milling around everywhere were Yankee soldiers—most of them darkies on foot, but a few white officers on horseback among them, for even the Yankees had enough sense to realize you needed white people to tell the darkies what to do.
As we came onto the road, a couple of black soldiers trotted over to the wagon. “Hold it.” I reined in the mules. The black soldiers peered in. “Well, looks like Private Turner got hisself his own driver.”
It was a shock to hear a darky called by a last name. I never hear of such a thing before—always heard them called nothing but Amos, Sam, Henry. I turned and looked back. Private Turner was grinning to beat the band. “Gonna see what it feels like to set up here high and mighty while this buckra takes the orders.”
“Whatcher got in them barrels, Reb?” one of the others said.
I knew I ought to be polite, but my feelings were on the boil. “See for yourself.”
He stared at me. Private Turner said, “This here buckra’s got hisself a mouth.”
“Whyn’t you poke ’um with that there sword, Private Turner, to teach ’um some respect.”
I felt something sharp stick me between the shoulder blades. “All right,” I said. “It’s barrels of beef.”
“That’s better,” the one on the ground said. “Now you jist hop off’n that there mule and set them barrels on the ground. When you get ’em outten there, theys a couple of wounded fellas down the road. Heave ’um in the wagon and take ’um into City Point with you.”
That was the worst part. While that black soldier, Private Turner, sat up there in the wagon playing with Great-grampa’s sword, I wrestled the barrels out of the wagon, sweating and grunting in the rain. My feelings were still mighty hot and I came near to saying the devil with it, I’d go for him, even if I got killed for it. But I didn’t, for in the end Ma and the little ones would suffer for it. So I emptied out the wagon, climbed back on Regis, and started the mules off again, skirting along the edge of the road to go around the bodies. I don’t know as I’d ever felt worse in my life, not even right after Pa died. I’d busted my promise to Pa, and it’d come out just the way he figured it would. How would I ever get back home? Oh, how I wished I’d never heard about this wagon train. Oh, how I wished I hadn’t lied to Ma about it being safe. It felt awful, for wish as I might, I couldn’t turn things around again.
We came to the wounded men. They were lying by the side of the road, propped up against trees, breathing deep, like they were having a hard time getting enough air. “Haul them two fellas over here,” Private Turner said.
I was getting a little more used to taking orders from him, but not a whole lot. I still got a flash of anger from it, but I climbed off Regis and waded through the mud and the rain to the wounded teamsters. As I came up, one of them raised up his head and I saw it was Jeb Wagner. He sucked in a big swallow of air. “Hello, youngster,” he gasped out. “Did you kill any of them bluecoats with your sword?”
I felt too miserable even to blush. One of Jeb’s shoulders was all torn up, the cloth of his shirt mashed into the flesh and dripping blood. “They told me to put you in the wagon and take you to City Point. Maybe they’ll put you in a hospital there.”
“I don’t know, youngster. Maybe it’d be better to die here than be bumped and bounced around in that wagon for three days just so’s I can die at City Point.”
“Maybe you won’t die. Maybe they’ll fix you up there.”
He shook his head. “I got my doubts.” But he struggled to his feet. I got under his good shoulder and helped him through the mud and up into the wagon.
The other fella was considerable worse off. He had a bayonet cut across his stomach that was bleeding pretty bad. I ripped up his shirt and tied it around his middle to stop the bleeding. It hurt h
im something awful to walk, and he kept moaning as we picked our way through the mud to the wagon. But I got him in. Then I climbed up on Regis.
Chapter Six
They formed us up into a little wagon train—just four or five wagons that hadn’t got damaged and whatever horses that had been saved. Off we went for City Point. The black soldiers formed up in front and behind us, and alongside as well. There was a good many more of them than we’d had of Mosbys. It wasn’t any wonder they drove us off.
The rain was slackening off some, and with a little luck the sun would break through. In a couple of hours I’d be dry and a lot more comfortable. But it would be a good while before the road was dry and level again.
City Point was on the James River, not far from Petersburg. Petersburg was set along the Appomattox River. The Yankees had got it surrounded on the other three sides and were holding it under siege, hoping to starve our troops out. Petersburg was an important place—lots of factories there making war supplies, lots of railroad lines going in and out. The Appomattox ran into the James and then out to sea. Half the transportation routes from the South up to Richmond ran through Petersburg: if the Yankees took it, Richmond wouldn’t hold out for long. Least that’s what it said in the papers.
One of the wagon wheels rolled over a rock buried in the mud and gave the wagon a good bump. Both of the wounded men let out moans. It made me feel bad. I wished I could give them a smooth ride, but there wasn’t any way to do it, not on that muddy road filled with sink holes. They were going to be moaning all the way to City Point, and they’d probably be sicker for it. I resolved to pay close attention to the road, so as to spare them fellas as much as possible. That is, if I could persuade Bridget to see it my way: she wasn’t mean, just ignorant, and didn’t know she was killing them fellas when the wagon rolled over a bump. But the rain had about quit, and a pale yellow sun was filtering down. With luck the road would be hard in a day. It’d still be bumpy, but not so bad as now.
With Every Drop of Blood Page 5
