by Harold Keith
Instead they stayed only nine days. Blunt was still acting as though he had never heard of winter quarters. His scouts informed him that General Hindman and his defeated rebel force were camped at Van Buren, forty miles southward. He and General Herron decided to take eight thousand picked infantry, cavalry and artillery, cross the mountains in two columns and attack the Southern forces before they could have time to prepare defensive fieldworks.
The day before the army left Rhea’s Mills, Jeff was surprised to hear his name called while the company was lined up at a morning inspection. Noah’s name was called too. Obediently each took two steps forward and saluted. With a measured stamping of feet on the drill ground, half a dozen officers approached. Out of the corner of one eye, Jeff spied Clardy among them. Recoiling, he felt his insides tighten. What had he done now?
The tramping stopped. A big man with black whiskers and two curved rows of brass buttons on the front of his blue dress coat, ambled up to Jeff and Noah. He was short and heavyset, with a thick neck and sloping shoulders. He walked with a roll, swaying his hips and planting his feet carefully, like a sea captain. In one hairy hand he carried a piece of paper. Everybody saluted. Then Jeff recognized General Blunt. Dumfounded, he wondered what it was all about.
In a bass voice sonorous as a bell, Blunt began reading from the document in his hand: “. . . for gallantry beyond the call of duty . . . distinguished themselves conspicuously at the risk of life . . . voluntarily assisted a battery that was hard pressed, although it was their first experience with artillery and they had already participated intrepidly in the infantry charge . . . the Medal of Honor, presented in the name of Congress.” As the general continued reading, Jeff watched with fascination the small beardlet beneath his lower lip bob up and down.
Then the general stepped so close that Jeff could smell the pomade on his thick black hair. Leaning forward, he passed a ribbon around Jeff’s neck and underneath his collar. Suspended from the ribbon was a tiny piece of red, white, and blue fabric. And dangling from the fabric was a shiny bronze star and eagle that flashed more brilliantly in the sunshine than even the general’s gold shoulder bars.
Noah got one, too. Just as Jeff began to realize that he and Noah were being decorated, the general was shaking hands stiffly with each of them.
Jeff couldn’t hide the embarrassment and unbelief in his face. Somebody had made a mistake. He hadn’t done anything in the battle but follow Noah. If this was the way the army handed out decorations, then something was wrong with the system.
“Shoot, General,” Jeff blurted in protest, “all we did was load her and swab her.”
He looked at Noah for confirmation. But Noah, usually the most articulate man in the company, was strangely tongue-tied. He just stood there, ramrod stiff, staring straight ahead, his long neck pink as a peony.
Several of the officers looked displeased at Jeff’s boldness. Blunt smiled faintly behind his heavy black mustache.
“Your name is Bussey?”
“Jefferson Davis Bussey, sir,” corrected Jeff in a loud, clear voice, and waited for his usual reprimand. But Blunt only looked at him curiously and turned away.
Later Jeff wondered how the general knew who they were. As usual, Noah had the answer. “Remember the tall artillery lieutenant that axed us our names soon as the battle ended?” Jeff nodded.
On the next day, which was Christmas, Jeff’s company began marching southward. Meanwhile the warmish weather changed. It grew much colder. The wind blew from the north and the sky was heavily overcast.
At noon they reached Cane Hill, where a month earlier a battle had been fought. They were told there would be a short rest and that they might visit the rebel hospital, if they wished.
Jeff looked about him with dazed wonder. War had made a shambles of the quiet little college town. Homes were looted and laid waste, outbuildings burned, stables pulled down, fences destroyed, shrubbery and fruit trees ruined. Dead domestic animals lay in the streets, stinking up the scene. Jeff wondered how the inhabitants bore the awful stench. The whole town was one vast hospital. Most of the wounded were concentrated in the Methodist church.
As Jeff entered the church, rain began pelting the roof overhead. The wooden pews had been carried outside to make room for the rebel wounded, and his nostrils caught the sickening odor of morphine. The cots of the wounded had been placed in a long line the length of the building. Their whiskery faces were contorted with pain. Jeff heard their smothered groans and wanted to talk to them, but something restrained him, something hard and inflexible as iron. These men were his enemies.
They belonged to the side that had tried to take his father’s life. They had begun the war, killed Pete Millholland and wounded Ford Ivey so badly that his leg had to be amputated. Tight-lipped and silent, he moved slowly and cautiously about the straw-strewn floor, looking with horror at what he saw and marveling again and again at the divine Providence that had enabled him to survive the battle and escape such a terrible fate.
A French harp moaned from somewhere within the dark gloom, playing the same dreary tune over and over, until a long, heart-wrenching cry echoed through the church. Then it fell silent. Overhead the rain swelled from a patter to a deluge.
A doctor carrying a small surgical valise of reddish-brown leather bent wearily over the last bed in the ward. Jeff paused, peering through the dim light. A Sister of Mercy, her gray gown brown-stained and disheveled, stood near the doctor, ready to assist him.
Seeing Jeff’s blue uniform, she looked from him to the patient on the cot.
“He’s just a lad but he’s going to die,” she said in a low voice to Jeff. “He’s one of your own bluecoat boys. Got run over by a caisson at Prairie Grove. It broke both his legs and hurt him internally. He’s barely conscious.”
Jeff looked pityingly at the patient. Then he caught his breath with surprise. The boy on the cot was Jimmy Lear!
With rough, well-meant kindness, the tired doctor was saying, “Jimmy, you are very badly hurt and will have to die. It’s impossible for us to do anything more for you.”
Jimmy’s big blue eyes blinked with shock as he read in the doctor’s face the certainty of his going. Jeff never forgot that look. Of all the poignant expressions he would see on men’s faces during the war, none matched the desperate, cheated look of this young Missouri lad who had just been told his life on earth was ebbing.
Jimmy mumbled, “Doctor, I don’t want to die. I’m not ready to die.” There was a look of wild frustration on his youthful, pallid face, flushed with fever.
Jeff stepped forward, grasping both of Jimmy’s hands in his own. “Jimmy, it’s me. Jeff. Don’t you recognize me?”
The boy peered at Jeff, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. Then a faint, glad flicker of recognition lit up his eyes.
“Jeffy,” he murmured, “don’t leave me. I don’t want to die.”
Jeff felt tears stinging his own eyes.
“Jimmy, I’d help you if I could. I don’t know what to do for you.” Beseechingly he looked up at the Sister of Mercy, his eyes pleading for some slight sign of encouragement. But she shook her head slowly. Then she and the doctor moved on to care for the other men.
“Pray for me, Jeffy,” Jimmy said.
Jeff swallowed, overcome with grief. “Jimmy, do you know who Jesus is?”
Jimmy shook his curly black head faintly. “No. Who is he?”
“Jimmy, only Jesus is able to save you.”
“Well, where is he?” Jimmy whispered, looking very tired. Jeff told him as best he could. Jimmy listened silently, then stared reflectively at the dull gray wall.
“I wouldn’t mind leavin’ if I could jest come back sometime,” he said.
“Jimmy, what’s your mother’s name and where does she live? I’ll write to her.”
“She’s dead. So’s my father. I ain’t got no kinfolks.”
Jeff felt an overwhelming compassion and sympathy. He reached down and smoothed Jimmy’s hair.
His skin felt hot and sweaty to the touch.
The doctor came back and gave Jimmy a strong opiate. His eyes fluttered sleepily.
“Jeffy,” Jimmy whispered, “lean over.” Jeff did, his ear close to Jimmy’s mouth.
“Jeffy, my new drum’s under the bed. You can have it when I die. Treat it good, Jeffy. Always keep it in a dry place so the vellum head will stay tight.”
Jeff nodded. Blinking, he tried to swallow the lump in his throat. He remembered that Jimmy’s drum was his dearest possession. He looked out a nearby window and saw snowflakes sifting down thickly. The Arkansas weather couldn’t seem to make up its mind.
Jimmy stirred restlessly, a frown of pain on his boyish face. “I wouldn’t mind leaving, Jeff, if I could jest come back sometime,” he said again. “But my father and mother ain’t never come back. None of my relatives or friends that’s died has ever come back, either—or writ any letters back—or sent any word.”
A shadow fell across the bed. “Time’s up, Bussey!” somebody barked gruffly. Jeff looked up. It was Sergeant Pike.
“I’ll hurry, Sergeant.”
The Sergeant moved off.
A shaft of winter sunshine, clean and warm, fell across Jimmy’s rude coverlet, then faded away. A sudden gust of wind shook the old church. Jeff talked a minute to the Sister of Mercy. She promised to keep Jimmy’s drum for Jeff until he returned from Van Buren. He felt awful about leaving. He wished with all his heart that he could stay.
“Jeff, I don’t wanta die while I’m asleep. Hold up my hand so Jesus will see it when he comes,” Jimmy murmured feebly.
Jeff propped his hand up with the bedclothing as best he could, and sobbing softly to himself, tiptoed silently out of the church.
The march to Van Buren was miserable. How awful it must be to die when you are only fifteen years old. Every time he thought of Jimmy, Jeff felt as if something was pinching his throat. His eyes became so misty that twice he stepped in roadside puddles and felt the icy water rise in his brogans and wet his socks. Darkness was descending on the land. There was still snow on the north sides of the mountains. Thin sheets of ice were forming on the puddles in the road.
He pulled up the collar on his long coat and tried to walk around the puddles. As usual, it didn’t look good for the infantry. However, as they kept moving southward, there was less and less snow until soon it had all disappeared and the roads became firmer and smoother. They marched until midnight, rested until dawn, and after a breakfast of hot coffee, cold bacon and the hated hardtack, began walking again.
But now a new species of torture awaited them. About ten o’clock in the morning they struck the head of Cove Creek. The stream grew wider and deeper as the snow melting in the mountains emptied hundreds of noisy rivulets into it, and meandered in so many loops and curves that the road crossed it thirty-seven times.
The first time they forded it, the water was only ankle-deep and they ran through it with loud whoops. Then it got deeper, and their pants were soaked a little higher. Soon it was bellydeep on the horses. That was fine for the cavalry but tough on the infantry. Holding their muskets and packs shoulder-high, the men plunged into the icy, milk-hued water up to their armpits.
As an ambulance with Clardy aboard crossed a ford, lurching, bumping, and floating, the driver cracking his whip and yelling shrilly at the swimming mules, Bill Earle grasped an iron rail on the rear, hoping to be towed across the stream.
Snarling, Clardy brought his heel down hard on Bill’s hand. Uttering a cry of pain, Bill released his grip on the rail and with a big splash disappeared beneath the swift water. When he bobbed up a few feet downstream without his cap, his wet blond hair plastered to his head, Jeff plunged in after him, extending his musket at arm’s length. Clasping the barrel tightly, Bill was towed to shore, his face blue with cold, his teeth chattering as he cursed Clardy with every breath he drew.
Jeff was surprised how well the infantry bore the frequent wettings. It was amazing how much you could stand when you had to. The constant marching with the wind to their backs kept them from growing chilled. They marched until ten o’clock that night, then built great log fires on the bank to dry their wet clothing. The bugles sounded reveille at three o’clock next morning, and after a breakfast of dried peas and hot coffee, they resumed the punishing trek. They plodded through the noon hour without food. The valley had widened now, and the road crossed the creek less often. Hunger was their main discomfort.
“I’m so famished I’m gut-shrunk,” Stuart Mitchell confessed, weakly.
Without breaking stride, Bill Earle took a long pull from his canteen. Smacking his lips, he growled, “Dried peas for breakfust an’ water fer dinner. I guess I’ll jest swell up fer supper.” Soon they heard cannonading ahead. Jeff figured the Union cavalry and battery ahead must be encountering rebels.
Half an hour later they came to the top of a high bluff overlooking the Arkansas River.
“Lookie thar!” somebody sputtered in awe. Below them a town of considerable size sprawled at the foot of the bluff on their side of the river. Jeff looked inquiringly at Noah.
“Van Buren?”
Noah nodded. “Must be.”
Jeff sighed wearily. They had walked forty miles to reach it. Even if they took it, what would they have accomplished?
He was impressed by how far he could see from the top of the bluff. The wide river stretched away for miles. Beyond it, the brown woods dominated the landscape, growing uphill toward a range of blue mountains in the distance. Jeff could see the sun’s rays slanting obliquely off the distant mountain peaks. Union cannon were booming. Across the sandy river half a mile away, a regiment of rebel infantry fled the city, scurrying for safety beneath a belt of cottonwood trees. Van Buren was theirs.
They marched into it down a wide road gullied by recent rains. Orders were passed along the line to stop talking, brace up, and present a soldierly appearance. Jeff was proud of how trim and orderly the army looked despite its hardships. The guidons were fluttering and flags of the infantry and the battery were unfurled. As the long blue lines entered the streets of the rebel town in platoon formation, the band struck up “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
Hearing the stirring music, Jeff was prouder than ever. He guessed that starving and fighting all day and being marched to death all night was what made a good soldier out of you.
“Let’s show ’em what a real army looks like,” Bill Earle challenged, straightening his body.
“Yeah, an’ a winnin’ army,” growled Stuart Mitchell, picking up his big, muddy feet.
“Yeah, and a wet one,” said Jeff, throwing back his shoulders. As they swung smartly into town, their ragged shoes smacking the ground in unison with the rattle of parade drums, Jeff heard people along the sidewalks say in admiration, “They look like sure soldiers.”
The army was ravenously hungry. They had been marching without food since three o’clock in the morning. Soon they broke ranks, and four thousand Union soldiers were helping themselves to whatever they could find. Jeff, Noah, Bill, and Stuart Mitchell, foraging in a side street, had immediate luck. They ran into a Negro who had emerged from a deserted brick store, carrying a large ham.
Noah stepped suddenly in front of him, and the Negro stopped, the whites of his eyes rolling in fright. Seeing the yearning looks of the soldiers, he thrust the meat behind him. But Jeff could smell it anyhow.
Noah licked his lips, motioning toward the ham. “Any more like that in there?”
The Negro’s white teeth flashed in a relieved smile. “Yassuh! Yassuh! Plenty hams in theah, suh.”
“Wal, you go on back and git you another ’un,” Noah said roughly. And to Jeff’s astonishment, he took the ham bodily away from the Negro. Quickly they all jerked out their knives and carved off a piece.
Jeff bit greedily into the tender meat. “Gosh, Noah,” he said, his mouth full, “what would you have done if he hadn’t given it to you?”
Noah lowered his shank of pink meat a
nd, with the back of one hand, wiped the grease from his mouth.
“I ’spect I’da shot him, youngster.” Noah looked as though he would have, too. Jeff’s jaw slacked. It was funny how war changed men.
Nearly every store in town was plundered by the soldiers. A big cavalryman swaggered out of a grocery store, his hat filled with oats. Carefully he poured the oats on the wooden sidewalk, so his half-starved horse, tethered to an iron post nearby, could reach it. The horse nickered hungrily, lowered its head, and thrust out its thick lips.
The cavalryman saw the infantrymen and grinned. With a sweeping gesture of his arm, he pointed at the store.
“Pitch in, boys!” he invited. “It’s all ours.”
It was indeed. As Noah led them inside, they met other soldiers coming out, their arms filled with all sorts of merchandise. Noah concentrated on tobacco, filling a sack with twist after twist. He also pocketed several boxes of sulphur matches.
From the back of the store, they heard Bill Earle whoop exultantly in his high voice. Triumphantly he held up a pair of shiny black shoes and a pair of thick woolen socks. Sitting down on the floor, he kicked off his old, tattered brogans and laced on the new ones.
Jeff looked at him enviously. “What size are they?”
Bill chuckled, gaily, “I used to wear an eight but a nine felt so good that I jest took me a ten.”
“If you hain’t no objection, git me a pair, too,” Stuart Mitchell called in a muffled voice from the front of the store. His head was out of sight in a hogshead of raw brown sugar.
“What size you wear?” Bill called.
Mitchell came up for air, sugar all over his freckled face. “I don’t care,” he bellowed amiably, “jest hand me a pair.”
Although the owner of the store had fled, inviting looting, Jeff couldn’t bring himself to take the heavy merchandise on the shelves. He nibbled tentatively at a piece of rock candy somebody had dropped on the counter. Stuart assured him that the store-owners were all rebels anyhow and therefore their goods were subject to confiscation. Mitchell and Earle led Jeff over to the shoe counter and made him try on several pairs, but they were all too large.
