“What’s wrong, Allie? You look like you’re thinking about things,” Jenny said.
“I am a prayin’ that the good Lord takes care of the boys with that promise he made in the Bible. Remember our verse from the Good Book. The verse we pray anytime we welcome a new friend of the wigwam. Li’l Joe and Blue were the last.”
“Yes, I do, Allie. It is a special verse.”
Allie looked, again, down State Street and then turned to Jenny and grabbed her hand. The music had stopped; only rising dust remained. In a sad, solemn tone, she looked to the distant clouds and said, “I will not forget you. I have carved you on the palm of my hand.”
Chapter 30
Camp of the Forty-Fifth Illinois
Lead Mine Regiment
September 2, 1862
Captain Cowan braced his back against the corner of a cotton bale. The sun had crossed to midpoint in the sky. The smell of confined soldiers filled the air. There was a pause in the action, which caused anxiety to fill the air like a penetrating stench. Cowan thought this a time to quickly write home again.
After settling against the bale, he balanced his cherry lap desk on his knees. As he lifted the dusty cover, a cannon shot roared in the distance, causing him to flinch. The small desk flipped to the ground, exposing linen sheets of paper, his pen, and the rosewood inkwell that the children had given him months ago. He righted it again, this time securing it between his knees in anticipation of the next distant shot. Securing the cover again, he dipped the tip of his pen in the well, which he held in his left hand, and then looked up to the sky, in which danced puffy white clouds. He thought of Harriet and the children, who often took long family walks, and how Harriet would direct their attention to the sky, instructing them to use their imagination to see the shapes of sheep or other figures in the clouds. Another cannon report cracked in the distance, causing him to jump again. Dipping his pen quickly in the inkwell, he hurried to write his message.
Toones Station, Tenn.
Sept. 2, 1862
2 p.m.
Dear Harriet,
We are five companies of the 45th Regt. cut off from communication with Jackson both by telegraph and Railroad…The news is heard from every quarter, we don’t know what will become of us…We are well fortified with cotton bales, two hundred ten fighting men. We can hold the place against any number of infantry that can be sent against us, but if they get us with artillery, they will surely clean us out…
We are under the command of Col. Maltby and every man feels like sustaining the reputation of the Regiment for fighting, achieved at Fort Donaldson [sic] and Shiloh. There is but little doubt but we will have to fight in all probability ten times our number but the number makes no difference, we intend to fight. No force can scare us to surrender. A bloodless victory will never be gained over our regiment, not any part of it…
Say to the new soldiers to come ahead, we need their help as we ever will—everything looks gloomy but we are not discouraged. If we die here we will die like soldiers, if I do not live to write you again…
The worst thing that we have to contend with is the feeling of anxiety, when we can hear the fight going with such odds against us, but cannot be with them. Do the best you can with the children, tell them they will be my last care. If they will be good, God will supply their necessities. I hope they will be honest, speak the truth on all occasions and put their trust in Him. You need not think from this advice that I am scared. I am not and never felt better in my life, but I don’t intend to run nor hide in a fight and am fully aware what might happen.
I came here Saturday, left the things you sent me at Jackson.
Will probably never see them again.
As ever,
L. H. Cowen 10
Suddenly, a cannonball exploded nearby. Cowan’s lap desk pitched, and the inkwell fell by his boots. The black ink quickly disappeared into the red Tennessee soil.
Chapter 31
Camp of the Ninety-Third Illinois
Western Tennessee
Autumn, 1862
The swirling smoke of hundreds of campfires filled the valley.
General Grant’s army had pushed deeper south. Union regiments from the upper Midwest and the thousands of soldiers that complemented them moved together like a small vibrant city on the march.
The soldiers rested now after many hours of drilling in the hot southern sun. The buzz of talk was punctured by the staccato notes of a bugle announcing evening mess call. Time for their ration of salt pork, hardtack biscuits, and coffee.
“Sure would like to trade this hish and hash for some of that good ol’ hog and hominy,” Trick said as a thick chunk of salt pork skewered on his long bayonet dripped fat on their small campfire. “This pork ain’t from a pig. I betcha it comes from some other critter…maybe an ol’ black bear or somethin’.”
T.J. smiled and looked at Will and Aaron. The four friends of the wigwam were still together. The journey south had been uneventful thus far. The constant drilling had made them very hungry today.
Trick rolled the salt pork closer to the flame, inspecting every inch with a chef’s critical eye. A drop of fat caused the fire to flare with a hiss.
Trick, the way you’re looking at that piece on that toad-sticker of yours makes me believe you wouldn’t trade it for all the tea in China,” said Will. The boys chuckled.
“Well, a soldier’s got to eat,” Trick replied with his usual grin. He pulled the piece close to his lips and hesitated a moment as another drip landed on his waistcoat. Rubbing it away with his left hand, he proceeded to open his mouth, exposing his teeth like two long rows of piano keys. He bit down. Suddenly howling in pain, he dropped the food-laden bayonet, which landed on the log he was using as a seat, and began hopping around, hands over his mouth. The boys laughed loudly. Soldiers from nearby campsites craned their necks and looked at them in curiosity.
“By jiminy, that sucker is hot!” screamed Trick as he continued to hop around the fire.
“You damn fool!” someone shouted.
“What’s the alarm?” came another.
“Quit kickin’ up the dust, or we’ll tie you down!”
Trick sat down beside the bayonet, holding his mouth with his left hand.
“You all right, Trick?” Aaron asked in amusement.
“Yeah, did you burn your smackers?” laughed Will. “Why didn’t you just use your tinplate to cool it down?”
“I ’spected to place it on my cracker, but couldn’t find it,” Trick replied, ruefully.
“Well, why didn’t you use your plate over there?” Will countered.
Trick stood up and wiped the fat from his hands onto his blue trousers. “’Cause I’m savin’ it for a contest!” he replied.
“What are you talkin’ about?” T.J. asked. “You gonna use it for a target? Why, you can’t hit nothing with that ol’ forty-two Springfield. That ol’ pumpkin slinger couldn’t hit that plate at ten paces! There are boys here with target rifles that would win with a blindfold on.”
“Well, friends, I reckon I can take a few pennies from those loud-mouths over there right now. In fact, I gotta keep my plate clean so the contest will be a good one.”
“What are you talking about, Trick?” replied Will.
Trick stood up again slowly and pointed toward the shadowy figures from where the shouts had come. “I ’spect I’ll be takin’ a few pennies from those boys when we finish our mess. I gotta damn good beetle down here that can race faster than any Yankee beetle ever could!” Trick looked back at the friends for a response.
Will, Aaron, and T.J. looked at each other in puzzlement and then turned to Trick.
“Bet you’re wondering how I can beat them with a little ol’ beetle?”
“Yes!” they replied.
Trick reached into his trousers and pulled out a small tin cap box about the size of a silver dollar. The lid of the round box had several holes punched in it.
“I punched these holes so she can bre
athe. You know with all the heat down here, and all the marchin’, I gotta have her rested well in my haversack. She’s a beauty.” Trick’s face had a childish glow as he gently twisted the lid of the cap box. It was the type of look that you can see on the faces of children as they open gifts on Christmas morn. He cupped his left hand and then turned over the tin. A brown beetle crawled to the center of his palm.
“Ain’t she pretty?” exclaimed Trick gleefully.
Will pulled off his cap and scratched his head. Aaron looked at T.J. and smiled. T.J. remained silent.
“Her name is Dixie!” announced Trick with pride.
“And what do you plan to do with her?” Will asked.
T.J. and Aaron looked at Trick who was crouching by the fire now.
“I’ll bet those Fifth Iowa boys over there in that hollow that good ol’ Dixie can beat any beetle south of the Mason-Dixon Line. I will take their pennies to prove it. You just wait an’ see!”
“And how do you plan to set up this race?” Aaron replied skeptically.
“Yeah, how’s it done?” added Will.
“Well, follow me, and I’ll show ya how to win a few pennies!”
Trick stood up, placed Dixie back in the cap box, and closed the lid gently. He then pulled open his cartridge box so all could see the contents.
“Heavens, Trick, where are your rounds? What the hell are those damn beetles doing in there?” asked Will with concern.
“Hee, hee, not a worry. The forty rounds are in my sack. Gotta make room for Dixie’s friends. Right thing to do.” Trick chuckled again as he pulled the flap quickly back over to contain the brown beetles within. “Now, come on, let’s win some cash from those Iowa boys.”
Trick picked up his plate and balanced it on a large rock closest to the flames. He strolled over to the camp of the Iowa regiment. The friends followed.
“What do you Suckers want?” shouted a soldier from the Fifth Iowa Volunteer Infantry.
“You boys in for some gamblin’?” Trick replied confidently.
“Can’t play no cards in this camp. Captain’s orders.”
“How ’bout some racin’? Captain said anythin’ about gamblin’ on a race?” Trick countered.
“You damn fool. We got no horses around here, and besides the whole thing would stir up a fix. What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Several of the Iowa soldiers stood up as if bracing themselves for a fight. Other Iowans from neighboring campsites approached, forming a large contingent around the fire. Their curious faces reflected the firelight.
“Hold on, fellas,” said Trick grinning. He reached for his cartridge box and pulled open the flap so all could see the contents. The Iowa soldiers looked at each other in confusion. Trick quickly snapped the flap back. Reaching slowly into his trouser pocket, he pulled out the small round tin and unscrewed it, exposing his champion beetle so all could see.
There was a hush, followed by a chuckle, and then a chorus of laughter from the Iowa camp. The laughter quickly abated as Trick raised his tin.
“Boys! I got the fastest damn beetle south of the Mason-Dixon Line! And I’m a bettin’ I can beat any of these beetles from my forty-dead-men box or any beetle you can gander up from your own!” Trick looked for a response.
The soldiers remained quiet and curious still, so Trick continued, “You just bring your mess plates with ya. Wash it clean so your beetle don’t trip or slip on the grease, and I’ll be racin’ you!”
He held up the tin box again. “My ol’ beetle, Dixie, is the same as those others in here! Same kinfolk an’ all!” He held up the cartridge box again and continued his instruction. “Our plates are all the same size, too! We will place our crawlers at the center of the plate. The first to run to the edge wins! That’ll be five pennies to get in if ya think you can beat ol’ Dixie here!”
“You’re on!” shouted three Iowans in unison. There was a flurry around the closest fires as soldiers hurried to get their tin plates. Within a few minutes, no less than fifty Iowans lined up with plates and pennies in hand.
“Now, you boys, place your pennies in my friend’s cap here, and we will get this race movin’ rightly so,” instructed Trick again as he pointed to T.J.
T.J. pulled off his kepi and extended it to the contestants. Coins clinked into its blue wool recess.
“You all grab a beetle now from here, get on your haunches, squat, and place your lil crawler in the center.” Trick handed the cartridge box to Aaron who opened the flap, exposing the beetles.
The soldiers reached in one by one until only a few beetles were left. They continued with Trick’s instruction and formed in a great circle so the rules could be followed under the closest eye. Unbeknown to the boys, a captain of the Fifth Iowa approached and stepped into the circle of men.
“What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.
The soldiers looked at the officer in silence.
“Speak up, or face a court-martial, I tell you!” he continued.
Trick walked up, his tin box in hand.
“Private, what is your name, and what regiment are you with?” said the captain in earnest.
“Sir, my name is Patrick Kane. I am with the Ninety-Third Illinois.”
“And why are you in our camp?”
“Sir, if it be all right now, I can rightly say why,” Trick replied with a slow drawl.
“Speak up, private! Tell me why you are here.”
“Well, sir, me and my messmates were a hunkerin’ to see if we had the fastest beetle south of the Mason-Dixon, and we got to ganderin’ about and came this way as it be the closest now to the Ninety-Third camp. We meant no harm, sir, and are glad you came our way. See, we need an officer to make sure we get things right, ya know.” Trick looked down at his charcoal-scarred boots.
“You are talking like a damn fool, private! I could have you court-martialed for gamblin’ in my camp. Your Colonel Putnam would strap you to a barrel if he knew what you were doing here!”
Trick looked up at the captain. “Well, sir, I ’spect he might do just that on account of the bettin’ an’ all,” he said. “But I ’spect if he knew the winner is givin’ half of the winnin’s to his commandin’ officer, then I ’spect he might give the nod for these crawlers to race now.” Trick grinned and waited in silence.
The captain looked at his men, a few smiled and nodded.
“Well, private, since some of these winnings are dedicated to a good cause, then I believe we should proceed. What are the rules, and what would you like me to do to make things right?” the captain said calmly.
Trick opened up his tin. “Well, Captain, this ol’ beetle—her name is Dixie—an I’m a bettin’ she can beat her kinfolk in a plate race. Your boys all have beetle kin in their hands. When you say go, the boys will place them beetles in the center of their plates. Now, the winner has gotta raise his right hand at the moment the beetle jumps over the rim of the plate. The lucky one walks with the all the winning’s, save what is your take.”
“Well, Private, where is your plate?” replied the captain.
“Oh, jeez, I best be gettin’ it!” cried Trick. He handed the tin with Dixie to the captain and then rushed out of the circle and back to the camp of the Ninety-Third Illinois. The Iowa soldiers laughed as Trick’s trousers slipped, exposing the top of his buttocks. Trick pulled them up with both hands and continued at a rapid pace. A couple of minutes later, he returned to the Iowa camp with his two hands grasping his oval US belt buckle, his tin dinner plate tucked under his left arm. Stepping quickly to the center of the circle of soldiers, he squatted and dropped his plate below the feet of the captain.
“Now, Captain, can you give the go and raise your hand for me when ol’ Dixie or some other beetle hits the finish line first?”
“Certainly, Private. Glad to help. I wish you luck, but reckon you’ll be out of luck with all my company around you. Are you ready, Private Kane?”
Trick slowly twisted the box lid and gently picked up Dixie between his
thumb and forefinger. He held her an inch above the center of the plate as did the Iowans who squatted with their beetles in hand. All contestants were silent and staring at the center of their plates.
“Dixie is ready, Captain. Give the go!” announced Trick.
“Go!” shouted the captain.
The hush of the men was replaced by shouts and screams. The Iowa and Illinois boys shouted, “Go! Go! Go!” as their beetles moved circuitously on their mess plates, making little progress to the edges.
“For criminy” screamed an Iowan. “Get movin’, you little critter. This ain’t no mountain you have to climb!”
“Get your little feet a moving!” screamed another.
The captain, seeing Dixie scurry and leap off the edge of his mess plate, shot up his hand like a saber jab to the sky, silencing everyone. The curious captain looked to the front, around him, and then left and right. His hand was the only one extended.
“Damn it,” said a frustrated Iowa boy.
“Can’t believe this. My beetle just went in circles, too,” said another.
“Mine just tucked herself in for a long nap,” followed another yet again.
Soon a chorus of grumbling could be heard from the Iowa soldiers as the stunned captain shook his head and Trick picked up Dixie and carefully placed her back in his cap box. Standing up and raising his fist like a triumphant gladiator, he left his plate on the ground.
After saluting the captain, Trick said, “Well, Captain, ol’ Dixie here did her dance again like a true champ! We boys from the Sucker State thank you and your Iowa boys for the winnings!” Reaching into T.J.’s blue kepi, he grabbed a handful of pennies out of courtesy and handed them to the Iowa captain. Smiling a broad grin, he clicked his heels and then reached down to the ground for his mess plate, which he rapidly placed under his armpit again. In the silence of the Iowa camp, he turned toward the Ninety-Third encampment, grinning all the way until the silence was broken by Will.
“Trick, now how’s it possible that Dixie wins that race every time?”
Aaron added, “Yeah, how can you beat a whole company like that? That’s a lot of odds to beat. That captain there thought for sure he’d have half those winnings until he shot his hand up like so!”
FRIENDS OF THE WIGWAM: A Civil War Story Page 20
