FRIENDS OF THE WIGWAM: A Civil War Story

by John William Huelskamp

  Smith’s Eighth Division was assembled in a beautiful valley of lush spring meadows trampled by the feet of over six thousand soldiers. It was high noon, the temperature cool and crisp.

  “Officers of the Eighth Division!” announced Smith. “This morning, you received from our adjutant general a short proclamation from my May tenth address to our soldiers-in-arms. Smith looked into the eyes of each of his officers and continued. “It is our duty to keep to our course and put down this rebellion. The sooner it is over, the sooner we can return to our wives and sweethearts. I expect you will deliver this message with your usual zeal and conviction. When you have delivered the proclamation to your men, prepare for the dress parade, and execute your formations with the skill that each of you has demonstrated on the field of battle and in our camps. Proceed now.” Smith saluted again.

  The riders dispersed. The sound of hooves rumbled away.

  “Gentlemen, let’s we see how the Lead Mine Regiment is holding up?” Smith announced, “It’s been almost two years since Shiloh!” He flipped his reins across his white mount’s shoulders and trotted the short distance to his old Forty-Fifth Regiment. His staff followed in step.

  When they arrived at the camp of the old Lead Mine Regiment, the recently promoted Colonel Maltby was shouting at his men with his exaggerated style. He was an odd-looking officer but was highly respected by the men. As the newest commander of the regiment, he felt proud of what they had accomplished and was looking forward to doing great things with General Smith.

  Maltby, seeing General Smith and staff approaching, shouted commands to his captains, and the regiment quickly aligned into perfect formation of ten companies. He then pulled out the proclamation from his frock coat and looked across at the legion of blue standing silently before him.

  “General Smith has requested that I read this proclamation from him. May all listen up!”

  Fellow Soldiers!

  We are called upon to co-operate with our brave Companions in Arms, whose proud lot it is to precede us… Most of you, by your prowess on many a well contested field, have already proven your devotedness to the noble cause for which we battle: the restoration of the Union and the perpetuity of the institutions bequeathed us by our forefathers. Those among you, who have not had as yet, that opportunity, I feel, will emulate the valorous deeds of your veteran Comrades and prove to the world that the trust of the Federal Government in its Citizen-Soldiery is, indeed, well founded, and the honor of the national flag is safe in your hands…The South, despite the spirit of our century, despite history which has ever branded with failure the attempt to harmonize together two antagonistic principles: freedom and servitude, has dared to declare it her purpose to rear up a Confederacy whose cornerstone shall be slavery…

  Hence it became logically necessary to issue a counter Proclamation, emancipating slavery: for, the corner-stone once shattered and broken, the whole fabric must topple to the ground…

  Maltby paused, and then raising his voice deliberately between each deep breath, he continued.

  Forward! Then, fellow soldiers! And…reassured of the justice and sacredness of our cause let not our efforts cease until the Union be restored in its full integrity and our glorious banner will wave triumphant over a land forever reclaimed from treason, and restored to its former glory, peace, and prosperity.

  Jno E. Smith

  Brig Genl 11

  Maltby looked at Smith.

  Smith nodded and then snapped a salute, holding it for a brief moment. Turning on his white mount, he advanced to a small knoll in the distance where he could review his troops.

  A moment later, the undulating blue mass moved in rhythmical sequence like waves hitting the shores of a distant ocean. The beloved general was pleased with what he saw. He knew his men would do their best again when the next battle was waged. Gazing across the fields in a slow sweep like a Roman general of old, Smith kept his back straight in the saddle, holding the reins loosely on the saddle horn. His white mount did not move.

  From the distance, the men could plainly see him on the hill. He looked like a statue. Each regiment kept its tight formation, and the thud of boots echoed across the valley.

  Original Soldier Address by General John E. Smith

  Chapter 35

  Captain Cowan Home

  Warren, Illinois

  Near the Apple River

  Spring, 1863

  A flutter of turtledoves broke the silence.

  Georgie looked up. He could see a rider coming down the lane toward the cabin. It’s the postmaster, he thought. He squinted his eyes to get a better look. In a flash he hurried to the door stoop, kicking up dust all along the way. His loyal labrador pup followed close on his heels. Squirrels in the yard scurried quickly to the treetops as another trove of turtledoves rose up, circled over the cabin, and then departed for good.

  “Mother, Mother, the postmaster is coming!” announced Georgie as he bounded through the front door, his dusty boots clomping on the hard oak floor.

  Harriet looked up, set down a black cauldron she was cleaning for supper, wiped her hands on her apron, and proceeded, with anxiety, to the front door. Thoughts of her husband ran like quick snapshots in her mind. She felt sick to her stomach and held her breath for what today would bring…a rude intruder to the calm she felt just moments before.

  The slow clop of hooves moved closer to the entrance of the clapboard cabin. She looked at Molly, Phine, and Georgie, who were huddled by the table. She could not breathe.

  “Hello, Mrs. Cowan,” announced the postmaster when he appeared at the door. “Looks like we can expect some sunshine now.” He smiled cordially.

  Harriet still could not speak. She stared down at the handful of letters in a fleeting attempt to see if the letters were from her husband. If they were, she could expect he was still alive. If the letter was from General Smith, she would expect the worst. She continued her agonizing gaze at the pile of letters.

  The postmaster broke the silence for her. “I have three letters from the good captain,” he said. “I suppose the Forty-Fifth has been campaigning a bit, and these were delayed. Damn lucky we get any of these with the boys now down deep in rebel territory!” Realizing he cursed, he caught himself and looked at the children apologetically.

  Harriet shrugged and then breathed a deep sigh of relief. She extended her hand to the postmaster and smiled. “Thank you, sir, for making the trip out here. You didn’t have to inconvenience yourself.”

  “No problem, ma’am. Your husband is helping us more than I could. All of us in the Apple River Valley are very grateful to him and the boys. Let me know when you’re back in town what these letters all say. I am sure there is some good news in there!” He beamed again, nodded at the children, and smiled once more as if to confirm what he had said. Tipping his hat with his free hand, he turned to his horse, mounted him, and trotted back down the lane.

  “Can I read one?” exclaimed Georgie as he rushed to his mother’s side.

  Let’s all sit by the table, children. “Georgie, you may read the first one.”

  There was a silence mixed with excitement and relief. The children sat quietly as Harriett pulled a knife out of a cupboard drawer and placed it at a small gap at the corner of the first letter. She pushed it slowly as if performing a surgical incision. The contents were a timeless gift to the family, and she did not want to miss the cut and damage the letter in any way.

  “Here, Georgie, be careful now. Tell us what your father is doing.”

  Georgie reached for the letter. His face beamed with excitement. He felt proud now that he could read just like his sisters. Holding the letter at eye level, he looked at the girls and then began to read in slow deliberation.

  Jackson Tenn.

  Oct. 1st 1862

  My Dear Children:

  I am tonight (it is now night) together with one of my best friends, Capt. Duer of Galena, here in the hall of the court house. There is a great commotion out in the streets a
nd in the lot surrounding the court house, among the soldiers; they are singing, playing the violin, dancing, playing cards, talking…to while away the time.

  Georgie stopped for a moment and looked up. “I know Captain Duer,” he said. “He gave me a penny once when Father and I were in Galena.”

  “Just read the letter!” shouted the girls in unison.

  Georgie continued.

  Most of them are very merry but there is once in a while one who is not…some are thinking seriously of home, families, or friends and wishing for the war to end so they can return to them. But—how many, many of those poor fellows are doomed never to enjoy that privilege…hundreds of them will not live to see their homes and friends again and hundreds more will return to them maimed or crippled from wounds or disease…from which they will never recover.

  Georgie looked up again. Tears welled up in his bright-blue eyes. Harriet lifted her apron to her face and began to sob gently. The girls moved closer to her side.

  It makes me feel very sad to look over the fields, covered with brave and generous men, devoting their lives to their country. Most people think that the army is made up of coarse, hard hearted thoughtless men who never saw or thought of anything nice…but whosoever thinks that way is badly mistaken…

  I have a great many good friends here in the army and amongst the citizens too. If I needed anything here I could get it in a moment; there was a man, a Secesh (rebel) citizen too, told me today that if I needed any money I could have it of him. I told him it’s queer that he should talk to me so when I came here to kill Secesh. He said he knew that but still he knew if I told him anything he could depend on it…

  Georgie looked up again at the girls. They looked perplexed.

  Harriet nodded to Georgie. “Continue,” she said calmly.

  So you see how well it is to tell the truth at all times even to your enemies. They respect us if we tell the truth and try to do our duty. I hope that you will always be honorable toward everyone, even those who misuse you; and never do anything that will place you in circumstances which will make you tell lies. Always speak the truth frankly, even though it may seem to be a bad policy at the time, for I tell you it is always best and comes out right all the time.

  I remain your Father and Friend

  L. H. Cowan 12

  There was silence in the cabin except for a quick snap from the fireplace. Harriet sighed and looked down at the second letter. She opened it like before, in a delicate and deliberate way.

  “Molly, would you like to read the second letter? It is addressed to you.”

  “Yes, Mother,” she replied softly as she reached for the prized piece of paper. She did not smile or look at the others before beginning.

  Oxford, Miss, Dec. 10, 1862

  Dear Molly

  It is now 8 p.m. I had not thought of writing…I am in a bad mood to write too for I have heard that our much loved and good brother Chris is dead.

  Harriet dropped the knife and third letter to the floor while she raced over to the fireplace and placed both hands on the mantel as she wept and gasped for air. Georgie jumped from the table and held her waist. Molly looked at Phine, who placed her face in her hands. She could not look up.

  Undaunted, Molly continued in order to finish the letter quickly. She thought if she could end it, maybe it would wipe out the news that was stabbing their hearts. Maybe this letter about Uncle Chris’s death was some sort of a rude joke written by her father. She continued.

  I cannot tell how I feel, and I will not try, but if it were not for you, George, and Phine, I feel as though I would rather die than not myself.

  Molly’s voice quivered. She sniffled and then continued.

  …he was a good boy in every way, honest, tender, generous, sincere, moral, and industrious. There was never so good a boy in that county. I almost break my heart to think of his condition while sick. I know how his feelings were actuated. I think I can imagine something of his anguish. He was so young and tender, dying alone, no one to console him…

  I am in a poor mood to write Molly, you can imagine my condition better than I can tell you. All I can do is to do as I always have…brace up against this trouble and try to do my duty…

  Good night to you all and each,

  I am still your father

  Most affectionately,

  L. H. Cowan 13

  Georgie’s lab barked outside the door in three short yelps. The family looked to the door.

  Harriet broke the silence as she sobbed, her apron still to her face. “Someone let her in,” she said. Her eyes were red and swollen.

  The pup scrambled into the gathering, wagging her tail furiously. She jumped on Molly and continued her happy intrusion to the solemn moment. Phine sniffled and then followed it with a giggle as the lab’s tail thumped against the table.

  “Callie, cut that out! We’ll send you back outside again if you don’t settle down!” warned Georgie.

  The dog continued to swirl on the floor, thumping everyone with her wiggling back haunches and tail. The girls chuckled. The family felt better now.

  “Phine, it’s your turn now. Do you want to read the last letter?” asked Harriett. The letter was already opened with care. She handed the contents to Phine who began to read in earnest, too.

  Camp on Tallahatchin, Miss.

  9 p.m., Jan. 4, 1863

  My Dear Ones:

  The last letter I received from any of you was dated the first of December. It seems like a long time—though I know there is a good reason for it. We are a long way from River and railroad communications and the railroad has been cut off so that mails could not reach us…

  We have been living on half rations now for two weeks. We have had corn on the ear issued to us for rations instead of bread, and only about two ears to the man…we have foraged through the country for meat still it is very hard to find any, and when we get it, it is poor and thin. We have not had…salt enough to season it. Yet our soldiers make very light of it, particularly the old Regiment…

  I was elected Lt. Col. of our Regiment on the 18th of last month…I must acknowledge that I am a little proud of it, for the officers of the Regiment voted me into the position without my asking or expecting it…also Gen. Grant gave me a fine recommendation…Am not near so fat as I was in the summer.

  Affectionately,

  L. H. Cowan 14

  As Phine read the last words, the family looked at each other with a sense of shared calm and grace. They felt happier now. The lab pup had settled and was silent now, curled and slumbered by the fireplace.

  Chapter 36

  Steamer Jesse K. Bell

  Tallahatchie River

  North of Vicksburg

  April 2, 1863

  Black Hawk snorted!

  He did not like his confinement on the deck of the Jesse K. Bell. Occasionally, a thump would rock the boat as the slow-moving paddles in the rear banged into the hidden tree stumps below the waterline. One of the smokestacks had been knocked down by low-hanging trees just days before, but it was righted again, causing steam to whistle through the crack like hissing demons. Occasionally, a snake would fall onto the deck from the cypress moss-covered branches that loomed over the river above and writhe and twist in an attempt to escape to the cloudy water. After a quick succession of shouts, though, the butt of a musket would drop on its head—a boot then finished the job, shuffling the dead intruder into the murky Tallahatchie. Six hundred soldiers in blue stood on the decks of the proud Jesse K. Bell, herded like cattle on a cargo train.

  “These damn gallinippers are swarmin’ so much, I can barely see!” complained Trick as he held his musket close to his left shoulder. With his black, broad-brimmed hat, he swatted at the mosquitoes, hoping for some relief. “Wish we were back on the Pecatonica. I ’spect the leaves are buddin’ now by the wigwam.”

  T.J., who was typically calm in tough situations, interjected with a sharp tone, “If we keep this up, sure ’nough someone’s gonna end up a mos
sback and skedaddle off this boat and make it back home north for sure! It’s been twelve days on this damn boat, and I’m getting sick of the wanderin’ about!” After finishing his remark, he smiled in an awkward way and then cast a glance at Aaron and Will, both of whom were calming Black Hawk down at the bow of the steamer.

  Will held the reins and stroked Black Hawk’s snout while Aaron calmly rubbed his mane, gingerly touching the deep battle scar that Black Hawk had received at Shiloh.

  T.J. looked downriver again to the tangled green mass before him. He stood comfortably, like a sentry. Resting his chin on the back of his hands, which cupped the muzzle of his Sharps sniper rifle, his mind wandered. He thought back to the cold winter night in Freeport when he first met Fire Marshal Putnam, who shouted swift commands during the raging fire. He remembered how Putnam ordered him to the belfry with Colonel John E. Smith’s son Alfred. His mind’s eye flashed back to the quick succession of rifle shots that blew up the powder kegs and snuffed out the fire. He said in a monotone voice, “Colonel Putnam says that the Ninety-Third, all of us, will land right soon. It’ll be fine right sure. We can set our fires and cook our hominy and pork on some dry ground. We can sleep in the leaves—”

  A loud rifle crack broke the silence! Every soldier flinched. A scream of pain was heard from someone on the starboard side. Black Hawk twisted as if writhing in pain too, whinnying in a furious way, knocking several soldiers into the river. After rising on his hind legs, his front hooves jabbed into the air, punching down the deck rails and scattering them to pieces.

  “Whoa, Black Hawk! Whoa, boy!” Will shouted as he pulled at the reins in an attempt to settle the situation.

  The agonizing scream again chilled the air, causing Black Hawk to twist and buck even more. After kicking the deck rails again, he pulled and freed his reins; twisted; turned once more; and then fell, curled in a contorted way, submerging sideways into the Tallahatchie. He disapeared for a moment then rose blasting water from his nostrils.

  After a few strong strides, Black Hawk kept pace with the bow of the steamer. Feeling the need for footing, he turned toward shore with his head bobbing in a rhythmic motion. There was an opening cut into the thick mass of vines at the shore. Black Hawk shifted toward it, pounding furiously in the brown water, making what appeared to be progress in an almost futile motion. He continued at his loud but slow pace.