May 5, 1863
The canvas cot squeaked as Smith reached to pull the lamp closer to his small stack of linen writing paper. The soldiers were deep in slumber now. It was close to midnight. With no orders to give to adjutants or other subordinates, it was a quiet yet unsettling time of night, and because of it, his mind quickly drifted back to Galena.
He missed his family deeply. He tried to think good thoughts. He thought of Black Hawk, too, and the hot August day when Ely Parker, the Indian-engineer-now-Yankee adjutant, and Grant, Galena-store-clerk-now-commanding-general, were all smiles in their loose-fitting shirts with sleeves rolled up. He thought of his young son, Ben, who walked with Parker and Grant to the front porch of the Smith home with Black Hawk, and the laughter and joy when he shook Parker’s hand and bought the young colt. His mind, though, quickly shifted to the memories of his family’s tears and their solemn stares as he marched the Forty-Fifth Illinois Lead Mine Regiment out of town a few years later. Clouded with mixed emotions, he also thought of son Alfred, who was now in the army and sick, and his whereabouts were unknown.
Rubbing his temples in a circular motion with the fingertips of both hands, he tried to clear the confused thoughts. He sat down on his portable camp chair, which was positioned in front of his field desk. Reaching for a piece of writing paper, he picked up his pen and dipped the tip twice into the little rosewood inkwell. The lamplight dimmed and then flickered.
Head Qrs 1st Brig 3d Div 17 A.C.
Camp in the Field Big Black River May 5th/63
My Dear Aimee
I suppose before you get this you will have heard that we have had another Battle at Thompsons Hill near Port Gibson. I thank God I have escaped injury although it was well contested. Yet my Brigade lost very little, about 6 killed & 30 wounded. None in the 45th regiment. I am very anxious to hear from you but I am afraid it will be some time before I get a letter. We shall have a hot time of it now for about a month as we are moving to the rear of Vicksburgh [sic]. The weather is very hot and my clothes I have not had an opportunity to get washed since I left you. I wish now I had left all my baggage at home. We have passed through a lovely country since leaving Milliken’s Bend, flowers of all kinds and hedges for miles composed of Roses. It seems to me I have never seen the Queen of flowers in greater perfection. Genl Thomas, Adjt Genl of the US is here organizing Negro Regiments to be officered by whites…The army is in good health and spirits. As for myself I am well and my knee nearly so altho [sic] being in the Saddle constantly makes it very painful at times. I may say without vanity that I was complimented on the Field with the manner I handled my Brigade…Trusting that you are all in good health. May God have you in his Keeping now & ever.
Your Husband,
Jno E S 15
The general felt tired. He put down his pen. It was after midnight now. He stood up from his camp chair. It was just two steps to his bed, so the move to slumber was an easy one. Keeping his uniform and boots on, he sat on the cot rolled once and fell silently to sleep.
Nearby was Captain Cowan, who had since been elected lieutenant colonel of the Forty-Fifth Lead Mine Regiment. Colonel Maltby was still sick, so he became the unit’s new commanding officer, a fact that gave him great pride. Cowan lay motionless in his camp cot with his hands and arms braced behind his neck like a pillow. He stared upward at the moon, which seemed to eerily dart between the oak tree that served as his shelter. His lamp still flickered below his cot. After a few deep sighs, he pulled out his right arm and reached into his vest pocket for his watch. The hands of the watch showed that it was already morning.
In the darkness under the tree, his thoughts drifted back home to Apple Valley, Harriett, Molly, Phine, and Georgie. He wondered what tomorrow would bring and if he would have time to write them. Suddenly, he sat up, slipped his boots off the cot, stood up, and stretched. He reached for his camp desk, placed it on his lap, and turned up the flame in his oil lamp.
Black River, Miss, May 6, 1863
Dear Harriet:
We have had a hard time since I returned to the Regiment—almost incessant labor and marching through scorching sun; rain and mud; and we have slept without tents ever since we left Millikens Bend, La. The 25th of Apr. Thanks to God and my constitution, I have been well all the time. We have been on short rations…and drinking too much stagnant water in this hot country is very unwholesome…
I have no more time to write. My love to you all—tell the children to be good…and go to school and learn as fast as they can; give my compliments to all our friends. I will write better and more elaborately as soon as I can…
I am going to come home as soon as we take Vicksburg.
As ever,
L. H. Cowan 16
Like his general, the good captain settled himself on his camp cot and fell quickly into a deep sleep.
Original Letter from John E. Smith to His Wife, Aimee
Chapter 41
Champion Hill
Twenty-Two Miles East of Vicksburg
May 16, 1863
As with all great deceits of mankind, the meeting of the deadly armies commenced with a quiet and a magnificence.
The Mississippi countryside was resplendent with magnolias, and the skies were clear. The Ninety-Third Illinois rested with their colonel on a small rise. The clock ticked past noon.
In the distance a quiet rattle of muskets could be heard followed by the intermittent thud of cannon fire. The friends looked resplendent in their dark-blue uniforms. Hats and kepis were tilted smartly on their brows, the now-dried oak leaves that Allie had given them for courage stuck prominently in the hatbands. The oval US and eagle belt plates that held up their trousers and cartridge boxes were secured tightly so as not to encumber their contribution to the grand spectacle on the hill before them. Curiously, the hill was named Champion Hill after the Champion family whose house stood on its own rise just a half mile to the east, but, as if by fate, it was already named for a single victor.
“Do ya think we’re gonna see the elephant this time, T.J.?” Trick asked nervously as he stared across the valley to Champion Hill. He grabbed his belt buckle and pulled it tighter.
“Well, since we’ve been damn lucky in a way, I’m sure the Ninety-Third will see it soon with all it’s a thunderin’,” replied T.J., who seemed unraveled by it all.
Will smiled and looked at Aaron and then at the other two friends of the wigwam. “I guess seeing the elephant doesn’t include bees does it?”
“Don’t see any beehives around here, but if we do, make sure to stay clear,” Aaron warned.
“Now, what are ya’ll talkin’ about?” Trick said loudly. He looked at T.J., who shrugged his shoulders.
“Didn’t you hear what happened to the Forty-Fifth Lead Mine Regiment?” Will replied. He pulled off his kepi and wiped his brow. The day was getting hotter by the minute. He continued. “Sergeant Crummer told me that two days ago at the battle of Jackson, the veteran Forty-Fifth, who had seen the elephant in over ten big battles, was lined up in battle formation. With the first rebel volley, minié balls went crashing through the beehives behind them, and those bees attacked the Forty-Fifth with a terrible ferocity. He said, and these are his exact words, that men can stand up and be shot all day with deadly muskets, but when a swarm of bees pounces upon a company of men in concert, it’s beyond human nature to stand it, and so two or three companies retired from the field…and were reformed in a particular locality so as to avoid those southern bees. They had no rebel yell, but their charge on us was a successful one!”
“Well, hee hee,” Trick chuckled. “I guess seein’ the elephant is no worse than gittin a few bee stings!”
The friends smiled. There was a sense of nervous calm now as they continued to wait on the ridge.
Suddenly, a zip and a thud broke the anticipation and silence. A soldier dropped before the front rank and rolled, writhing like a snake. He kicked and reached for the air as he grabbed his throat, which gurgled with red foam. And
then another zip, and another unfortunate dropped.
“Hold your positions! Let no man move forward,” shouted Captain Taggart. “There is a sniper on that hill who we will deal with.”
Putnam, sitting erect in his saddle, suddenly appeared in front of them. Another sniper ball droned by as a rapid sequence of cannonading thundered in the distance.
“Private Lockwood, step forward!” Putnam called out.
T.J. stepped forward as Putnam pulled out his field glasses. Black Hawk was fidgety and stomped around the first wounded soldier who continued to writhe in pain on the ground. The other was farther down the line. The boys could clearly see him holding his stomach in complete agony as he lay on his back, stomping the ground with his heels. Suddenly, he straightened out like a corpse, shouted “Momma” one last time, and then went silent. Black Hawk continued to kick up the red dust as Putnam reined him back.
“Private, I can see the sniper in the trees on that ridge before us, the one this side of that big hill. He looks like a dark silhouette about ten feet above that battery.” He handed the glasses to T.J. as another sniper round zipped near the rank and file, landing with a thud in the ground in front of Black Hawk. Dust kicked up again.
“He’s tryin’ to get a bead on you, Colonel,” T.J. said. “You best keep movin’.”
“Take him out! I cannot afford to lose any of my men to that shooter.”
“Sure enough,” answered T.J. as he leveled his rifle and placed his sights on the irregular clump in the distant treetop before him. In a slow and distant tone of voice, he said deliberately, “I hope he’s like us, Trick—no sweethearts, no loved one to worry about. Hope he’s just a lone turtledove who has no one to hoot about.”
He clicked the hammer back, took a breath, waited one second, and then pulled the trigger. The rifle cracked, causing many around him to flinch. They looked at the tree, and the rebel sniper dropped like a rag doll, falling onto a cannon barrel below. The body collapsed into a grotesque inverted V shape and then flipped down between the wheels. A chorus of cheers from the line of blue caused an echo to clearly flow to the high hill before them.
The random comrade who first fell prey to the rebel sniper was silent now. His last agonies revealed by his final death grip on his throat. His eyes were dull, gray, and fixed wide open like a dead fish. Trick, seeing him lying motionless, quickly walked over to him, knelt down, and gently rubbed his palm across the fallen soldier’s eyelids to close them. The soldier looked at peace now, sleeping. “You kin rest now,” Trick said calmly. “You best be gettin’ to heaven right quick. Colonel Put will find you a good restin’ place here with the other boys in blue.”
T.J. returned to the ranks, receiving pats on his shoulder and back. He smiled, feeling only a twinge of sorrow for what he had done. “An eye for an eye,” he muttered. “The score is settled now. Hunter and prey are together with their maker.”
“T.J., you dropped that rebel easier than a squirrel on the Pecatonica,” announced Will excitedly as he looked at Trick and Aaron. Both nodded.
“Attention, Company! Shoulder arms!” shouted Captain Taggart, breaking the silence. “Left face! Forward march!” The company began to move quickly.
“Where are we goin’ now, captain?” Trick asked nervously.
“Private Kane, keep your mouth shut,” Taggart snapped back. “The regiment has been ordered off this hill and to the south side of this road.”
Trick unabashed continued, “Well, cryin’ out loud, Captain! That’s just a big ol’ mass of vines over there! We can’t move through there! There are copperheads there for sure. Can’t we take another road?”
“Kane, fall to the rear!” Taggart shouted. “I will deal with you there!”
Trick looked at his friends with some alarm, moved to the outside line of the ranks, and disappeared to the rear.
The five hundred officers and men of the Ninety-Third proceeded as ordered into the thick mass of tangled woods. Slipping and cursing, they moved forward, wondering, each one of them, how this movement could help the fight on the big hill ahead of them. Within a half hour, the order was countermanded, however, and the regiment moved out of the jumbled greenery and across the road to an open field. The deadly, obtrusive sounds of the “elephant” were bellowing stronger now over the hilltop. The noise seemed to be getting closer.
Captain Taggart sensing the tension in his men tried to ease it. “Let’s open the ball,” he said. Looking down the ranks, he smiled confidently and continued in a calm voice. “We will do all right today, boys. Just keep steady and listen to my commands.” He pulled out his field officer’s sword from its black leather scabbard and pointed it upward, wrist and elbow locked.
A soldier shouted from the rear of the ranks, “Cap’n, hope that cheese knife of yours can whip ol’ Jeff Davis himself!”
The entire company hooted and howled. Will, Aaron, and T.J. instinctively turned quickly and peered to the rear ranks of the company.
T.J. smiled and shook his head. “Sounded like Trick, didn’t it?”
Will and Aaron nodded and then looked back at the captain.
The quiet tension increased. Many shuffled their boots. The wait was too much. The silence made it worse.
Suddenly, from the rear, a general on horseback thundered up at full gallop. “For God’s sake, put this brigade into the fight!” he screamed as his horse galloped around them.
Rapid-fire commands were shouted through the ranks, and the blue lines lurched forward again, this time directly toward the hill.
Will, Aaron, and T.J. stayed close together in the front of the column. Trick was lost somewhere in the rear. The regiment moved forward like a large beast crashing through a thicket. Cannon puffs blinked on distant hills. The boys were now just two hundred yards from seeing battle for the first time—“seeing the elephant” as the veterans called it—as the clanging of accoutrements and the confident shouts of officers provided some foolish comfort to it all.
As the hill loomed larger before them, scores of retreating blue coats, some carrying wounded comrades, cut swiftly through the advancing columns. All of them had distant stares. No one spoke. The boys in blue moved to the base of the hill and started a quick rush to the crest, stepping over mangled corpses from the early advances.
Trick was the last of the friends to see the bodies. He felt sick, almost vomited, but caught himself. Straggling a bit behind the blue mass in front of him, which rose rapidly up the hill, he pulled up his belt to prevent his pants from slipping.
When at the top of the hill, the last command shouted was, “Double-quick, march!” The blue horde then crashed down the other side of the slope into the deadly contest where the Confederates met them in a blast of fury. The red flame of hundreds of muskets returned the fire as rows of soldiers on each side fell forward in death and agony.
Trick leveled his rifle and pulled the trigger, sending a ball through the smoke in front of him. He reached again for another cartridge in his cartridge box and bit the linen to expose the gunpowder. Quickly, he poured the powder down the barrel, pulled out his ramrod, dropped the minié ball down, and then rammed the missile down to finally seat it. He pushed back his black hat, lifted his musket, pulled the hammer to the half-trigger position, placed on a percussion cap, cocked the hammer completely, aimed at a gray figure just thirty feet away, and then squeezed the trigger.
He could not hear his shot. The constant roar deafened him. Sheets of flame from thousands of muskets crossed in the air from both sides of the contest. Men shifted back and forth on the red Mississippi soil, clanking metal to metal, arms flailing with bayonets finding their way into the bellies of the unfortunates.
In the stunning silence in his mind, things seemed to move in slow motion. The rhythm of his firing took hold of him, and he continued to fire round after round into the cloud of smoke before him. He did not know where the friends were, and he did not care at the moment to meet up with them. The urgency of those around him locked his
knees and kept him in place. Then there was a movement to his left.
“They are flanking us!” screamed one of the soldiers above the din of fire.
Trick turned his head quickly to his left where before him now stood a hundred rebel muskets. He reached quickly to his cartridge box. His peripheral vision then caught a blazing wave of fire from rebel muskets, which rolled over him with force, knocking him with a thud to the ground. Stunned, he reached to his belly. He felt a hole near his hip. Oblivious to his wound, the roar of the battle continued.
He lay on the ground, holding his left hip. Silent dreams rose up. His thoughts were peaceful now. As he looked to the sky, he could see no blue, only the gray clouds of smoke passing by. He blinked.
Soon the face of a gray-clad soldier appeared before him. The rebel had piercing blue eyes. His face was covered in black soot and powder. Trick blinked again, but the face remained. The rebel looked kind, Trick thought, like someone he knew from his hometown in Buda. Then, in a quick movement, Trick felt a hand on his shoulder. The rebel reached down and gently pulled off his cartridge belt. He felt no pain from the move. The Confederate infantryman looked into Trick’s eyes again, nodded, and then disappeared into the swirling white smoke.
Trick’s mind drifted back to the Pecatonica, the river, and the wigwam where his friends once gathered. He envisioned a patchwork of colored leaves swirling around his favorite fishing hole and then slipping slowly downriver. He could hear the girls’ giggles and the hearty laughs of the boys that always filled the air after a good prank. He wondered now if he would ever live to see any of them again. He looked up again. He felt a strange peace about him now, a sense of harmony as he lay among the damp leaves. Then out of the peace, a voice called out to him.
“Trick! Patrick Kane!”
Yes, he thought, that is definitely someone calling for me.
He blinked. There was that familiar voice again.
Craning his neck to the left and then to the right, he noticed the fighting had moved away from him. A rebel battery blazed from a distant hill, and a random round zipped above him, causing him to flinch.
FRIENDS OF THE WIGWAM: A Civil War Story Page 25
