FRIENDS OF THE WIGWAM: A Civil War Story

by John William Huelskamp

  Putnam looked at Boomer’s body. He thought about what Boomer’s last words were and made his decision.

  “Captains, ready your men for the charge. We must do our duty!” The conviction in his voice seemed real. The sound of metal clanked along the line as canteens banged against rifle barrels as the men lay prostrate on the ground in preparation for the charge.

  Putnam turned to Will. “Are you ready, son?” he asked.

  Will nodded and gripped Old Glory tightly. He looked at Aaron who had a distant stare in his eyes.

  “All right, then, let’s get it done,” Putnam said. He looked behind him at the soldiers who were still alive in the ravine. Some begged for water. Some called out to their mothers for comfort. His gaze became more resolute now.

  “Attention, brigade!” he called out in a strong clear tone.

  Waving his sword so that all could see him, he rolled over on one knee, braced himself up with the weapon, stood up, and screamed, “Charge!”

  Chapter 48

  Shirley House

  Camp of the Forty-Fifth Lead Mine Regiment

  Near Third Louisiana Redan—Fort Hell

  June 25, 1863

  Two in the Afternoon

  The Yankee attacks had failed all along the line. Over a month now had passed. The siege, however, continued with the Union lines encircling Vicksburg like a large anaconda snake squeezing the life out of the soldiers and citizens.

  Three hundred yards east of the Third Louisiana Redan, where Cowan was killed, the Forty-Fifth Illinois had excavated caves around a fine white house, the home of the Shirley family, who had abandoned the house and were now within the fortifications of Vicksburg, surviving the conflict themselves in a dark, damp cave. The rolling green grass and flower beds on the southern exposure of their beautiful home were no longer there. Mounds of dirt were piled high from the shelters and the network of caves created by over a month of determined digging by the Yankees.

  Inside the house General John E. Smith and Sergeant Crummer of the Forty-Fifth Illinois awaited the arrival of General Grant and Captain Hickenlooper, chief engineer of the Seventeenth Corps. The parlor had good light. Chairs that had not been broken for firewood were pushed to the walls to make room for a center table that was used during high-level strategy meetings with the generals. Smith had placed a large topographical map in the center of it.

  “Sergeant Crummer, I must commend you for your actions during the charge on the redan last month.”

  “Thank you, General. I did what I had to do,” replied Crummer respectfully.

  “Did you see Cowan fall?”

  “Yes, he was a brave officer. The boys miss him dearly.”

  “I sent a letter to his wife, Harriet, and their three children a few weeks ago. I let them know what a wonderful and kind leader he was and how dearly he loved his family.” added Smith. “It was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do yet. Especially so, as he was leading my old command.” Smith looked down at the map and pointed to the Third Louisiana Redan where Cowan fell.

  “We call it Fort Hell, now, General.”

  Hearing the sound of men approaching, Crummer and Smith looked at the front door as General Grant and Captain Andrew Hickenlooper stepped into the parlor.

  Grant had an unlit cigar in his mouth. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Crummer replied, snapping a salute.

  “Captain, are the preparations in order?” Smith asked.

  “Yes, General,” he replied. “I must commend the thirty-five men who dug the tunnel for us. They completed it in just two days.”

  “Very well, captain, and how far under the redan is it?” Grant asked as he looked at the map.

  “Sir, we have dug it about forty-five feet, and then it splits off in three smaller tunnels for another fifteen feet.” Hickenlooper walked to the map, to the other side of the table from Smith and Grant. He placed his forefinger directly on the location of the Third Louisiana Redan and continued. “The gunpowder will be directly underneath the redan.”

  “Is it ready to go?” asked Grant as he pulled his watch out of his vest pocket.

  “Sir, it is packed with over twenty-two hundred pounds of gunpowder.”

  Grant walked to the four-foot section of wall between two parlor windows and pointed with his forefinger at the redan. “We lost over three thousand men trying to take these forts,” he said calmly. He then shook his head and repeated, “Three thousand…three thousand killed and wounded trying to take these forts.” He looked back out the window as if noticing something in the distance.

  After walking back to the table again, he peered at the war map. He then punched his fist at the spot where the Third Louisiana Redan was located. The thud caused Crummer to flinch. “Captain, do you think the explosion will blast enough space to get the men through?”

  “Yes, sir, the crater should allow seventy good men to move rapidly into the rebel works.”

  “General Smith, do you think this will work?” asked Grant solemnly.

  “Yes, sir. I have arranged the Lead Mine Regiment to lead the charge again,” replied Smith as he looked at Crummer. The sergeant nodded with confidence.

  Grant pulled his fist up and placed it in the palm of his other hand holding his cigar between his thumb and forefinger. After gazing at the engineer’s map on more time, he looked at the three and walked back to the windows. He pulled out his pocket watch, looked at it. He then lifted his gaze and looked at each officer before saying, “Godspeed, gentlemen. General Smith, may you blast those rebels to kingdom come.”

  Smith looked at Crummer and said, “Sergeant, inform your command to light the fuse within the hour.”

  Crummer snapped a smart salute and strode from the room. The front door creaked loudly and then slammed shut with a thud.

  In the silence that came over the room now, Smith looked at Grant again. He then turned to Hickenlooper. “Thank you, Captain,” he said calmly. “May God help us all.”

  Chapter 49

  General John E. Smith’s Headquarters

  July 4, 1863

  Early Morning

  A week had passed since the Fort Hill explosion and ensuing battle in the trenches. Like the earlier attack, it failed to break the Confederate defense. So Grant decided to continue the siege with all its intended and ugly consequences on the citizens and soldiers defending Vicksburg.

  General Smith rose to the smell of campfire coffee and stepped outside his field tent. In the distance to the west, he could see the morning sun reflecting off the Vicksburg Courthouse. He looked at the crater where hundreds of Yankee lives had been lost. Turning to the Shirley house, he could see the Lead Mine Regiment shoring up their dugouts.

  Today, though, the morning seemed eerily quiet to him. He could, in fact, hear birds chirping, a far cry from the noise near the trenches. How strangely quiet it is; how quiet indeed. His mind continued to drift. He could see beyond the courthouse to Galena now. In his mind’s eye, the riverboats floated silently to port. Aimee and the children will be arising soon from their snugly beds up on High Street. Wish I were there to see the morning sun cut through the stately gables. And how, very quickly, the sun rises above the river and casts its warm light upon the shadows below on Main Street. Bet the parade today will be fantastic…with pomp and circumstance and smiles and laughter, especially when “Yankee Doodle Dandy” echoes to the heights!

  Suddenly, a sound broke the silence that quickly pulled him out of his reverie. He looked quickly to the trenches.

  A distinct plodding of hooves echoed from the east. Smith turned to the gathering noise. It is a rider for sure. The hurried succession of pounding hooves roused his staff out of their slumber and brought them quickly out of their tents. Buttons were quickly pulled through their frock-coat loops. Suspenders snapped and sword belts clinked. Everyone soon gathered around the general.

  The rider stomped in, circling his steed, as it high-stepped for a moment before s
ettling to a stop in front of the general and his staff. The meticulously dressed staff lieutenant snapped a quick salute.

  “A dispatch from General McPherson, sir! The rebels have surrendered!” Holding the reins in his left hand, the rider reached in his frock coat and handed the dispatch to Smith.

  All within earshot were stunned.

  After reading it with a smile, Smith nodded gently. “It is true! Let me read it to you, boys,” he said.

  Brig Genl Jno E Smith

  Comdg 7th Division

  General

  The following telegram has just been received.

  Hd Qrs 4th July 1863.

  Maj Genl McPherson

  Circular—Should white flags be displayed upon the enemy’s works at ten this morning it will be to signify the acceptance of the terms of capitulation. The enemy will be permitted to move to the front of his works and after stacking flags and arms will then return to his camps. The works will be occupied only by such troops as may afterwards be selected. Those troops not designated for the purpose will not occupy the enemy’s line, but remain in their present camps.

  By order of Maj Genl Grant

  J. H. Wilson

  Lt. Col. And A.I.G.

  Official

  Wm. T. Clark

  A. A. Genl 18

  There was a short pause after Smith read the dispatch, followed by a shout by a soldier just a few feet away. The word carried along the ranks, and the jubilant noise increased to a roaring crescendo in the Yankee lines, rising like a thunderclap.

  The Union siege had finally strangled Vicksburg into a complete submission and surrender.

  Smith looked at his men. “We can rest for now. Let us go help those boys on the other side. We have fought the good fight. Let us share our rations with them.”

  Original Dispatch to General John E. Smith

  Chapter 50

  Vicksburg Courthouse

  July 4, 1863

  Late Morning

  The rebel soldiers had stacked their arms along with their tattered battle flags.

  General McPherson, commander of the Seventeenth Army Corps, advanced with the chosen Yankee regiments to the Vicksburg Courthouse. The Forty-Fifth Lead Mine Regiment was at the head of the column. They were the first to reach the courthouse.

  “General Smith,” announced McPherson politely from his saddle, “have the colors of the Forty-Fifth delivered to Colonel Coolbaugh. He will see that they are raised above the courthouse. This is a fine day for our country. I commend the sacrifice of the officers and men of your old regiment and of your brigade.”

  “Thank you, General,” replied Smith. “We are honored to stand here with you.”

  Smith nodded to Sergeant Crummer, who disappeared into the ranks and then reappeared with the two flags, which were perforated with bullet holes. The wooden staffs had been splintered. He handed them to Colonel Coolbaugh who was nearby with other members of McPherson’s staff.

  As the colonel entered the courthouse, a few men shouted “huzzah” until a chorus of “huzzahs” from thousands of Yankees echoed down the streets. Soon several soldiers could be seen in the cupola with the flags of the Forty-Fifth. The “huzzahs” rose now to a grand crescendo that carried to the Union camps a mile away.

  General Smith looked up proudly at the flags of his old regiment. Old Glory was at the highest point in Vicksburg. It snapped freely in the breeze. The fighting was over now. Vicksburg’s surrender was complete.

  Chapter 51

  Wigwam

  Pecatonica River

  Late Summer, 1863

  A rush of wind blew through the willows on the riverbank. The downward branches that touched the flowing water caused ripples as they swayed. An occasional bluegill darted at the water bugs skimming along the surface, snatching its quarry with a flash of silver fin. The air was hot, yet the wigwam was cool. It had served the friends well, always sheltering them from the worst elements.

  “Jenny, will you put my hand where the light ray is?” T.J. asked. “I’d like to feel it’s warmth.”

  Jenny moved to his side of the wigwam and grabbed his hand. She lifted his outstretched arm in the direction of the beam, which shone brightly now from the top of the cave. Dust particles swirled a bit as she let go of T.J.’s wrist. “Just push out another foot or so, and you will find it.”

  Sunlight cut through the darkness of the cave with an almost vertical ray. It was past noon.

  “I got it! I can feel it!” he said excitedly.

  Overcome with emotion, Jenny quietly sniffled and pulled out a fancy laced kerchief that was tucked in a pocket of her field dress. Though sad about T.J.’s blindness, she was happy that he could feel the heat of the sun’s ray, knowing that it brought back vivid memories for him. T.J. paused for a moment and smiled. He then turned to Jenny and asked, “Can you hand me the tomahawk?” He turned back to where the beam was and felt warmth now on both palms.

  Jenny made her way to the other side of the cave where the tomahawk was leaning. She picked it up and placed it carefully in T.J.’s open hands. He gripped it tightly and then pulled it to his chest. He ran his fingers carefully across the iron blade and felt the carvings that were cut into the handle grip. He nodded and smiled. “Wish Trick could see me holdin’ this, too,” he said. He then fell silent. He held the weapon out so Jenny could place it back on the wigwam wall.

  “Jenny, let’s go down to Trick’s fishin’ hole. I wanna feel the water down there where he pulled out those big catfish back before the war. Can you take me down to it?”

  “Sure, T.J., just keep your head down. I will lead you out.”

  “No need, Jenny, I can make it out myself.”

  The walls of the wigwam were damp and cool. T.J. could feel the wall he was touching get warmer as he got closer to the entrance. He held one hand in front of him to guide him. When he felt the entrance, he bent forward and stepped outside. The air felt like a blast from a furnace. The distance to the fishing hole was only about forty rods away. T.J. remembered well the footpath that led to it, and the distinct smell of the riverbank rose to his nostrils. He caught a slight scent of dark-green milkweed that grew close to the water and heard the double tweet of a cardinal that frequented the holly bushes around the wigwam where the red berries were so prominent in the wintertime. The guttural barking of a big brown-bellied squirrel, as before, challenged their intrusion along the riverbank.

  “If only I had my squirrel rifle and my eyes back,” he said to Jenny matter of factly. “I’d make dinner out of that critter!”

  Jenny remained silent.

  The water nearby lapped a little. Though he could not see it, the water continued along as it always had. Two sticks bobbed along as if racing each other, swirled, and then vanished around the little bend by the wigwam.

  “We’re gettin’ close to Trick’s fishin’ hole, Jenny. I can feel it and hear it,” he said with enthusiasm.

  “It’s right around this next bend. Keep your hold on my arm. We’ll be there shortly.”

  They continued with cautious steps. Before them was a small clearing that allowed a skilled fisherman to cast a pole without dangling the hook in the small bushes and flora that hugged the muddy shore. T.J. smiled as he listened to the gentle lapping of the water. He squeezed Jenny’s arm. He felt secure now as he looked within his mind’s eye and remembered his river walks before the war started.

  A high-pitched, shrieking voice broke the silence.

  “Well, lordy, lordy, by jiminy, and the grace of kingdom come! You two got here lickety-split in time for the big one!”

  It was Trick, cane pole in hand, battling another big catfish.

  “This is a big ’un, T.J.! Might be even bigger than that one we saw down on the Chattahoochee! Remember that southern suckerfish?”

  T.J. grinned and nodded.

  Trick’s cane pole bent into a large arch. The tip of the rod bounced in and out of the water as an occasional fin broke the surface and rolled back under into
a cloudy cauldron, causing ripples to flow across to the other side of the Pecatonica.

  “This ol’cat is a beauty for sure, Jenny,” Trick exclaimed as he dug his heels in the muddy bank. “Best get ready ’cause I will rightly pull him out of his home. Will be a good-eatin’ one for sure!”

  Trick positioned himself for the final pull. He squared himself to the shoreline and in one quick flick of his wrist pulled the catfish out of the water. The cane pole snapped. The line and tip disappeared. The lapping waves flattened again to the flow of the river. The catfish had slipped away.

  Trick quickly looked at Jenny and grinned. He then broke the awkward silence, “Hee, hee…well, by jiminy, looks like that ol’ cat will live to fight another day.” He fell silent again. His wide grin faded into a slight smile, and then his face grew solemn. I am alive. How did I survive a wound that caused others to die? And they died quickly, one by one, under the big oak tree at the Champion house.

  He remembered how happy he was when Allie arrived and how she taught him how to get better, and what she had said to him on his cot under the tree: “I’ll be patient if you just hang on.” He repeated it to himself every day as he thought of her. I wonder how Will and Aaron are. Jenny had told T.J. and him earlier that Colonel Putnam, Will, Aaron, and Allie all survived the May 22 charge. But that was three months ago. Where are they now?

  The sun was dropping in the west, and the friends started back upriver to the wigwam. As they approached it, Trick looked up to a thick branch extending from the Injun oak tree over the river. He cupped his hand over his brow to block the sun. “Well, ain’t that strange,” he whispered.

  “What is it?” T.J. asked.