by L. E. Waters
James says, “They said I just need to get clearance from the doctor to return to the field. I can’t wait to get out of here.”
I can guess why. The place smells terrible, a mix of the metal scent of blood, excrement, and something gone bad all at once. It’s steaming hot in the house and, as a result, the odor is amplified.
“I’ve got to get out of here before I get sick,” I say with my hand over my mouth as he nods in agreement.
“Well, I wanted to thank you. I’m sorry about your—”
I don’t want to hear the rest. “I’ve got to get some air.” I run out. When I reach the door, I take a big breath of what I thought was fresh air, but gag when I realize a much worse smell is coming from the side of the house. There, swarming with flies, looms a pile of arms and legs stacked up to the open window. I bend over and vomit. Wiping my chin and mouth with my sleeve, I hurry downwind and out of range.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
It starts to rain heavily and doesn’t let up until nightfall. Timmie’s red sky warning was right. I think of all the sopping wet Grey backs marching south and I’m glad General Meade waits an extra day before marching us out.
James does make it back to camp that night and everyone laughs at him about being rescued by a fife boy. I realize my hero’s welcome turns to a source of humiliation for James. I can tell that the men mean it in humor but James takes it to heart. The campfire is rowdy tonight. This is the first major victory for the Union and morale is very high. Jessie’s getting everyone excited about chasing General Lee down right now and finishing them off while they have their tails between their legs.
Jessie then yells, “Watch out Lee. We’re sending our fife boy after ya!”
That gets everybody hootin’ and rolling which gives me a painful flash of Elijah always doing this and I forget to breathe.
After a moment, I get up to go to my tent and Jessie notices. He screams, “Fife boy! You’re tenting with James tonight, seeing he owes you his life and all.”
I look at James, who seems just as surprised as I am by this, and laugh to myself as I realize that was all the kindness Jessie could handle. I turn and keep walking to the tent. I could care less who I sleep next to.
In the morning, I wake up to James snoring mildly. Great, a snorer. No wonder Jessie wanted to get rid of him. He does look so peaceful though. I remember why he caught my eye that first night I saw him. He has such long, dark-brown eyelashes. Yet, as beautiful as he is, I resent the fact Elijah isn’t there instead.
How long should I keep this up now that he’s gone? Elijah was my sole purpose for staying here. I’ll just keep fighting until my time is up too. It feels good to have a plan.
We have one more day in Gettysburg before we march down south to keep the Rebs on their toes. I take this opportunity to go bathe in private in a sleepy stream and re-bandage myself even though I don’t seem to do as good a job as Mama had done. While bathing, I notice I’ve started my cycle again. That is the hardest part of disguising myself since I have to always acquire rags and wash them without anyone seeing. Now I’m going to have to deal with this on the move. Luckily, Ma had warned me of this so the first time it happened I was prepared for it. More and more, I wish I’d been born a man.
I sit in the shade of an old oak as my clothes dry on me in the oppressive heat. A thunderstorm looms with such high humidity. Timmie finds me and sits beside me with a stack of papers in his hand.
“Whatcha got there?” I say, hoping he didn’t sit down to console me. “Letters?”
“Nope. Just something I wrote about the battle.”
I turn to him. “Well, read it to me.”
He smiles, glad I want to hear.
“In streams where blood runs dark as eyes of thieves,
We come to where this gruesome tale unfolds,
Where every woman newly widowed grieves,
To where naïve young soldiers’ hearts die bold.
Encased in dirt becomes their cold last bed,
The howling wind for wounded men doth cry,
The sticks erect where men to earth were fed,
The pouring rain tearing for eyes wept dry.
This mountain scarred with blood spilled by cruel hearts,
Whose empty hearts alone not heard a sigh,
These soldiers, mulct of life, from fields depart,
Their faithful guns so loyally lie by.
On this red grave new history was made,
As soldiers’ noble faces quickly fade.”
He shrugs. “It’s just a little poem I wrote. It’s nothing really.”
“No, that was perfect.”
He hands me a sheet. “You should try. It’s really easy.”
“I just don’t think I have anything left in me.” I hand the paper back.
He continues to sit next to me until he has to leave to drum out retreat for the night.
That night I can’t fall asleep because I bandaged myself wrong. I think I pulled one or two wraps too tight and they’re cutting off circulation. I need to loosen them badly. I listen for James’ steady breathing and look over to confirm he’s asleep. I get up slowly, trying to minimize every sound. I have to take off my shirt, which is so risky, but it’s the only way I can fix the problem. I keep my back toward James, just in case, and unravel the tight lines and start rewrapping.
I’m tying it off when I hear, “Why are you all wrapped up like that?”
I grab instinctively for my shirt and then realize I have to play it cool. “Shoot. You scared me. Don’t do that.”
He laughs and says from the darkness of the tent, “Why the bandages?”
I already have my answer prepared if anyone found out. “I broke a rib so I have to keep it all wrapped up until it heals properly.”
“Did you do that while you were dragging me?”
“Yeah.” Serves him right for watching me. I turn when I get my shirt on to see him still staring at me.
“What are you looking at?”
He says, “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were shaped just like a woman wrapped up like that. I think you’ve got it pulled too tight in the middle.”
“No. They’re not tight. I’m just too damn skinny.” I settle back down, playing tired.
“Not too skinny if you can heave me up a hill under gunfire,” he says, as he lies back down too.
I pretend to fall asleep, but after a few minutes I open my eyes to see if he’s asleep but he’s still staring at me. He quickly looks away and turns over.
We get the call to pack up and move out. It’s hard walking away from the place Elijah died. I know they’re giving them shallow burials where they fell, with crude markers. As soon as I can arrange for someone to come up and bring him home to be buried with Ma I will. I have lost three people in such a short time. I have more ties with the dead now. I don’t belong among the living anymore.
Chapter 7
It’s months before we’re engaged in battle again. Our Major-General, Hooker, is transferred to the Army of Cumberland and we go with him. But not before Victor’s package shows up and we all stare at our shoes when they call out his name. Jessie shouts, “Victor died at Gettysburg.”
The soldier makes a mark by his name and throws his package back in the wagon. The rest of the lucky men grab for their packages and we all have a feast sharing their spoils before we march, since no one wants to carry the extra pounds.
First, we chase Lee all the way down to Manassas Gap, Virginia Then we’re sent to Rappahannock, Virginia, to Bridgeport, Alabama and then march along the line of the Nashville & Chattanooga Railroad to Lookout Valley, Tennessee. The marches are much worse now that I have to carry everything on my back. I quickly choose to hold onto all of Elijah’s articles for my own use and leave mine behind. I’m never happier that Elijah had the wisdom to bury our most precious possessions. If I have to leave my whole pack behind I can without a sec
ond glance.
By the way the cattle dwindle down in number, I can tell we must be running low on supplies, since we’re forced to rely on the livestock. The Confederate army has been attacking our supply lines in an effort to not only to gain our supplies but also to starve us out. Some days we wait until nightfall for a supply wagon to roll in with our rations, but we don’t complain since we’re just glad it shows at all. Some companies can be cut off for days and the men rely on scavenging in the fields and desolate houses around them. Rumors circulate about the spoils these soldiers enjoy. The lush southern countryside is riddled with wandering hogs and well-stocked barns and pantries. Many of our own men, who have not faced a full day without our rations, are tempted to strike out on slow days between drills to see what they can bring back when care packages are delayed. Sick of spoiled salt horse and soggy hardtack, they risk life and limb for a fat chicken or a honey hive.
Four soldiers came back into our camp with their knapsacks full of smoked meats, cheeses, root vegetables and jars of preserves—the pretty handwriting of the housewife who made it identifying strawberry, peach, and marmalade. Our mouths all water as we watch them open the jars to dip their fingers in and suck the sweetness off with sickening slurping sounds.
The tallest soldier in the group cuts a slab of ham and holds it out to us, “You’re welcome to what we got if you share with us when you go foraging.”
Jessie shakes his head. “I’ll never go stealing.”
Another soldier chuckles. “It ain’t stealing when the cracker line isn’t getting through.”
“International law declares that in a hostile section an army may save its rations and live off the country. We’re helping the cause is all.” The soldier stuffs the held out slab into his mouth.
“By stealing from women and children?” James adds as he gnaws on a tough strip of stale beef.
Another forager replies, “Whose daddies are off trying to fill me with musket balls.”
I say, “But our cracker line is getting through and you’re still drawing your rations.” He stood in front of me at the cook’s shanty that morning.
“You never know when it won’t get through.” He shrugs. “More for me then. Go back to eating your mule.”
The other soldiers are busy roasting potatoes in the fire, afraid they won’t have time to eat it all when we’re called to march again. Even though I know it would be wrong to partake, my stomach can’t take smelling the tantalizing bounty. I pick up my banged-up coffee tin and head back to my tent for a nap. I have the third shift for guard duty tonight so some extra sleep will help me from getting more knapsack drills for sitting down during nightguard. I make it through the long two hours of my shift and I’m told to fetch Jessie from his tent for the next shift.
I call into the darkness, “Jessie, guard duty.”
After a few moans someone says, “Next tent down.”
My cheeks blaze in a blush, worried that I disturbed the wrong tent. I close the tent flap and look to the line of tents again. How could I have mixed this up? I could have sworn that was the tent I saw Jessie head to last night. I hesitantly duck my head into the next quiet tent and try, “Jessie, guard duty.” I hold my breath for the reply.
“Jessie’s next door.” He groans.
I pull back out, completely confused now on whether he means to the right or the left, and I worry that I’m going to upset some ill-tempered fellow who will draw the attention of the sergeant guard again. I try the next tent over and this time the soldier sits up and actually points to the original tent I thought I saw Jessie go to. I head back to lift the flap and Jessie snickers with his tent mate at the trick he played on me.
“Very funny. Jessie, get to your post before we both get in trouble.”
I don’t even remember hitting my bedroll that night. I must have fallen asleep instantly.
While marching down the well-worn roads used by our army, we witness the state these poor farmhouses are left in after desperate soldiers have ransacked them. All the cornfields have not only been harvested but cut down to the ground to serve as feed for horses and mules. The countryside near these routes are as barren as in winter. As we pass by one house a young mother, skin and bones, runs out with her three small children hovering at the doorstep.
“Take pity on us!” She begs our officer. “Your men have taken everything we had. I don’t have a scrap to feed my hungry children. You’ve taken our crops, our pigs, our cow, and every bag of grain.”
The officer kicks his horse forward but she keeps running beside us. “Please, give us something. Something in return for what has been robbed from me. Not for me but for these poor children.” She screams for him to look at her. “They will surely die without your charity.”
The officer finally looks toward the children and he tells a private to his right, “Make sure the cook gives her ten days’ rations for the children.”
The private breaks march to run back to the supply wagon and the mother drops to her knees with her hands held out in prayer. “God bless you.”
Sad that she should be so thankful for our miserable army food. We march forward and come upon some of those unfortunate soldiers who paid the ultimate price for their greed for something other than our food. Three soldiers, stripped of their uniforms and horribly mutilated, spin at the end of ropes, high in a massive sycamore tree beside the road. A message carved out in warning in its trunk: Death to all foragers. We all read the threat in silence and bow our heads in piteous regard for the unfortunate soldiers.
General Hooker gives us the command to try to protect the supply wagons and railroads, and to reopen the rivers. We cross the Tennessee River at seven a.m. and camp at two-thirty. Heavy fatigue details are ordered to construct a pontoon bridge. We all help the engineers in any way we can. Greene’s expecting an attack but a night battle is very rare. So he gives orders for us to stay in position in front of the build but we can do it lying down. James, Jessie, and I stay near each other.
“You awake over there?” James calls out to Jessie.
He replies, “No, I’m having the sweetest dream of your Mama.”
I laugh and James says, “Don’t encourage him.”
James turns his head back to chide Jessie but is startled by the sound of rocks falling on the hill next to us. We look around, trying to make out any movement in the moonless night, when shots rain down all around us. The enemy fires in the darkness from only a hundred yards away. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. Greene has the cool presence of mind under such duress and quickly realigns us to a better formation and our regiment does it in extraordinary time. Once we’re in good position, Greene orders us forward to a railroad embankment, which gives us good cover.
At three a.m. our ammunition is nearly exhausted. General Greene gives the order to go scavenge from the dead and wounded from both sides of the field. Jessie of course doesn’t even hesitate to run out in the line of fire to search the dead. I go to follow him, but I’m stopped by James grabbing the back of my coat.
“Let me go,” I say, trying to pull out of his grip.
“You’re not going out there.” I can tell he isn’t going to relent.
James and I hang back, trying to cover him, shooting at any sharpshooter that tries to discourage Jessie—like that could ever happen. Soon things grow unusually quiet, but then suddenly the Confederates open up from higher ground above the railroad and embankment.
Unexpectedly, Col. Randall takes command and I turn to James. “What happened to the Old Man?”
James hesitates before he replies, “He got a musket ball in the face.”
We don’t have much time to think about Greene because of the heat we’re taking from higher ground. Only two pieces of our heavy artillery continues to fire, but they’re so devastating the rebels are driven from their ground, giving us the perfect opportunity to hit them. Col. Randall gives the command and we fire several volleys straight into them, affecting
them severely by the numbers left on the field.
When the Rebs open up it causes the Union mules to stampede. Their many flailing and kicking feet create a dust cloud above them that you can even see in the dark. The beasts and the rumble of their great, frantic number charge straight toward the Rebs. The Rebs mistake the mules for Calvary in the darkness, causing them to hesitate, allowing us to get into better position. Who would ever think mangy mules would save our skins? Thank God for the skittish mules. We succeed in reopening the supply line, which means our Union troops down in Chattanooga won’t go hungry. We push the enemy back to Lookout Mountain and I have a feeling we’re headed there next.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
The next night at the campfire everyone is somber in honor of the Old Man and many prayers are said for his recovery. There is no music, no dancing, no merriment.
A soldier asks, “What’s everyone planning when you make it out?”
“If we make it out,” James says.
The soldier clarifies, “If we make it out, where are you headed?”
Everyone’s quiet suddenly to hear his answer and James looks around, smiling, then looks at Jessie. “Jessie and I are headed out west. We’ve heard there are great prospects in Kansas City. They’re trying to get a railroad out there and soon that city will be booming.”
Jessie chimes in, “There’s everything a man could want: women, gambling, land, money.”
When taps is drummed out and we all scramble to our bedrolls, James whispers, “Where are you going to go, Joe?”
“I’m not going anywhere and I’m not thinking about it either.”
“Why don’t you come with me and Jessie? We can all help each other make a good start.”
I can tell that takes a lot of effort for him to say, so I humor him. “Thanks, James. If I live through all this, I’ll take you up on that.”
