by L. E. Waters
Our regiment is fourth in line when we cross Lookout Creek and the order is given to sweep up the side of the mountain. It’s a tiring steep climb and we surprise skirmishers a mile and a half up who flee in hot haste. The incline rises sharply and a thick fog has settled like a ghostly ring around the mountain. Some look up with a worried expression and some even comment it’s a bad omen but, luckily for us, the fog conceals us as we carefully crawl our way up the wet and slippery mountain face. In the midst of all this, we come upon the main body of the enemy, heavily fortified behind gigantic jagged rocks. The skies open up with gunfire seemingly from every direction. I imagine that from the mountain’s base it must have looked as though the Gods are fighting. The battle above the clouds.
I find a group of rocks to perch behind and fire off a few good rounds, which keep a few Johnnies crouching behind their shields. I look around to see where James and Jessie are and I spot Jessie and James pushing forward. The Rebs slowly fall back as we keep advancing. It’s perfect chaos. The Rebs scatter in great disarray. We advance farther and farther up the mountain. They regroup and try to stand but fall apart the next moment. It reminds me of what happens when you disturb an ant nest; ants dash in every direction, some trying to save the nest, others just saving themselves. Any Johnnies with sense throw down their guns and surrender, knowing they’re climbing a burning building. We have to pass the prisoners down to our reserves so we can keep advancing.
I think I’m far behind Jessie and James, but I hear Jessie’s loud and long huzzias and look up to see him waving the Confederate’s colors through the thick smoke. Our whole regiment has reached the top of the mountain in a furious rush and even sweep around the top like a whirlwind and then down to a clearing. There we find a house in which all of the most stubborn Rebs have gathered to give one last good fight. We’ve been moving with such speed we haven’t realized the regiment supporting us is not with us and we’re suddenly matched in numbers.
We have to find cover and hold our ground until our support finds us. Jessie jumps from cover to cover with their blue-and-white battle flag hanging from his gun. He gets closer and closer to the house, picking off sharpshooters, one by one. Suddenly, and to all of our dismay, he’s thrown to the ground, cursing away as he inches back behind a large rock. It seems we all freeze at the shock of Jessie actually being hit. He tears open the hole in his pants to examine how bad his wound is. Relief spreads across his face when he sees it’s a clean hip shot. He gives me a wink and winces as he shifts his weight to reload his gun. Even wounded and crippled, Jessie still keeps up the fight with us.
James is suddenly by my side again and he looks me up and down, checking to see if I’m okay. I pretend not to care. Grapeshot hails from a barricaded position on the front porch and an officer gives us instruction to be sure no Reb gets off any shots. One after another, each Reb tries to make it to that gun and we keep the fire so thick, no one reaches it. After an hour of stalling, we’re finally relieved and fall back.
Jessie’s taken down the mountain, against his will, to have his wound treated and some delusional minion on a task from higher up is foolish enough to try to pry the captured flag from Jessie’s firm and unrelenting grasp. We hear Jessie’s threats halfway down the mountain. The fog envelopes us all as the sun sets and no one can see, let alone shoot anyone. There is something eerie and otherworldly at the top of that mountain. The enemy flees under the cover of the darkness that night during a serendipitous lunar eclipse.
Lookout is won.
Chapter 10
I go to check on Timmie in the morning. The hospital steward shakes his head. “The drummer? He didn’t make it.”
“What do you mean? He was sent somewhere else?” I stand on my tiptoes to peer over his shoulder into the hospital tent.
“Died last night. He had a terrible case of dysentery.”
“Where is he?” I think of his mother right away. I’ll have to let her know where he is.
“We buried him outside camp this morning.” He points to a few wooden crosses on the camp’s fringe. “He’s the one on the very left.”
I’m sure the other crosses are the coughing men who lay beside Timmie on the ambulance. I take my penknife out and carve his name crudely, just in case his mother would ever want to reclaim his body. The thought of Elijah’s body piled into that mass grave stings. I have to get him moved the first chance I get. I pull out my fife and play taps.
“I’ll miss you, Timmie.” I tuck my fife back into my belt. “See you on the other end.”
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
The next few days are spent chasing the Rebs out of Chattanooga. We’re so ready to keep them on the run, but with the colder weather coming in everything seems to stall. We’re all terribly bored and wish daily to start marching for something to break the monotony of drill after drill. I realize mid-way through December that my birthday has passed and I’m now fifteen. It’s strange when you realize that all of the people who would remember your birthday for you are gone.
Christmas comes on a dreary, grey day and doesn’t seem at all like the cold, pine-scented Christmases back in Cortland. James and I celebrate it together by spending the day making baked beans with the band playing Christmas carols in the background. It doesn’t sound like much but every delicious bite is worth all the trouble it takes to dig the hole, make the fire, place the kettle of beans and bacon over the coals and cover it back up. The hardest part is waiting all day to dig it back up and devour it. We’ve been saving our dried apples and I make a sauce of it with the butter and sugar James’s Ma sent, then crumble in some hardtack to make the most fantastic apple crumble I may have ever tasted. James and I eat until our bellies are swollen, something I haven’t felt since before the war…essentially lifetimes ago. We’re too full to make our usual nightcap of coffee but manage to sit up enough to play a few rounds of checkers before Taps sounds. It’s hard to believe only a year ago I was sitting with Ma and Elijah at our church, in a dress and bonnet, oblivious of what lay ahead for me and that it all could disappear in a year.
Before James blows out our commissary candle, I whisper, “Better make a wish.”
“It’s not my birthday.” He laughs.
“But it’s Christmas.”
“After that feast I can’t think of anything I need.” His wide smile means the world to me. The fact that he is happy enough with only my company now completes the wonderful day.
“Then make it for me than.” I shiver. “How about a warmer bedmate or one who doesn’t puff and snore like an old man?”
“Ha ha. Alright, fine. Made it.” He puckers his well-shaped lips and darkness falls around us. “I wished for a tent mate that didn’t roll over and hog the covers.”
I laugh and pretend to grab the covers as he climbs quickly under the blankets we’ve stacked on top of each other to preserve our heat. The fact that he spoons me isn’t any strange thing, since everyone puts aside normal boundaries in hopes of staying warm through the night. Even though we have layers of clothing on and heaps of blankets over us, the fact that he is so near keeps me from feeling alone. Without James, I would be alone.
“Merry Christmas, Joe,” he says in my ear.
“Merry Christmas, James.”
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
Jessie never comes back to our company and it’s like the sun hasn’t shined since he’s been gone. James, in his absence, becomes serious and quiet. Every night I think he’s going to choose to tent with someone else, but every night he comes in and goes to sleep next to me without another word. We hear news that Jessie heals at a hospital for a month and is sent to the invalid corps. All the permanently wounded soldiers are sent there and they mostly carry out garrison duty at forts and such. The thought of Jessie in an Invalid Corp is an oxymoron. I can’t imagine him taking that well. I’m hoping his condition will improve and he’ll be sent back. I keep to myself the next few months and take u
p whittling to pass the time and make all sorts of figures out of pieces of wood I find. Slowly and painfully spring comes and, with it, orders to march to garrison duty at Bridgeport, Alabama where we concentrate the army and begin the march on Atlanta.
After days of marching and tirelessly creating breastworks at every place we encamp, we meet again with the enemy near Pine Knob. Our regiment forms the second line and I realize I don’t even get nervous anymore. Like anything else you do repeatedly, you can even grow accustomed to going into battle. James butts in next to me and I feel stronger with him there, but the whole regiment feels weaker with Jessie gone.
We march double-step across a river, not even halting to allow us to remove our pants and hold them over our heads. We trudge right through the cold, strong current with our packs held high, as a line of soldiers holds hands to our right in order to catch any unfortunate soldier who loses his footing. I make it to dry ground without slipping, but there’s no time to even wring our pants out. We march forward double time, dripping and shivering, to climb a steep hill.
By the time we get to the top, the first line drives back the Rebs into their works, which are heavily armed with abates and double rows of chevaux-de-frise. Unfortunately, the right flank of our line doesn’t advance at the same speed and it leaves the right flank open to attack. The regiment in the front of us is thrown into disorder, but we come up to fill in the gaps and we take the fortification and chase the Rebs back.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
The next day we’re ordered through a dense jungle. We’ve crossed shoddy pontoons over swollen rivers, crept across fields of corn or wheat in enemy range, scaled mountains so steep the gravel would give way at every step, but we’ve never seen the likes of this jungle. We don’t have jungles like this up north. Endless trees all reach toward the sky, creating an umbrella that shuts out all light. Vines grow in every direction and cling to every surface. The whole regiment is jumpy, but there isn’t a sound to be heard except for the cacophony of tree frogs and crickets emanating through the vast spans of green. We follow the poorly cleared path, two by two.
Suddenly, gunfire breaks the frog symphony and we all grab our muskets and jump into the vines for cover. James, at my side, pokes his head out to try to see where the fire hails from and a sharpshooter answers by hitting just over his head. James ducks back down and points to a stone wall to our right and we crawl behind it just before a volley rings out in the vines where we had just crouched. We can barely hear our lieutenant trying to get control of the regiment, but we’re all too scattered to pull together for a fair fight. James and I try our best to hit anything that moves, but it seems that the fire from our direction slows and theirs increases. James spins around and rests the back of his head against the boulder we found cover behind. He stares toward the sky, as he tears a cartridge with his teeth and refills his musket and his colt.
He then turns to me. “Jessie wouldn’t crouch here like a coward. He’d give ‘em hell.” He tucks a letter into my hand. “Joe, I’m proud to have known you. Give this to my mom for me.”
He jumps up on the boulder before I can say anything and darts out onto the path, shooting his colt. In his glorious display of suicidal courage he fails to see the huge tree root that reaches across the path and falls square on his chest, knocking the wind out of him just yards in front of me. In a moment, a Reb pounces out on top of him and holds his bayonet to James’ back.
I reach the path in seconds, hold my musket right behind his head and say, “Drop your gun now.”
He places his gun slowly on the pine bed path, but turns around with a grin since he sees a whole group of Johnnies with their guns pointed at me.
Our guns are taken away and we’re marched back to the rebel line as prisoners. The Rebs we pass sneer, spit or heckle us with renditions of Yankee Doodle Dandy.
The most unsettling is when one soldier snickers and says, “We didn’t get you but Andersonville will.”
While we’re marching out the next day with other prisoners, I turn to James and put his letter back in his hand. “You might still want to hang on to this yet.”
He hasn’t said a thing to me the whole night. He seems to be angry with the way I tried to save him. I can’t do anything right when it comes to James.
I grumble, “You’d think someone would thank someone that tried to save their neck.”
James whips around. “Oh, I’m sorry. Thank you…thank you so much for running after me like a little brother left behind and getting me captured. Now we’re off to a Reb camp to wait out the rest of the war with our hands in our laps.”
“Oh, so you’d rather be dead?”
“Who says I’d be dead? If you gave me a moment I could have taken him. I didn’t need you rescuing me again. I can take care myself.”
“Gave you a moment! You tripped and fell on your face! If I gave you a moment you would have been run through before you could say ungrateful.”
He bites his lip and doesn’t reply. After a thick long pause, I try to stay positive. “We could be exchanged and we could go right back into the 149th again.”
He looks overwhelmed and defeated as he sarcastically spits, “Where have you been, Joe? The Union stopped exchanging when the Rebs wouldn’t exchange colored prisoners. We’re sitting this one out, Joe, and judging by what we saw at the Confederate line, it doesn’t look like they’ll be given us much if their own army is starving.”
He’s right. I had noticed how thin the Rebs were, most of them out of uniform in haggard civilian clothes and worn shoes. I hadn’t heard about the exchange being halted. That certainly made things much worse.
We smell Andersonville before we even see it. It smells like the pig farm back in Cortland. We follow the smell through swampland and reach a clearing where a fifteen-foot high stockade appears in the shape of a parallelogram. Guard towers stick up from the fence about every thirty feet and each tower had two or three armed guards. We’re taken in the entrance and the smell gets immensely worse.
A bristled, steel-eyed guard unties the knots on my wrists and proclaims, “I hope you Blue-bellies will find our accommodations to your likin’. An eight course supper is served daily at noon and unlimited refreshments are provided at the bar.” He can’t hold back his laughter any longer as he points toward the swamp in the center of camp, and we look on in disgust as a man defecates only yards away from where a man drinks from a puddle.
“We’ll fluff yer pillow before bed,” he continues through his laughter, “and we’re always at yer service if everythin’ ain’t to yer liken’.” He bows slightly and turns to walk away but then remembers. “Oh yeah, and if any of y’all decide to go for a little stroll past this here fence—” He grabs onto a short fence about three feet from the stockade wall that continues all around the enclosure. “Well, us pigeons get real excited to shoot a negro-lover when we get the chance.”
And he spits out a brown stream of tobacco juice as he saunters back to his post. He probably said the same speech each time and laughed even harder with each rendition.
The twenty six-acre corral is overwhelmed with frail, filthy and sick-looking men.
“God protect us!” A new prisoner exclaims and, as I turn to look at him, he kisses the cross that hangs from his neck.
The heat and humidity in the air is suffocating and I can only imagine what this place would be like mid-summer. There is no shade provided. Men try to find whatever shelter they can; tents, sticks, even burros dug in the mud. I can’t imagine hell being worse. James gives me a knowing look and I realize I haven’t saved us at all.
Chapter 11
It’s late afternoon when a dark sky moves in and opens up. As the rain streams down, any prisoner caught outside finds whatever scanty means of shelter they can muster. James sits shirtless at the slit in our lean-to with his head hung down. The heat is so stifling in the tent that I make my way to the space beside him, hoping to get some fresh air
, but quickly remember there is no such thing in this God-awful place. I don’t say a word and neither does James. It’s in heat such as this that I wish I could peel off the confines of my shirt too.
There’s nothing we can say. Sometimes you have been through so much with someone that even well-chosen words seem superficial compared to the depth of feelings. We both know what this place is and what our future holds here. We thought our haggard uniforms and meager rations were bad before, but we were living like kings compared to the half-dead survivors that stumble out here…the undead. We know our time is limited now. It’s only a matter of weeks or months, if the Union ceased exchanges a few months ago.
My presence next to James doesn’t seem to break his lamenting. He seems in another world, another place. I try to mimic his pensive state of mind but, really, all I can think of is how badly I want to brush away a drenched curl that drips on his closed eyelid. I fight an urge to just pull his curls back off his beautiful face. Lightning flashes far off; the thunder trails behind lazily.
He looks up quickly and demands, “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing,” I mumble, as I turn my attention back to the piece of wood I’m whittling with a small knife I snuck in.
Now I can feel his stare, which causes me to be self-conscious, and the blood rushes to my cheeks. I know that blushing could betray my disguise by making my face look more feminine than it already does.
I wonder if he’s still looking at me and lift my eyes to his steady stare. The blue in his eyes seem intense and his wild look scares me. I try to focus back on my piece of wood, hoping he’ll go back to his thoughts. There’s a thickness in the air, as if a fight is about to ensue. Maybe I’ve intruded on his space and I slowly start to edge back into the tent. The thunder intensifies, rattling the ground.
