by Jim Murphy
“I’m leaving you here in charge of these men, Corp. Tell them to stay low and give our men out there good cover,” I said, and then asked, “Where is Sgt. Drake? Is he O.K.?” “He is up the line and was fine when I left.” “Good,” I answered — because Sgt. Drake was second sgt. and would take over for Sgt. Donoghue. I went to the clearing.
Here it was a mess — blasted holes in the breastworks, our dead and wounded, pieces of artillery here and there, shouting and cries of pain. Shelp was standing up, screaming at the top of his lungs, challenging the Rebs to come and get him and cussing at them. The rest of our men was shooting and reloading as quickly as they could and looking very grim.
Sgt. Donoghue was sitting with his back against the breastworks, shot thru the bowels, holding his guts in his hands and bleeding badly. “Pease,” he said clearly, but weakly, “they are going to get thru unless we get help. Keep them . . . the men . . . keep them together. Pull them in . . . close to the guns, hear? Drake is . . .” He winced and looked down at his wound, then looked up at me with an odd little smile on his face. “Doesn’t hurt but a little. Strange. Very strange.” He was already pale from lost blood, so I told him I would take care of everything and then tried to convince him to go back to the ambulances, but he said no. “Do your work, Pease. Just do your work. Don’t worry . . . about me. I will be fine.”
I didn’t have any idea what to do next, but I thought it couldn’t hurt to order Shelp to get down and shoot at the Rebs. “You haven’t killed one with your cussing, Charlie.” He looked at me with about the same amount of hate he did the Rebs, growled something at me, but then he ducked down and started shooting. I ran past Shelp and up the line, looking for Sgt. Drake to tell him what had happened to Sgt. Donoghue and Lt. Toms and to see if he had any other instructions for me. I probably should have sent another man and gone back to my position, but I was nervous about doing something wrong while waiting for an answer.
I tossed my musket aside as too heavy, so there I was a perfect running target for the Rebs and that thought made me pick up my feet even quicker, I think. Another of our cannons was destroyed and Maj. Pettit’s horse was hit. It went down on its front knees and the Maj. had to leap clear before it rolled over on him.
“They are thru on the left!” I heard someone shout from up ahead of me. If that was true, it meant that we was cut off from the rest of the army and any possible help. We was an island surrounded by waves of angry butternut.
I found Drake, who was already responding to Maj. Pettit’s orders to relocate his guns. I relayed my information, but all I recall him saying was “Good luck, Sgt. And watch yourself.”
The Rebs was coming across the clearing, but their charge was irregular. Beyond Sgt. Drake’s position they had gotten very close to our breastworks; where we was and below they hadn’t gotten halfway yet. But they still came on.
I ran down along our line again, shouting, “Aim and shoot! Aim and shoot, fellows!”
The men at the breastworks at the clearing seemed to have settled into a regular pattern of shooting and then I realized we might need cartridges pretty quickly, so I had Sanford Van Dyke — who had been hit in the hand, but not so bad — see how much ammunition the men really had. If they ran out, there would be nothing left to do but retreat. At the clearing, the men were down to ten or fifteen rounds each, so we didn’t have much time. I sent Develois Stevens scampering to find ammunition.
Next I went back to where my men was and checked to see how much ammunition they had. Forty to fifty rounds each, I discovered. I also found that the forward lines had begun to fall back and I assumed they was running short of ammunition. Just then I remembered something Sgt. Donoghue had told me at Gettysburg and I said to Asa Rich, “Go around to the dead and wounded and gather up their ammunition and give it out over at the clearing.”
After this my recollection becomes somewhat of a swirl with a lot of blank spaces. I was told that Maj. Pettit was killed somewhere up the line, cut in half by a shell. His aides was barking out the orders in his place — but I was wondering when they would realize this spot was lost — because without a lot more ammunition and reserves it was most certainly lost — and hoping they wouldn’t wait so long that we couldn’t get out and back to the rest of the army — wherever it was. Of course, this was Maj. Pettit’s group and they didn’t like to leave a fight.
I also remember seeing the men in front still coming back to us. That’s about when I noticed that one of the cannons on my line was shorthanded and I started toward it, thinking to help out — and then the earth around me opened up with a deafening roar. I felt myself lifted into the air and tumbling over and over and when I came down everything went black and quiet for me — tho I don’t remember hitting the ground at all.
That is all I remember of the fight. I guess I was knocked out by the explosion or by landing on my head and it was a while — hours maybe — before I am sure I heard a noise behind me — the rumble of cavalry, most likely. Far off but clear enough to freeze my hand til the danger passed. Since I was ordered to keep a record of what happened — and since there is nothing else to do while I wait — I will continue my story where I stopped: After being tossed around by the explosion it was a good deal of time before I became aware of anything. First came the horrible, strangled braying of a wounded mule, calling and calling and calling — then I heard the moans of the wounded and the sounds of fighting — far, far away and nothing but a distant grumble. And barking. I heard barking and knew Spirit was near.
My face was mashed into the ground and when I blinked my eyes open I found myself staring at leaves and twigs and clots of dirt. It was dark by this time, but I could see enough to know that the fight was over here — the ground had that chewed-up look and there was some bodies near, just shapes so I didn’t know who they was. Then came the voices — real ones — so I stayed still and listened.
Turned out to be a couple of Rebs searching the bodies for boots, food, and cartridges. They was whispering — which told me they was on the sneak and should be somewhere else, probably where the fight was. I played dead, as they went on whispering and shopping. Spirit barked and barked and then he set to growling. I wanted to look to see what was happening, but didn’t. Next I heard a yelp and I supposed one of the Rebs kicked Spirit. When they had found all that they needed, they drifted off and the area around me was still except for the groans of the wounded and the cries of that mule.
That is when I moved my legs to see if they worked and got my left arm out from under my body, tho I moved slowly and quietly in case other Rebs was near. I could hear cavalry going up the path and some wagons and assumed they was Rebs — but it was dark enough and I was far enough away that if I was careful, I could slip away and avoid being taken prisoner.
I rolled onto my side next and pushed myself into a kneeling position. My head and arm and chest was on fire with pain but my legs seemed fine enough. I knew I could get clear as long as my legs held out. When I stood, I was so dizzy I swayed and had to lean against a tree for a while. This gave me a chance to glance all around.
I could just see the clearing thru the tree branches and bushes, not clearly. Just a lighter patch of gray. And the breastworks — solid and straight in places, ripped up in others. And some bodies and twisted up pieces of artillery. One soldier was on his back, his arm frozen as it was reaching up. For what? Help?
I didn’t see any movement anywhere. The moans was away from me, in the clearing mostly. I thought about going around to see who was injured and who was killed — Lt. Toms wants a careful record of such. Then I thought better. The section was empty now, but it might take a while to find them, and the Rebs might be back any minute. And what could I do to help them? I didn’t even have any water. I had to get away and do it while my legs had strength to carry me and my brain still worked. But which way?
The path was out of the question — too busy with enemy patrols. Our Army — if it still existed — was up toward Chancellorsville or
thereabouts, but since the Rebs had broken thru the line, that way would be swarming with them. So I had to go in the safest direction — which was across where the Rebs had been when the fight started and deeper south into the woods.
Before setting off, I looked up and down my line as quickly as I could. I thought about Johnny then, so I went — hobbled, really — to where he had been. “Fort Henderson” was empty, and when I felt around I didn’t find any signs of blood. Johnny might be a prisoner or he might have made it back to the main army, but at least he wasn’t dead and that would please Sarah and her mother and sisters. That got me thinking about Sarah, wishing I had a picture of her — and it was then I noticed a strange shape down the line.
What I found was like a vicious punch to the stomach. Thinking about it even now makes me feel sick. Willie Dodd — who was the last holder of Lucky Minié — was sprawled on the ground, arms flung out, his right leg bent up at an awkward angle under his body. And on his chest was Spirit — dead, run thru with a bayonet by one of the Reb looters I’d heard prowling about earlier.
I wanted to do something for Willie and Spirit — take care of them somehow, maybe bury them proper or say some prayers. Maybe go look for those Rebs and — But I suddenly felt weak and light-headed, and my legs seemed as if they might buckle under me. Besides, a cavalry unit was thundering along the path in my direction.
I climbed over our breastworks and wandered toward the dark woods, past where A and C Companies had made their fight, past where the Rebs had had their advance pickets. There was dead soldiers to step over in these woods, some I could see was ours, some theirs.
I made a frightful amount of noise for someone trying to sneak away, but the cries of the wounded and that mule covered my clumsiness. I stopped to rest when the woods suddenly got thicker and turned to look back over the battlefield — and found it swallowed up by the black of night, still and sad. I couldn’t see anything, not really, but it was all there in my head any-way. What was it Lt. Toms had said after Capt. Clapp had visited him that day last November — that this would be our deliverance?
My legs felt heavy and then I tripped and fell, and it took a time before I could push myself up. When I looked, I saw that I’d tripped over a severed leg.
And a voice started in — not Uncle’s this time, but mine. It was another Bible line, one that I’d liked the sound of and wrote often, trying to picture the brave soldiers doing their noble work. I’m not sure how much I like those words now, but they seem to fit what happened. “Horsemen charging, flashing sword and glittering spear, hosts of slain, heaps of corpses, dead bodies without end — they stumble over the bodies!”
I was half a mile out and already feeling lost when I remembered seeing Spirit’s body lying across Willie and I thought: They didn’t have to kill that little dog. He didn’t do anything to them but bark. He didn’t have to die, and my eyes clouded up some as I left my friend and his dog and all the others behind and limped deeper into the Old Wilderness.
Later
I had just finished the last entry when a bunch of Rebs rode up and dismounted on the hill behind me. I thought they had sniffed me out, but then they commenced to jabbering away and laughing about how the Federals had run. Can’t be talking about our Company — no one ran that I saw. Not even Theron Chrisler. They didn’t seem to be nosing around for strays like me, so I relaxed some — til I smelled the coffee.
My stomach began growling then and reminding me it hadn’t been fed in — who knows? Pulled leaves from the bush covering my little space and stuffed them in my mouth — bitter but got the juices going and the growling simmered down. Closed my eyes and chewed — thinking about poor Willie and Spirit, and Sgt. Donoghue, who must be dead, too, and Johnny and the others. I even thought about Shelp and hoped he’d gotten away.
I wanted to read Sarah’s letters, but I didn’t dare take them from my pocket because of the noise they would make. So instead I thought about Sarah and wondered if she was thinking about me.
That’s what I did til the Rebs finished their coffee — probably got the coffee from us! — and packed up and rode away. Must leave. This section is as busy as the plank road.
Night
Dark. So dark can’t see what I write, but am wide awake and will write any-way. Left last “home” when sun went down — moved deeper into Reb country. Clouds covered the moon and stars, so I walked where the walking seemed easiest. Went on — became confused — went on some more. Stepped into a stream — stopped to drink. Continued journey, slipping several times and getting caught in a sticker bush that scratched my hands, neck and face. Headache not as bad but it is still with me and wrist and leg are sore. Now at edge of field and will bed here — with biting bugs as company. Peaceful except for insect noise and some animal calls in the dark and my thoughts. Where is everyone I know? How are the Lt. and Caesar? Who else was hurt — or killed? How is William Kittler? I did not recall seeing him at all during the fight, but he must have been there. What is Sarah doing now? Sleeping peacefully most likely, with no idea at all of what has happened to us.
May 8 ?
Woke to sound of men working in the field. I counted four Negroes and thought to approach them — Caesar said they was all “kindly disposed to the Federal soldiers and would be truthful about roads and trails.” But then I saw a white girl, riding toward them, cradling a musket, and I changed plans. They was far off, so I moved along the edge of the field unseen. But to where?
Tried to orient myself according to sun and thought about battle map and Caesar’s finger moving across it. Head is still foggy and map remains unclear — but Caesar did say over here we would find “poor soil, poor farms, poor and mean white folk.”
Stomach gave a shout about then, but all I could feed it was thoughts about my last real meal. A bit of hardtack would be a welcome feast just now, but gnawing on a stick is all I can do. Good thing there are so many streams in here or I would have no hope of escaping.
Can barely read last night’s scribble. Wonder if the Lt. would change his mind about me keeping the journal if he ever saw that?
Later
Walked a little and find myself very nervous every time I come to a path or trail. Have heard patrols roaming the woods, thankfully far off. One time I came very close to two men arguing over who had eaten the most chicken and assumed they was a Reb patrol. No one else argues so loudly about food as soldiers do.
My head spins from hunger while my stomach agrees with growls. Kicked over a rotted log and saw it swarm with crawling creatures — a fine meal for some. Thought about it for myself, but then I gagged and so I guess I am not that hungry. Not yet any-way.
Skirted two fields after the first, both empty. Then I smelled food — close by and inviting — a stew with beef and potatoes my nose told me — and when my stomach learned this it set to churning and complaining! So I went toward the smell just to see.
What I found was a small cabin surrounded by a neat little garden that was just beginning to turn green. Smoke from the cook fire was pouring from the stone chimney and bringing me that delicious smell. I was standing there breathing in “dinner” when the door opened and a white woman came out. I ducked when I saw her, not knowing what to expect, and she went right to her garden, where she cut some greens and then went back inside.
“There is food in there,” I told myself, “and a bed.” These thoughts made my legs tremble — I was only 200 feet away — so close I could imagine the food, feel the soft mattress. Surely she would not refuse me. Besides, there did not seem to be a man around — with so many gone to fight, this is a land without a lot of grown men — so I could always take what I wanted, even without a weapon.
Very tempting. But then a voice in my head — yes, another voice not my own — said, “Think it thru first.” It might have been the Little Profeser who said this to me long ago — who can remember? Any-way, the voice added, “You don’t want to act too quickly, especially when there are people around who want to do
you harm.” And she might be one — probably is one.
So I started wandering away — still taking in the smell — when there was a familiar loud report of a musket behind me and a second later a ball sailed over my head and took a bite from the side of a tree. I didn’t hesitate, but started to run — only my sleeve got snagged on a branch and I couldn’t get it free at first. I tugged hard, snapped off the branch and tore my uniform, and started to run — tho I am not sure most folks would see it as running I was so clumsy and tired.
It was the white woman who shot at me and it was her who commenced shouting — cussing me to get off her land, calling me all kinds of terrible names and hollering that she’d seen a Yankee and so forth. But I didn’t mind her yelling. As long as she was yelling, she wasn’t reloading.
When I was out of her sight, I stopped to catch my breath, leaning heavily against a tree. Then I heard a second shot fired, followed a little time later by another — signal shots to alert her neighbors about trouble, I guessed. I pushed myself away from the tree and headed down a rocky hill. When I reached the bottom, I heard another alarm gun to my right answer the woman’s, soon followed by another from over here, and then another from over there, and another and another. A number of dogs started in barking, too. All around me it seemed. I have heard musket fire many times since becoming a soldier, but I must say I have never felt as small and as helpless as I did just then. Hurried on, listening and looking and nervous every step.
It is now late in the day and I am near a small clearing with two log shacks in it — tobacca drying shacks, I think, because they are so tall, with some smoke seeping from the cracks near the roof of one. A while back, the door opened and an ancient Negro woman came out to gather up dead sticks. She’s in there now, alone I think, and I am here writing this, waiting for darkness and asking myself silly questions — will she be “kindly disposed” toward me or will she turn me in? Will she have any food to spare? They are silly questions because I know I can’t delay. I need food and I need rest and I need them now. I hope this will not be my last entry in this journal!
