Spake As a Dragon

by Larry Edward Hunt

  Robert had mentioned their situation to Luther with the chance he might know where they might spend the night. Luther answered, “Alabam’ you be in luck! Two of my tent mates were taken to the hospital this morning – I doesn’t believe theys will be coming back.” Winking, he said, “You get my drift?”

  Robert, although sorry for the two men’s misfortune wasn’t sorry enough not to take their bunks in Luther’s tent.

  The next morning, before sunup, both Robert and Ben found themselves in a mass of human debris waiting and hoping their names would be called for morning duties. Nothing in this so-called prison was done for free. Unknown to Robert and Ben Luther had traded hardtack and tobacco to the duty assignment Sergeant insuring they would be picked for the morning’s detail.

  Death was common. Anywhere from ten to fifteen prisoners died each day and were buried in the common graveyard located just a few hundred yards north of the hospital. Some mornings, the daily assignment was to bury the dead. At first Robert would utter a silent prayer for the body he was throwing dirt over, but it became so routine, he would throw the body into it’s grave and shovel the dirt in without even thinking about the task at hand. Occasionally, sitting on his bunk, he would think how war had so de-humanized men, especially him. They each had only one thing in common – survival, survival at any cost.

  Over the past months thievery had increased considerably. The low-life would slip among the tents late at night, slit a hole and steal whatever they could easily reach. Using a couple of the wooden cracker boxes, Robert constructed a sort of cabinet where he and Ben stored what little ‘valuables’ they possessed. He secured the cabinet door with a length of rope with one end tied to his foot. If someone tried to untie the rope, he would feel the tug on his leg and pounce on the intruder. Fortunately, no one ever cut into his tent. In Robert’s starved, haggard condition, no doubt he would have killed the thief without a second’s thought. Or, perhaps been killed himself.

  A few months after their arrival Robert and Ben had saved up enough money to open their own little ‘business’ along Pennsylvania Avenue. They would buy molasses from the Sutler, boil it down, roll it into small lengths and sell them as molasses taffy at a half-dime per roll. Their store counter was merely a couple of cracker boxes stacked one on the other, but they did a brisk business. Robert and Ben traded turns – one day Robert would work the store and Ben would go out on a work detail, the next day they would reverse jobs.

  One day Robert was whitewashing the fence around the hospital when he saw one of the hospital orderlies dumping the used grounds from the hospital’s coffee pots.

  Back in his tent he explained to Ben what he had witnessed at the hospital fence. Together they devised a plan to get under the fence, get the coffee grounds, and hopefully escape back to their tents with their prize.

  The next morning, Robert would whitewash for a few minutes and when the guards would not be looking he would work on a hole under the fence. This exercise consumed most of the day. About an hour or so before quitting time he caught the two guards standing around smoking their pipes and talking to each other. Un-noticed, he slipped under the fence, hurried to the garbage pile and scooped up as much coffee grounds as he could get into a gunny sack before being discovered.

  The next day both work their store. Standing in front of their store they announce, “Get your taffy here! Hot coffee just a half-dime. Hot coffee, real coffee!” They do a brisk business. There is no telling how many time those same coffee grounds are boiled, but Robert and Ben collect a tidy little sum of spending money.

  Robert has another idea for their store – flapjacks. He will purchase flour from the Sutler and make flapjacks and serve them with a bit of thinned sorghum molasses. However, to stretch his flour purchase Robert makes the flapjacks rather thin – one day a customer orders a couple, holds one up to the light and proclaims, “Darn, I believe I can read a newspaper through these. I thought I had been hoodwinked by the best, but you fellows beat’em all!” Needless to say, the flapjack business did not last too long. Robert was relieved the flapjack business failed – he had always considered himself to be an honest man and taking advantage of poor destitute soldiers did not sit too well with him. He believed surely, he could do better.

  In the first week of December ’63, Ben has developed a slight cough. At first they just contributed it to the conditions under which they live, but it had progressively gotten worse. Ben reports for ‘Sick Call.’ He is carried to the hospital and examined by a Yankee doctor. The news is bad. He is diagnosed with consumption. A disease officially called Tuberculosis that will eventually get worse and the prognosis is bad – it will be fatal.

  As December 25th nears they are to spend their first Christmas as prisoners of the Yankees. Ben is constantly coughing, wheezing and sometimes cannot even arise from his bunk. He is a miserable sight to see. Even tho’ they buy extra rations, they aren’t wholesome enough, he is down to nothing but skin and bones. Everyone knows the worse, Ben has tuberculosis and he is nearing death. A few days before Christmas as Robert tries to feed Ben a small bowl of potato skin broth Ben asks if Robert will do him a favor.

  “Anything Ben, if it’s within my power, just name it.”

  “Robert, I know I am dying and will never see home again. For one last time, I would like to have a Christmas tree. One like I used to have at home.”

  “My friend, if it is at all possible a Christmas tree you will have.”

  Twice a week details were sent outside the walls to cut and gather firewood – it takes almost all the money he and Ben have saved from their various business enterprises to bribe the guard to allow him to go on the firewood detail. Outside in the pine woods Robert finds a small cedar tree about five feet tall. He cuts it along with the rest of the wood he gathers that day.

  Back at their tent, Robert stands the little cedar tree upright, but he does not have anything with which to decorate its branches. He remembers back at home his mother had strung popcorn kernels together on a long string and drooped it around the trees. He has not seen any popcorn in years, and surely there is none in this camp.

  Word quickly spread through the stockade of the Christmas tree. Without hesitation, men with no worldly goods begin to bring in the ‘ornaments.’ One has a few scraps of red cloth another has cut a few pieces of tin from an old metal box – the man’s most prized possession. One old fellow hangs Confederate money he has rolled into springy coils. Lids from cans, pieces of carved wood, one even donates a couple of candles. Pretty soon they have the making of a ‘beautiful’ tree. Beauty has a different meaning to a scraggly, bone-thin, dirty group of men who are now the happiest they have been in years. One of them speaks to Ben, “Sorry old fellow,” He says grinning. “I don’t believe Santa is coming, I hear the Yanks saw his grey beard and figured he was a Reb spy and shot him.”

  Glancing around the tent wet tears of happiness can be seen slowly flowing down dirty cheeks of the Sons of the Confederacy into scraggly beards that have not been trimmed in months. All gaze at the tree and remember Christmases of old. They can see their children in their mind’s eye sitting around their own tree at home. The fire burning brightly in their fireplaces and all the rooms are cozy and warm. Later one old Reb confides to Robert he thought he could actually smell the turkey roasting in the kitchen. Someone puts a flame to the candles and from the back of the tent:

  “Hark

  the herald angel’s sing,

  Glory to the newborn King!

  Peace on earth and mercy mild

  God and sinners reconciled.

  Joyful, all ye nations rise

  Join the triumph of the skies

  With the angelic host proclaim:

  "Christ is born in Bethlehem."

  Hark! The herald angel’s sing

  "Glory to the newborn King!"

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  LEAVING CINCINATTI

  Hundreds of miles southwest of Point Lookout Christmas of ’63 is app
roaching for Luke and Nathaniel also. Earlier both had crawled upon the riverbank south of Cincinnati. Nate slipped past the Union sentries to the corral where a large herd of cavalry horses were being quartered for the night. He quietly places the bridle, saddle blanket and saddle on a couple of black horses, figuring they will be harder to spot in the dark.

  Softly walking the two cavalry mounts back to Luke they slowly and quietly slid onto the saddles, and are about to head south toward Lexington, Kentucky, when Luke notices his horse’s saddle blanket. It is Union blue with a white star in the corner.

  Grinning, Luke looks at Nate, “Darn you Nate, did you have to steal the General’s horse?”

  “Sorry, Luke, it wuz dark and you ferget I wuz in quite a bit of a hurry, I thought black would be good tho’.”

  “You done good Nate, real good!”

  Luke estimated they should make twenty to twenty-five miles a day. This is to be a huge overestimation; the Yanks are thick as fleas on a dog’s back along the way. Most of the day Luke and Nate spent hiding out and at night it is extremely hard picking their way through the dark trails. Their twenty-five miles per day become more like five miles and this on a good day.

  It is impossible to use the main roads, Yankee patrols are stationed at all crossroads, and columns of moving troops are constantly coming up and down the roads. Even if they had maintained travel on the roads the cannons and caissons pulled by their teams of six horses would probably have run them down anyway. Early in the War cannoneers had learned when the order, ‘Move Cannons’ was issued anything or anybody in their way got run over. Moving those giant beasts that belched the heavy iron balls took priority over the road.

  Cincinnati, Ohio to Lexington, Kentucky is a mere eighty or eighty-five miles. Luke figures this is only a four or five day journey. He again is overly optimistic; they have traveled the better part of two weeks to reach Lexington. Lexington is heavenly garrisoned with Union troops. There is no way to pass straight through without being challenged by a sentry; they must make a large circle on the east side to by-pass the main part of town. Ride at night, hide out in the daytime becomes their daily routine.

  As they make their detour around Lexington Luke asks Nate about their food supply – checking the saddlebag, Nate replies, “Old Mother Hubbard ain’t got nothin’ in the cupboard, the pantry is plum empty.”

  “Nate, I know it is taking a enormous chance, but I have to sneak into Lexington and find us some food. The prospects of finding food after going farther south will be mighty slim.”

  “But Luke, we’s ain’t got no money and nothin’ to swap.”

  “I still have my grandfather’s gold pocket watch. Lexington is a Rebel town; although, the Yankees have it occupied, I believe I might find someone that will barter with me. You stay hidden here in the woods until I return Nate. You hear me Nathaniel? Don’t you get caught?”

  Luke moves slowly through the woods until he comes to the main road. About a mile along he sees a steep curve in the road ahead, moving into the woods he dismounts. Tying his horse to a tree, he slips through the dense undergrowth until he can see the curve clearly. His instincts are correct. Just around the turn is a detachment of Union infantry. Two sentries are manning posts on either side of a country crossroads. Down on his hands and knees Luke quietly crawls close enough to hear the guard’s conversation. He hears one say they were attached to the 7th U.S. Cavalry. The other made reference that the commander was Brigadier General Stoneman. Luke learns the General’s headquarters is stationed at Mount Sterling; however, Luke has no idea where Mount Sterling is.

  He also over-hears General Stoneman has been captured at the Battle of Brian’s Station, close to Nashville, and General George Armstrong Custer assumed command of the 7th.

  Making his way back through the woods to his horse, he mounts and returns to Nate.

  “Nate change jackets with me. I need your Yankee blue one.”

  “What’s you doin’ Luke, with you wearin’ yer blue-belly pants and my blue-belly jacket, theys gonna shoot you as a spy foreshore.”

  “I hope not. I’ve got me an idea.”

  Entering the main road again, he digs his heels into the horse’s flanks, going from a slow walk to a fast gallop. Rounding a curve in the road the two sentinels step out to block the rider’s path. Luke sees them and yells, “Out of my way you scoundrels! Get out of my way I tell you!”

  “Halt, or we’ll shoot!” Answer the guards.

  Pulling his reins he slows his horse from a gallop to a walk, and yells, “You idiots! Don’t you recognize me?”

  One of the Yankee privates orders, “Advance and be recognized!”

  Walking up to the two sentries one asks, “What’s the password?”

  Luke responded, “Password the Devil, I don’t know no cussed password! I’m General Stoneman; I understand General Custer has taken over my 7th Cavalry! Where is he, at the Mount Sterling headquarters?”

  Seeing the General’s white star on the saddle blanket one sentry says, “Sir, but...but Sir, they say you was captured at Brian’s Station?”

  Luke staying in character, “You fool, do I look the heck like I’m captured. I’m dressed as a private so I could escape, now git your fool selves out of my way before I have you court- martialed and shot.”

  The two sentries, never having seen General Stoneman, jump aside as Luke slaps his horse’s flanks with his reins, “General Custer, he’s at Mount Sterling,” one of the sentries yells as Luke gallops by them and rides down the road and out of sight.

  A couple of miles down the road he approaches a road-side tavern. A faded, wooden, sign swings from a rusty, iron bracket mounted over the door. It reads ‘Black Horse Tavern,’ underneath is written, ‘Est 1791’. Tying his horse to the hitching rail, he walks toward the entrance door. The only sounds are the creaking of the wind blown sign and a drunken patron stumbling out the tavern door, “No use goin’ in there blue-belly, they don’t serve Yankee scum like you.”

  Luke almost responds to the insult until he realizes he is dressed in a Union blue uniform, riding a horse with a big U.S. brand on its flank and a general’s blue saddle blanket. ‘That’s good! This place must be run by Southern sympathizers,’ he thinks.

  Pushing the door open he enters the dim lit room, which appears as if it hadn’t been cleaned since the date on the sign outside. Only a fireplace and a couple of lanterns illuminate the interior. It has the smell of wood smoke, stale beer, cigars and a couple of other smells he’s not too anxious to identify. Two drunken customers have passed out, facedown on an old rickety table. The barkeep, wiping a shot glass with a filthy rag, looks over the top of the glass, “This is my place and I don’t serve the likes of you. Most times all y’all soldiers want to do is drink, cuss and fight. I ain’t gonna put up with it...no sir...no way! Go find yerself someplace else to do yer drinkin’, yer hear?”

  Luke catches a hint of Southern sympathy in this man. He might be wrong, dead wrong if he isn’t right, but he decides to take a chance. “I know what it looks like, but I’m not a Yankee! I’m an escaped Reb from Camp Douglas in Chicago trying to get home to Alabama. I’m looking for food – any kind of food. I left my partner on the outskirts of town while I try to find us something to eat. All I have to trade is my grandfather’s pocket watch, but it’s yours for just enough food to help us get farther south.”

  Without looking up again, he asked, “What was your unit?”

  “I joined up in ’62 with the 48th Alabama, got captured at Gettysburg, escaped on the way to Point Lookout, Maryland. Hooked up with General John Hunt Morgan’s raiders. Captured again and got sent to Camp Douglas and escaped again, so here I am.”

  The bartender deliberately places the glass on the bar, slowly drooped the bar towel over his shoulder, reaches under the bar and pulls out a mean looking .56 caliber, 7 shot, lever action Spencer rifle. The sight of the rifle immediately worries Luke. The Spencer is a Yankee rifle. The only ones Southerners possess were pick-
ups from the battlefield. The Yanks say the Spencer is ‘that gun you load on Sunday and shoot it all week!’

  ‘This man has the look of a soldier,’ Luke thinks. ‘With that Spencer he must be a Union deserter. This is gonna turn out bad!’

  “Sounds like you’ve had an interested career in this here man’s Army. Seems like you’s better at getting’ caught that fightin’?”

  The innkeeper glares long and hard at Luke. He, along with his rifle, begins to move ominously from behind the bar. Sweat is beginning to form on Luke’s brow as the barkeep begins to raise the Spencer.

  The barkeep loads a shell into the breech and looks as if he is about to fire his rifle, suddenly instead of aiming the deadly weapon at Luke he lowers it and taps his leg with the rifle barrel – it is an artificial wooden leg. “Gettysburg too, Armistead Brigade, 14th Virginia, we was on the left of yer 48th during Pickett’s Charge. I’ll give it to you boys, you fellers put up a pretty darn good fight that awful day. We both lost a lotta good boys that terrible day,” he said staring as if the Gettysburg battle was taking place right before his eyes. “How fer did you boys git?”

  “They captured me standing on that dadburn stone wall on Cemetery Ridge.”

  “You means to tell me y’all got all the way to the wall? Well, I’ll be!” He said with a glazed over look in his eyes as he remembered that dreadful fight.

  Blinking his eyes, he returned to reality, “No worry, I’ve got food, it’s yours, you keep that darn watch, I ain’t got no use fer it no how.” Mumbling to himself, “I’ll be...all the way to the wall, my, my, now that’s something.”

  Luke’s horse was loaded down with a good supply of food. The innkeeper had supplied coffee, hardtack, bacon, some beans, a coffee pot, a frying pan, a small pouch of sugar, a cured ham, a powder horn half filled with powder, some percussion caps and a Colt Army Model 1860, .44 caliber, 6-shot revolver complete with holster. He also threw in two sticks of dynamite. Best of all – “Any man that got to that wall and still lives deserves this,” the barkeep said handing Luke the Spencer rifle and fifteen rounds of .56 caliber ammunition. Luke is still smiling as he goes through the woods to dodge the troops at the crossroads on his way to meet Nate hiding just beyond the checkpoint.