And There I’ll Be a Soldier

by Johnny D. Boggs

  Joseph von Arx smiled brightly. “I’ll see you around, Cole.”

  “Take care,” Caleb mumbled, and followed the major.

  * * * * *

  Sleeping proved impossible. Torrents of water and mud, mingled with blood, buttons, bits of uniform, locks of hair, unmailed, unopened letters flowed through the trees and brush toward the river. Rain pelted him. He sat all night with a water-logged blanket over his shoulders, hearing men beg for water in the woods behind him, others scream for mercy on the hospital ships on the river. As another regiment disembarked from a ship, a soldier cried out to the new faces, “You’re gonna catch regular hell today, boys!” and laughed.

  Armed with a Springfield rifle, Caleb rose with the other Buckeyes to a sergeant’s command. It remained dark. Caleb didn’t care. They filed past a man in an apron, who let each man take a swig of coffee and shove hardtack into his mouth before marching into the woods.

  They headed away from the river, marching alongside the new recruits from some other regiment. It was easy to tell the veterans from the reserves, Caleb thought with a mirthless grin. Those who had fought yesterday did not bother to look at the corpses they stepped across. Those who hadn’t, gagged, and prayed.

  “Keep moving!” a captain growled. “If any of you turn and run, I’ll shoot you myself.”

  Cannon opened the second day of battle. The Fifty-Third Ohio and a reserve regiment exited the woods into a cleared field. Yesterday, a blue line like this would have stretched a thousand yards. Today, it barely reached four hundred.

  From the south charged a horde of screaming Rebels, and Caleb realized another change. Yesterday, those ear-piercing shrieks would have caused him to tremble. This morning, he barely even heard the yells.

  “Fire!”

  The Springfield misfired, its powder likely wet and ruined from last night’s deluge. Cursing, Caleb stepped back. An Ohio private dropped beside him, a bullet hole in his chest, and Caleb tossed away his rifle, and grabbed the dead man’s, began reloading.

  “They’re running! The Secesh are running. We’ve licked them!”

  The dark-haired Ohioan standing next to Caleb turned to shout at the reserves: “They’ll be back, buck-o. Don’t you go counting your chickens quite yet.”

  Within minutes, the Rebels came charging again. Cannon erupted up and down both lines. The ground seemed to shake, but Caleb steadied his rifle, aimed, fired. He breathed a sigh of relief as the rifle’s stock slammed against his bruised shoulder. Stepping back, he withdrew the ramrod, and went to work again.

  Again the Rebels retreated. Again they came back across the field.

  To die.

  Slowly the Union line moved, wheeling at an angle, out of the field, into the woods, crossing a road, following a branch that flowed like a raging river.

  He stepped over the newly dead, heard Rebs moaning for water, begging for mercy. Bullets clipped the branches. A few thudded into bodies. New recruits wept. Veterans cursed the new recruits.

  They stopped, took to their knees, as a lieutenant crawled behind them. “The Secesh are holed up in that camp yonder,” he whispered. “That’s our camp, boys. A camp that yesterday belonged to a regiment in Grant’s army. We’re taking it back. We’re not going to let a bunch of treason-addled Southern swine keep one of our camps.”

  The lieutenant crawled on past, repeating his whisper.

  The man beside Caleb spit out tobacco juice, and shook his head. He glanced at Caleb, nodded, and said: “Nice knowing you, kid.”

  Caleb could only nod a farewell back.

  Those Rebs weren’t stupid. They had piled logs upon logs, forming a fort in front of those tents that had now been ripped apart by Minié balls and grapeshot. Some Union soldiers affixed bayonets on their muskets and rifles, but Caleb had no bayonet. The dark-haired man on Caleb’s right drew a long-bladed knife with a D-ring brass handle. Caleb had no knife, either.

  “Charge!” the lieutenant yelled, and the Fifty-Third Ohio did its best to imitate that Rebel yell.

  A cannon roared from behind the Confederate breastworks, cutting down several charging Federals. Rebel yells drowned out the Union cries. Muskets thundered. A bullet splintered the stock of Caleb’s Springfield. He kept running.

  Two soldiers on his left pitched forward.

  He could make out the Rebel flag fluttering in the breeze.

  The cannon spit out grapeshot again.

  Caleb lifted his rifle, fired as he ran, only to realize that he was alone. He stopped, turned. A bullet spit mud over his brogans. Another grazed his neck. Behind him, Rebels laughed.

  “Keep a-comin’, sonny!” one called out. “You’re almost here.”

  A bullet splintered the other side of his rifle’s stock.

  The Fifty-Third Ohio was running, dropping their weapons, ducking behind trees. With a curse, Caleb hurried after them.

  “You disgusting bunch of poltroons!” a captain screamed as Caleb reached the Union line. “Cowards! The lot of you. Exactly as shameful as were your actions yesterday!” He kicked at one sobbing private with peach fuzz on his chin.

  Caleb looked around for the dark-haired fellow with the knife, but couldn’t find him. A bullet sang over his head, and he turned, saw the Rebels charging.

  He reloaded his rifle, aimed, fired. Most of the Buckeyes were running, however, and Caleb methodically reloaded. He and a handful of men, including the captain, fell back in an orderly fashion, stopping, firing, probably keeping the Rebs from overrunning the fleeing cowards of the Fifty-Third, likely saving the regiment—if he could call it a regiment—from annihilation.

  When they reached another cleared field, they were met by another Union regiment. Caleb let the new recruits pass, let them whip the Rebs. A few rods ahead, he saw the banner of the Fifty-Third Ohio, some officers and men gathered around it, trying to regroup, reorganize.

  Caleb walked in the opposite direction. He was finished with the Fifty-Third. They disgusted him.

  * * * * *

  He wandered through forests and fields, dead and dying, across destroyed fields and decimated woods. Occasionally he would stop to let a wounded man, Union or Confederate, it mattered not, drink from his canteen. Once he stopped, and held a Reb’s hand and told him all about Putnam County, Missouri, until the Reb was dead.

  It started raining, but not for long.

  Along a rutted road, he fought alongside the Seventy-Seventh Pennsylvania. Just to get the taste of the Fifty-Third Ohio out of his mouth. He also began to notice that he was moving with the Union lines again, and, this time, they were heading south.

  During a hard though brief shower, he helped some artillery boys push cannon and caisson through knee-deep mud. The sounds of battle soon faded, and the sun began sinking behind the trees. Smoke and mist hugged the ground like fog.

  He was alone now, lost, but he kept walking south.

  Caleb stopped, staring at a log building, a wooden cross at the top of the roof. The skies had opened again, and rain fell in spates. Blue-clad soldiers stood in the clearing around the ramshackle old church. One played a jew’s-harp. Another sang “John Brown’s Body.” A few of the men were dancing a jig.

  “What’s going on?” Caleb asked. His voice surprised him. He hadn’t really spoken since talking to that dying Reb about the difference between Poland Chinas and Durocs, Unionville, his parents, and Maryanne Corneilison.

  A boy even younger than Caleb grinned. “The Rebs are retreating. We’ve licked ’em!”

  “Caleb!”

  He turned, stepped toward the log church. Seb Woolard bolted out of the door, splashing through puddles of water. Caleb dropped his Springfield, embracing Seb Woolard in a hug.

  Seb Woolard, who Caleb had despised. Seb Woolard, who had despised Caleb. Seb Woolard, who had turned and run from battle. Tears flowed down both boys’ cheeks. They
hugged each other tightly, now sobbing, falling onto their knees.

  “It’s … so good … see …” Seb couldn’t finish.

  He would never be able to explain it, but Caleb cried, too. It did feel good, Caleb thought, to see Seb Woolard alive … to see anyone alive … after those two horrific days.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Two

  May 28–29, 1862

  Corinth, Mississippi

  Sitting on the edge of the cot, Grace Dehner slumped when she saw her reflection in a mirror. Her red-rimmed eyes were sunken, corners marked by crow’s feet, her face pale, brow knotted, hair matted with sweat. She looked forty years old, not seventeen. Behind her reflection, she spied the lines of cots, beds, bedrolls filled with men, the slaves scurrying about collecting chamber pots, a handful of doctors kneeling over some patients, and women, including Miss Prudence Caxton—like her, far removed from the comfort of their parlors—tending to the wounded, the dying, the dead.

  “Hey, String Bean.”

  Grace looked away from the mirror and to her right. Seventeen-year-old Johnny James stood in front of her, his face turning sheepish as he stuttered, shifted his feet, and corrected himself. “I … I … mean … uh … Grace.”

  He held a gray kepi in his left hand, and wore gray woolen britches, a matching shell jacket, and a wide black belt across his middle with an oval brass buckle stamped CSA. An oblong wooden box was tucked underneath his arm.

  “You joined up.” Her voice sounded ancient.

  “With Bedford Forrest. Cavalry. Get to ride a horse.”

  Men, her father included, kept bragging about Nathan Bedford Forrest’s gallantry, courage, leadership, and horsemanship, but, to Grace, Bedford Forrest would always be a foul, slave-trading scoundrel a thousand times removed from Southern chivalry.

  Johnny’s smile lost its youthful exuberance. “Well, I figured the South needed … well … I mean … you know …”

  All too well she knew. This empty cot said it all.

  Awkwardly Johnny James took the box, and offered it to Grace as if he were presenting her a bouquet of roses. “You mama said this come for you. Asked if I’d bring it over.” He stared at the label. “Come all the way from Texas.”

  She found energy, and rose quickly, towering over Johnny James, and accepted the box. It was heavier than she expected.

  “Come with me, Johnny,” she said, and led Johnny James through the maze of wounded men. She needed to free up that cot, anyway.

  Behind her, Johnny James sniggered. “Never thought I’d get to be inside the Corona Female College.”

  Grace shook her head. Johnny wouldn’t find any young ladies learning college arithmetic, reciting Latin, or debating Plutarch’s essays. No classes were being held, although Grace certainly was getting an education. Since the slaughter at Shiloh, the Corona Female College had been turned into a hospital ward. So had churches, businesses, and even homes in the city and across northern Mississippi. Once news of the battle spread, doctors had barged into Corinth from New Orleans, Jackson, Natchez, and all the way from Mobile. To lessen Corinth’s burden, wounded men had been sent by rail to hospitals in Canton and Columbus, Holly Springs and Memphis, and countless other cities. Instead of shipping cotton, the trains these days carried the horribly maimed, or coffins to be shipped to loved ones back home. Corinth, however, still reeked of the dead and dying.

  She and Johnny had to pause to let two slaves carry a corpse down the stairs.

  In the room where she had once loathed geography, she found Dr. Kenton Landon bending his long frame over a young Confederate soldier. She hurried to his bedroll.

  “How’s he doing?” Grace asked.

  Dr. Landon straightened. “After a month in bed, I’ll dare say that he’ll walk. He certainly has been getting excellent medical care. Hello, Master James. You look patriotic, young man.”

  Grace glanced at Johnny, who didn’t look patriotic at all. He looked as if he were about to throw up. Maybe he should have visited the Corona Female College before he joined up with Forrest.

  The soldier from Texas sat up, resting his back against the wall. “When do I get out of this pigsty?”

  Shaking his head, Dr. Landon muttered, “Ask your doctor,” and, winking at Grace, left the room.

  “Well?” Ryan McCalla asked.

  “Shut up,” she snapped. “It’s nothing short of a miracle that you still have both your legs. Any other doctor would have sawed that one off, and you’d be getting fitted for a wooden leg right about now.”

  “Well, I’ve been walking around,” he protested. “You said I had to walk before I could leave. I’m doing that. So when can I leave?”

  “Shut up.”

  His head shook. “That scratch on my head’s all cured, now. Only a little scar left, and my leg doesn’t ache any more … not much. What I’m saying, Miss Grace, is that I’m no good to the Second Texas stuck up in this …” He shuddered.

  She couldn’t blame him for wanting to get out of here. She threw up every morning in the privy just thinking about what waited for her up on College Hill. Her mother and father insisted that she stay away from that place, but if Miss Prudence Caxton could handle it, then, criminy, so could Grace Prudence. Besides, Dr. Landon needed her.

  “Are all Texians as stubborn as you are?” she asked.

  That did it. Ryan McCalla smiled. “I reckon,” he said.

  She hooked a thumb behind her. “This is Johnny James. He’s a friend of mine since we were kids. He just joined Forrest’s night riders.”

  “We’re not night riders, String Bean. We’re cavalry.”

  “Johnny, this is Ryan McCalla. He’s from Cedar Bayou, Texas.”

  Johnny James started forward, but Ryan McCalla stopped him. He pulled himself to his feet, grimacing, and took four steps before shaking Johnny’s hand. He kept standing, too, defying Grace to order him back to his place.

  Instead, she handed him the package. “This came for you.”

  He held it awkwardly, before a wicked grin stretched across his face. “Thanks,” he said, “String Bean.”

  She made a promise that if Yankees didn’t kill Johnny James, she would.

  Johnny James must have felt her wrath. “Well, I best be going.” He pulled on his kepi, and shook Ryan’s hand again. “I’ll call on you before we ride out, Grace,” he said, “if you don’t object.”

  She didn’t answer.

  Ryan pushed away the straw and sawdust, knowing what it was before he even pulled out the duck wrapping. He set it aside on his pillow, and fumbled with the letter. Grace had to open it for him, and she handed him the paper that smelled of perfume. She fought down jealousy, which surprised her. When he started reading, however, she relaxed.

  “‘My Dearest Son. We praise God that you have been delivered, and hope you will return home to us soon.’”

  He lowered the letter.

  “I’ll go,” she said.

  “No. Stay.”

  “You don’t have to read it out loud.”

  “But I want to.”

  “‘Mrs. Dehner has been so kind to mail your note. I pray that your hands are healing and that you will be able to write us soon. Your nurse swears that is the case.’”

  Ryan stared at her, not a glare, but rather a bemused look. With a shrug, she grinned.

  “‘Ryan, God favors us. We have received word that young Sam Houston Jr. was not killed during that awful battle on the banks of the Tennessee River as was originally reported by Captain Ashbel Smith.’”

  He let out a sigh of relief. “Sam’s alive!” he shouted to Grace, and her smile came as genuine as Ryan McCalla’s. She did not know who Sam Houston Jr. was, but she was happy that he had survived the bloodletting at Shiloh. McCalla kept reading.

  “‘Gravely injured he was, but he lives. He was sent to a prison ca
mp in Chicago or some Northern city. A Union chaplain found young Sam on the battlefield, and Sam handed him his Bible and asked that it be sent to his home. Poor soul, he thought he was dying.

  “‘By God’s grace, the kind chaplain saw Governor Sam Houston’s name (I know, Ryan, that Houston no longer serves as our governor, but he shall always command my respect and honor, and while your father strongly disagrees with Houston’s sentiments, I will never forget all that he has done for our family, and our state!). Well, as I was saying, the chaplain commanded a surgeon to assist, and Sam Jr. was saved.

  “‘He is recovering in the North, and, writes Governor Houston, he will be sent home as soon as he is able to travel.

  “‘It is our dearest wish that you too will be furloughed to return to Cedar Bayou and regain your health. In the meanwhile, your nurse has said that you would like your violin returned, so I ship it to you, with a warm kiss, and devout prayer that it reach you safely in Mississippi.

  “‘God be kind to you. He has been most kind to me for delivering you from battle.

  “‘How is Matt Bryson doing? We have received no word of him, and his father asked me to see what news you could relate back to us.’”

  He folded the letter, unable to finish. Making himself smile, he looked at Grace and asked: “Missus Dehner?”

  She didn’t blush. “A married nurse, I figured, commands more respect.”

  “I see.”

  He didn’t. Well, she didn’t, either.

  “How did you know about the violin?”

  She grinned again. “You talked a lot … you were so wracked with fever … when you first arrived. When I figured you wouldn’t die, I just decided …” Another shrug. “Would you play?”

  Ryan set the letter aside. He drew the case from the duck wrapping, his fingers trembling, then slowly unlatched the sides and opened the case.