Of Ashes and Dust

by Marc Graham

  The family gathered around Belle, and we loved on her and whispered words of comfort. I didn’t know what help words would be to this woman whose world had been shattered. But the world had changed for all of us. As I held Gina’s hand and embraced her family—our family now—I couldn’t help but think, somehow, the change was for the better.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Benton County, Arkansas—March 1862

  I stood by the fire with my men, our hands held over the flames in a vain attempt to warm ourselves. The fire was one of many that stretched for a mile around Camp Stephens on the south bank of Little Sugar Creek.

  For days the Army of the West had been on the march from Van Buren, battling snow and cold and exhaustion. The rugged slopes and shoddy roads of the Boston Mountains seemed to have allied with the Union snipers and skirmishers who harassed us at every turn. After thirty hours of forced march out of Bentonville, the army was now drawn up across from the Federals, whose fires could be seen along the wooded slopes across the creek.

  The three-day rations passed out at Van Buren had mostly run out before leaving Bentonville, and the men of my battery were hungry and tired. I gave them a few moments at the fire to feel human again before ordering them to unhitch the horses from the caissons and wagons. I then had them see what food they could scrounge together while I took a pot down to the creek to fetch some water.

  “Careful you don’t fall in,” a familiar voice said from behind. “You’re not like to thaw out till high summer.”

  “I figured you’d be coming around to finally admit I’m the better rider,” I said as I rose and turned. “What with hell about to freeze over and all.”

  “It ain’t quite cold enough for that just yet.” Matt swung a leg over Pegasus’s back and dropped to the ground, came over and pulled me into a warm hug.

  “You don’t look too much the worse for wear,” I judged as I held him at arm’s length and examined his grey, wool uniform.

  The cavalry troops at the front and rear of the army had taken the worst of the skirmishing on the march, and I’d lost count of the fallen horses by the roadside.

  “Not too bad, I suppose,” Matt allowed, “but I almost prefer the open field to what we’ve had to deal with today. It’s a damn sight easier on the nerves when you know where the shooting’s coming from. We almost had them at Elk Springs this morning, but the Yankees are better at running than we are at chasing, I guess.”

  I took Pegasus’s reins and rubbed his black muzzle, then led him and Matt up the slope. I set the water over the fire and my men added what scraps of root, twigs and leaves they’d been able to find.

  “Shouldn’t you be with your troop, ravaging poor young maidens?” I asked Matt. “That is what you rough riders do, isn’t it?”

  He grinned and tilted his hat roguishly.

  “Only on Wednesdays and Saturdays,” he said. “Today, I had more important things to do, like keeping you out of trouble. Or getting you into it, maybe,” he added, and reached into his jacket.

  “What’s this,” I asked when he handed me a folded, sealed parchment.

  “Your new orders.”

  I broke open the seal, tossed the small bit of wax and string into the fire, then opened the message.

  Be it known by these presents that James D. Robbins, formerly of Rivers’ Battery, Light Artillery, of the Arkansas State Guard, is Hereby relieved of Duty Therewith, and is assigned to the 1st Battery, Missouri Light Artillery, Army of the West, and is Granted the Commission of 1st Lieutenant, CSA, with all the Duties and Privileges appertaining Thereto. Given under my hand this 6th day of March, Eighteen hundred and Sixty-two. [signed] Earl van Dorn, Maj-General, Commanding.

  “What is this?” I said as I looked up at Matt.

  “Just what it says. Word came down that they were looking for some men who know the land around here. I told Rock I just happened to be acquainted with an artillery gunner who knows every square inch of this county.”

  “Rock?” I asked.

  “Captain Champion, my company commander,” Matt said. “Hell of a horseman—maybe even better than me, and with stones like you wouldn’t believe.”

  I grinned at that. Since he’d left the Arkansas Militia to join the Missouri State Guard, Matt had learned to swear like a real soldier.

  “I look forward to meeting him sometime,” I said.

  “Well, that’d be right soon,” Matt said. “You’re to make your arrangements and come with me.”

  “What, now?”

  “Now.”

  “But I’m only just starting to thaw out,” I said.

  “Well, get ready to freeze up again, then, because you’re to come back with me right now. Besides,” he added in a low voice, “you’d only have another hour or so of warmth anyway.”

  “How’s that? I thought we were camped for the night.”

  “That’s what they think, too,” he said, nodding his head toward the fires on the north side of the creek.

  I opened my mouth to protest again, but thought better of it. I shook the hands of my confused men and collected my kit.

  “I’ll saddle Orion for you,” Matt offered as I walked over to the fire where Captain Rivers huddled with his gun crew.

  “Orders, sir,” I greeted him, and gave him the parchment.

  “How in God’s name do they expect me to field my guns without any lieutenants?” he asked the night sky when he finished reading. “Sorry, Jim. I should be offering you congratulations. It’s a fine opportunity for you. Good luck,” he said, and offered his hand. “Shea,” he shouted for his sergeant, then set about reorganizing his battery.

  Matt rode up to me with Orion in tow, and I swung into the saddle and fell in behind. We threaded our way past flickering fires and shivering men who huddled in grey frozenness. At last we reached the headquarters tents, where I met Captain Henry Guibor of the Missouri First Artillery, whose battery I’d be joining.

  “By the way, how’s your gunnery, Lieutenant?” he asked after the pleasantries had been exchanged.

  “Fair enough, I reckon,” I said.

  “Fair, hmm? Jim Stewart swears you’re the best gunner he’s ever seen—says you can just about will the shot on target.”

  “Captain Stewart’s very kind, sir. I had the fortune of a good instructor. And I daresay the real thing’s bound to be different than the range.”

  “You’ve not seen combat yet, then?” he said.

  “No, sir,” I admitted.

  “Well, by this time tomorrow, I’d wager that will have changed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Guibor led me to where his battery was camped, toward the rear of the army, near a ford across the creek. He introduced me to the other officers and senior enlisted men, then gave the order to break camp and make ready to move out. There were a few grumbled protests, but the men set smartly about their orders. With orchestrated precision, horses were harnessed, guns limbered and the battery made ready to set out.

  “Stay that shovel, Private,” Guibor ordered as one of his men was about to douse his fire with a load of snow.

  “Sir?”

  “We wouldn’t want our friends thinking we’ve skipped out on them, now would we?”

  The young soldier’s eyes slowly registered understanding. He lowered his shovel and, with a decidedly unwarriorlike giggle, ran off to join his comrades.

  “Too clever by half,” Guibor muttered.

  “How’s that, sir?” I asked.

  “Call me Hank. And it’s this plan of McCulloch’s,” he said of Brigadier General Benjamin McCulloch, one of the army’s division commanders. “It’s not at all a bad idea to try flanking the Federals, come up behind them while they’re watching for us to charge across the creek. But it’ll take more than a string of empty fires to make Billy Yank think we’re sitting tight.”

  I thought about that as I scanned the fires on our side of the Little Sugar Creek. I looked across the water, and the flicker of Union campfires appeare
d to be mere candle flames against the dark canopy of night.

  “More light.” I hadn’t meant to say the words aloud.

  “What’s that?” Hank asked.

  I blinked away the fire glare from my eyes, then turned to the captain.

  “I have an idea, sir.”

  I stood in the front of the rowboat, and wondered what I’d gotten myself into. In spite of the bitter coldness of the night, a trickle of sweat ran down my spine. Three other men had joined me—two captains rowed while a major steered the boat against the current as we crossed to the northern shore. I braced myself against the prow of the boat, a white flag gripped in my hand. Whether the position of honor was mine because the crossing had been my idea, or because I was the most expendable, I couldn’t be sure.

  A shout came from the shore as we neared, followed soon by the clack of rifles being cocked.

  “Who goes there?” a voice called out.

  My throat went suddenly dry, but I managed to answer, “Four widows’ sons.”

  There was a confused pause, followed by a barked order and a scramble in the underbrush.

  “Show me your hands,” the voice shouted to us, and I quickly obeyed. “Keep ’em up,” he demanded as I brought my hands down to my sides, and I raised them once more.

  “I said, keep ’em up,” the voice repeated as I made the gesture a second time. I could almost feel the poke of the barrel aimed at my chest and the pressure on the trigger that could any moment send a lead ball into my heart. Nevertheless, I raised and lowered my hands a third time. “God damn you, Reb’, I told you to—”

  “Stand down, Sergeant,” a second voice called, then, “Come ashore.”

  “Steady on, men,” Major Chilton ordered, and the captains pulled again at their oars. A few strokes later, we ground ashore and I leapt over the side to steady the boat while the others climbed out.

  In moments, we were surrounded by blue-jacketed riflemen who glared menacingly at us.

  “You men lost?” one man asked as he squeezed through the ring of soldiers. His shoulder markings identified him as an infantry captain.

  “Must be,” Major Chilton answered for us. “We were traveling from west to east.”

  The captain stepped toward us and, one by one, clasped our hands and gave each of us a brotherly hug. When he reached me, we shared an embrace and, cheek to cheek, exchanged the Masonic word of recognition.

  “Sergeant Coombs,” the captain said after he had greeted us, “assign a detachment to secure this boat, then resume your post.”

  “Yes, sir,” the burly man grunted. “And what about them, sir?”

  “These men are under my charge,” the captain said. “I’ll see to their disposition.”

  “Yes, sir,” Coombs replied, and turned to bark orders at his men.

  “Gentlemen,” the captain gave a slight bow, then gestured for us to follow him. He led us up the bank and, once we were out of earshot of the troops, said, “I suppose you brethren have a good reason for stirring up my men.”

  “It’s my doing, Captain . . . ?”

  “Holmon,” he answered me. “Jesse Holmon, S Company, Eighteenth Indiana.”

  “Pleasure to know you, Captain,” I said. “I was raised up at the Elkhorn Tavern just last year. Haven’t been back this way since—well, since the troubles started. It struck me, though, that this being a Thursday there might be some brethren gathered there tonight.” I took on a sheepish expression, and it wasn’t just playacting. “I reckon I’ll see my first combat come daylight. If this is to be my last night, I wanted to spend it among the brethren.”

  The words sounded contrived as they came out of my mouth, but Holmon looked at me grimly and nodded. Even Chilton and the two captains—combat veterans all—looked solemn, as though I’d struck on some deep truth.

  “I don’t suppose you’re alone in that,” Holmon assured me. “As a matter of fact, I was just getting ready to head up to the tavern myself. We’ll have missed the master’s table, but you’ll be more than welcome for lodge.”

  We followed Captain Holmon up the road, past the curious looks of Union soldiers and officers. Aside from the blue uniforms, the enemy looked much like my own men, albeit better fed. The younger ones, in particular, shared the same look of innocence, bravado and fear I’d seen on countless faces during the march from Van Buren.

  At length, we reached the tavern that had been a second home to me only a year before. The place where I’d learned of peace and brotherly love was now wrapped in a martial shroud. The building itself was little changed, but the big yard surrounding it was filled with campaign tents, supply wagons and pickets of horses. Men huddled in cloaks and blankets around blazing fires, and stamped their feet against the cold. I sank deeper into my woolen tunic and thought of my freezing men, two to a blanket, who by now had left their fires and should be fording the creek farther upstream.

  “Jim?”

  I heard the voice as we crossed the threshold of the tavern, and Lucy Cox ran to me and threw her arms around my neck, her pregnant belly pressed hard against me.

  “I’ll be damned,” her husband, Joseph, swore as he crossed to me and held out his hand.

  “How you doing, boy?” I asked as I took his hand and pulled him into an embrace.

  “Well enough, I suppose. Pap’s been stuck in Kansas since the war started, but Lucy and me, Ma and the little ones is doing fine.” Joseph looked at me curiously, and for the first time seemed to notice the opposing uniforms in the room. “Jim, is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine,” I assured him, then put an arm around his shoulder and led him toward the fireplace at one end of the tavern. “Now you listen up, boy,” I whispered. “Fighting’s likely to start around daybreak. After we leave tonight, I want you to take Lucy and your Ma, Eli and Frank down to the cellar, and you stay there till the shooting stops tomorrow. Understand?”

  The young man nodded and I clapped his shoulder, then followed the other officers up the narrow stairs.

  A Union lieutenant stood as Tyler, guardian of the inner door of the lodge, and gaped at me and the others as we reached the upper landing.

  “I vouch for these men, Brother Tyler,” Holmon assured him.

  The young officer nodded and indicated a table adjacent to the door. No weapons were permitted in the lodge, so I unstrapped my belt and laid my pistol and short artilleryman’s sword on the table, alongside Union sabers and revolvers. A long rifle leaned against one wall, and I took a moment to admire the decorations on the barrel and the intricate carving on the stock before putting on my apron and following the others into the lodge room.

  The room was arranged just as I had last seen it, but the aprons worn by the men couldn’t disguise the uniforms underneath. More startled looks greeted Chilton and the captains and me, but the man wearing the master’s jewel—a stylized set square hung from a thick collar about his neck— came over to greet us.

  “Welcome, brethren,” he offered as he extended his hand to Chilton and the rest of us.

  The man was thickset and solid, his square jaw masked by a heavy, dark beard. His eyes glittered with confidence and good humor, but there was a steeliness there that spoke of cunning and strength. The eagle on his shoulder boards suggested he used all of those traits to good effect.

  “Grenville Dodge,” he introduced himself as he shook my hand.

  “Worshipful,” I greeted him, military rank and protocol replaced by the customs of the Craft.

  “JB Hickok,” another man introduced himself.

  He wore a level on his collar and had long, blond hair that framed an elegant, almost feminine, face. The lone man out of uniform, his fur-trimmed deerskin identified him as a tracker and scout.

  “Best mind our senior warden,” Colonel Dodge advised. “He’s a wild one.”

  “Yes, sir,” I acknowledged as I shook a strong, calloused hand.

  After a handful of other introductions, Dodge set a top hat on his head—a s
trange finish to his uniform—then picked up his gavel and said, “Brethren will be properly clothed and in order. Officers repair to their stations for the purpose of opening.”

  The officers took their places, while the remaining brothers found seats around the perimeter of the lodge room. Flickering candles and familiar words almost made me forget that the men seated around me were enemies, that on the morrow we might well face one another across a smoke-covered field. I settled into the comfortable ritual of the lodge, gave the signs and words of a Mason, listened to the invocation of the Supreme Architect of the Universe and the master’s words of wisdom.

  “May the blessing of heaven rest upon us and all regular Masons,” Dodge prayed as he brought the meeting to a close. “May brotherly love prevail, and every moral and social virtue cement us.” At the close of the prayer, he set his hat back on his head and looked solemnly around the assembled men. “You are now about to quit this sacred retreat of friendship and virtue, to mix again with the world.”

  The words of peace and love stood in stark contrast to the martial uniforms of blue and grey. Hickok’s sharp eyes glistened in the candle light, and the emotion there was a reflection of my own as the worshipful master—soon to be an enemy colonel again—informed him, “Brother Senior Warden, I now declare this lodge duly closed.”

  No one moved for several seconds. Officers—Union and Confederate—looked from one to another with eyes that spoke of sadness and regret. Finally, Colonel Dodge removed his hat and extended his hand to Major Chilton.

  “Godspeed, Major,” he said. “Gentlemen.”

  He shook each of our hands, and we filed past the other men, then followed Captain Holmon down the stairs.

  “Mind what I told you,” I said to Joseph Cox in parting, then joined the others for the walk back to the banks of Little Sugar Creek.

  The rowboat was where we’d left it, and the Confederate fires burned brightly on the opposite shore. “Many thanks, Captain,” Major Chilton said as the Union soldiers pushed the boat back into the current.