by Murray Pura
“Who are you talking to, Corporal?”
Nathaniel glanced to his right as the regiment trudged along a road of dust. It was Ham. “No one,” he responded.
“Were you praying?”
“No.”
“Speaking with your brother’s spirit?”
“I was not.”
“Well, you were talking to somebody and I’m the closest one to you and it weren’t me.”
“Never mind. I was only writing a letter out loud.”
There was the pop-pop of gunfire in the distance.
“What’s that, you reckon?” asked Ham.
“Skirmishers tangling. It won’t amount to anything.”
“South Mountain started with skirmishers and it amounted to something.”
“South Mountain wasn’t much of a battle. Just charging a stone fence.”
Ham snorted. “Ain’t you in the devil’s mood? Our fight at South Mountain the other day was no small affair. Those Georgia and Alabama boys wouldn’t give us that fence or that slope. We had to keep pushing and pushing to get them to appreciate it was our mountain now. And come morning that’s the way it was. We’d given Lee a spanking and he had to change his plans. The South pulled out and the brigade stayed. They should’ve renamed it North Mountain.”
Nathaniel grunted. “The boys had courage.”
“General McClellan didn’t retreat after South Mountain the way Pope had us skedaddle after the brawl at Brawner’s Farm. We had those secesh licked, high and mighty, at Brawner’s—we stopped Stonewall cold with six regiments. But Pope made us retreat. Good thing McClellan’s in charge of the army now. You ought to thank your God for that.”
Nathaniel grunted a second time, conceding another point to Ham. “I do.”
“McClellan saw us take on the secesh at South Mountain, you know. He was mightily impressed.”
Nathaniel looked over at Ham. “Who told you that?”
“The talk’s come down the line. Little Mac was there. Speaking to Hooker, the First Corps commander. We’re on the National Road, remember? Then it’s up the slope, moving the secesh off the mountain and away from that stone fence of yours. Shoving those gray bellies all the way back to Turner’s Gap. They’re blasting away at us but we never break.”
Nathaniel’s mind instantly filled with the smoke of thousands of muskets firing and Rebel troops falling back inch by inch. He could even taste the sulfur of the powder on his tongue.
Ham went on. “So Little Mac asks Hooker, Whose men are those fighting in the road? Hooker tells him, That’s General Gibbon’s brigade of Western men. Little Mac says, They must be made of iron.”
Nathaniel snorted. “That’s a big story.”
“I got the Boston paper in my pack. I’ll show it to you when we bivouac. They’re calling us the ‘Iron Brigade’ now.”
“I don’t believe it.”
Ham shifted the nine pounds of his musket to his other shoulder. Nathaniel decided it was time to do the same.
“You’re a real ornery one these days, ain’t you, Corporal?” Ham grumbled. “All those pretty Maryland girls blowing us kisses and waving the flag. You even caught one of them bouquets they threw in Frederick—and the gal who tossed it looked better than a sweet sunrise over Indiana. Everyone else is feeling their oats again except you. We know your brother’s death has brought you down to your boot heels. But you’ll see. The big battle’s about to be fought. Bobby Lee’s run and hid in a barn in Sharpsburg and Little Mac is going to flush him out. The Iron Brigade will do its part and the rebellion will be over before Christmas. Corinth helped get us here.”
Nathaniel took some water from his canteen. “Will slaveholding be over before Christmas too?”
Ham nodded. “You bet.” He spied some chickens at the side of the road. “Your brother was always a great forager. We could use him now.” He changed shoulders with his Springfield again. “ ’Cept we’re not allowed to forage in Maryland. It’s a Union state.”
Gunfire swelled in the distance once again, dropped, then burst out with a fury before trickling away into occasional pops and bangs.
“South Mountain,” said Ham. “This time we send ’em farther back than Turner’s Gap.”
“Atlanta?” suggested Nathaniel.
“Atlanta. Richmond. Charleston. All them places. Hey, they can go all the way south to that Rio de Janeiro if they want. Just give us our country back.”
The afternoon became twilight and still they marched. The brigade moved along the Hagerstown Turnpike with the Potomac glinting and dark to their right. The town of Sharpsburg was just ahead of them. Nathaniel found he was beginning to drag his feet. The night before the 19th had been placed on picket duty and had guarded until reveille. Companies and platoons had taken their turn but no one had gotten enough sleep. He hoped they would have a chance to get a decent rest tonight. He even prayed for it.
Ten minutes later, near nine by Nathaniel’s pocket watch, Captain Langston told the company to retire on the east side of the turnpike. Clouds covered them and a light rain dampened their hats and frock coats and muskets. The 19th and the rest of the brigade—the 2nd, 6th, and 7th Wisconsin—made camp all around. Nathaniel’s platoon brought out their blankets next to a barn.
“Another farm,” grunted Corporal Nicolson. “It’s always another farm. The farm boys must be getting sick of us peppering their out-buildings with lead and trampling their crops into the ground.”
“A good number of the crops should be harvested by now,” Private Jones told him, wrapping his Springfield in a large cloth. “I’d give the corn a couple more weeks though.”
“Well, I can’t see what this fellow’s got growing but I wish him the best with it when we start charging about in the morning.”
Sergeant Hanson was pulling a loaf of stale bread from his pack. “We won’t be fighting here, Corporal. Lee’s army is two miles farther ahead in Sharpsburg, sitting pretty and waiting for us. If there’s farms thataway it’s their crops you should be worried about. Not this gentleman’s—I think Lieutenant Davidson told me the map had it as a Joseph Poffenberger’s place.”
Nicolson also dug through his pack. “I’m not worried about anyone’s farm. If Joseph’s neighbor loses his corn instead of him I guess that’s Joseph’s good fortune and his neighbor’s bad luck. There. I knew I had some apples left from that orchard we marched through.” He bit into one and glanced at the sergeant’s bread. “How’s that loaf?”
“Harder than your apple.” Hanson gnawed on it unhappily. “If I had the energy to get up a fire in this drizzle I’d fry it in gun grease. I tell you, I miss that young Corinth some. We’d probably be dining on beefsteak and gravy with buttermilk biscuits if the good Lord had left him with us.”
Nicolson nodded as he finished one apple and picked up another. “There’d be a fire, that’s for sure. Whole platoon’d be a lot drier and warmer.”
“Not much of a platoon these days,” Ham spoke up, wrapping his blanket around him.
“The captain said there’d be recruits before the next fight,” the sergeant told him.
“We got them at Upton’s Hill. And lost a slew more at South Mountain.”
“Sergeant!”
Sergeant Hanson rose to his feet. It was Lieutenant Davidson. He saluted. “Sir.”
Davidson looked down at him from his mount. “There are wagons just catching up to us with recruits. A number have been assigned to your platoon.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Some of them specifically requested to be assigned to this regiment, this company, and this platoon.”
Hanson lifted his thick eyebrows. “That surprises me, Lieutenant.”
“It surprises me too, Sergeant. I hope you can see them safely through this battle.”
“I’ll do my best, sir. The rest is up to God.”
“So it is.” Davidson wheeled his horse. “Long Sol is in no shape to command the 19th tomorrow. Can’t lick his injuries from Brawner’s Far
m. Lieutenant Colonel Bachman is taking his place. You can pass that along.”
“I will, sir. Bachman is a good man.”
“He is a good man. Goodnight, Sergeant. Catch up on your sleep. The drumroll comes early.”
“I will, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Hanson sat back down, running his fingers over his large mustache and glancing at Ham. “There you are, Private. An answer to your prayers.”
Ham snorted. “What? The recruits? By tomorrow night we’ll be asking him for another dozen.”
Nip came out of the blackness, his blanket draped over his shoulders. “Does anyone want a fire?”
The men looked at his thin body and sunken cheeks in the wet dark.
“Don’t trouble yourself, lad,” said Hanson. “We’re about to turn in.”
“How about some mutton or beefsteak?”
“Ah, no. We’ve just dined on soldier’s food. You can do us up proper tomorrow night after the fight.”
Nip stared at the sergeant. “Is there going to be another fight?”
“There is.”
“With who?”
“General Lee.”
“What about Stonewall?”
“He’ll be there.”
“Will we lick him?”
Hanson nodded. “We will. I promise you we will.” He patted the damp grass. “Why don’t you lie down now and get some rest?”
“Hanson. First Sergeant Hanson. 19th regiment. The Indiana regiment. Sergeant Robbie Hanson.”
A covered wagon lit by a lantern was creaking along the turnpike and a man was calling from the driver’s seat. Nathaniel had already pulled his blanket up to his neck and lain down with his head on his pack. He was staring at the wall of the barn and, as his eyes continued to grow accustomed to the night, watching small drops of water gather enough weight to roll down the slats of wood. He heard Private Jones call that the sergeant was just at hand and listened as the wagon rattled to a stop.
“Sergeant Hanson?”
“Aye.”
“Indiana regiment?”
“You’ve found us.”
“I have recruits for your platoon here.”
“That’s good news.”
“Private Levi Keim. Private Joshua Yoder. From Elkhart County.”
Nathaniel sat up. Unable to see the recruit’s faces clearly he got to his feet and stumbled toward the turnpike, where Hanson and Jones stood talking with them and the wagon driver. As he emerged from the darkness he saw that it really was Levi Keim when the young man turned his face toward him.
“Nathaniel!”
They embraced, Nathaniel feeling the stiffness of the new uniform under his hands, a uniform beaded with drops of water.
“You were driving ambulance,” Nathaniel said, trying to take in the sight of Levi in a Hardee hat, frock coat, and knapsack. “What happened?”
But Levi did not answer him at first. Instead he extended his hand to Joshua Yoder. “Look who I have brought with me.”
Nathaniel and Joshua shook hands.
“Brother Nathaniel,” Joshua greeted him.
“I am frankly astonished.” Nathaniel looked back and forth from Levi to Joshua. “How is it you both enlisted with an Indiana regiment?”
“Why, we made plans to meet up with each other in Washington,” explained Joshua, tall and straight in his Hardee hat with the gold bugle symbol for infantry on its front. “We have been writing for months. Even sending telegrams now and then.”
“So you told the recruiters you were from Elkhart County?” asked Nathaniel.
Joshua smiled. “Didn’t you? And I have more cause—that really is my family with the Amish community there. I told no lies.”
“Nor did I.” Levi was smiling. “I simply said I had close relations in Indiana and that was good enough. Just like you did, Brother King.”
“But what kind of training have you had?” demanded Nathaniel.
Levi shrugged. “A few days of marching and bayonet practice. I can load and shoot.” He winked. “Shoot straight.” He unslung his musket and placed the stock firmly on the ground. “I suppose they needed any warm body they could find after Manassas Junction and South Mountain. The fact I’d been with the ambulance service made a difference too.”
“But what will the church say about this?” Nathaniel was still trying to grasp what they had done by joining the army. “What have you told your mothers? What have you told your fathers—one is a pastor and the other is a bishop?”
The smiling stopped.
“I did nothing behind my father’s back,” said Joshua. “Or my mother’s. After the losses at Mechanicsville and Malvern Hill I told my father I must enlist. I said I could not let the Union be defeated and allow a country conceived in liberty to be ruled by slaveholders. David and Jonathan fought for Israel, I told him. So I will fight for our New Israel, America.”
“Didn’t our ancestors come here in freedom?” asked Levi. “How can we stand by and pray and watch that freedom disappear without doing a thing?”
“Prayer is doing something,” Nathaniel responded.
“Yes,” replied Levi. “And it is prayer that brought me here.” He glanced back at the turnpike as if looking for someone. Then he fixed his gaze on Nathaniel and the sergeant while the men in the platoon listened. “What would you have done? Under a flag of truce I was retrieving wounded from Manassas and Chantilly and inside the Maryland border. I saw Rebel troops rounding up African families—men, women, children. Neighbors told me many of these people had never even lived in the South, had never been slaves, they were freemen.
“But it made no difference to Lee’s soldiers. They beat them and cursed them and chained them and sent them back to Virginia in wagons. One of the officers was the slave hunter who came to our home that night, Brother King. Yes, it was him, a major now in the Army of Northern Virginia. They called him Georgey Washington. Can you imagine that? So I remembered Charlie Preston and realized there would be many more Charlie Prestons unless we put an end to the Confederate States of America and became one country again. I cabled my father and mother: I prayed, I searched the Scriptures, now I have taken up arms and put on the uniform of a common soldier of the United States of America.”
Hanson nodded and shook his hand. “The Hoosiers are proud to have you fight alongside them. Especially with solid stock from Elkhart County in your blood.” He turned to Joshua and shook his hand as well. “The same goes for you, Private Yoder. Have you two had anything to eat?”
“Hanson. First Sergeant Robbie Hanson. 19th Indiana regiment,” a voice called from the turnpike.
The wagon driver smiled. “Here’s your second set of recruits.” He called out as the wagon came alongside his, “What took you so long, Billy? Take the road into Virginia by mistake, did you?”
The other driver reined in his team. “No need scaring the recruits to death their first night in the field, so’s I took my time. Are you the platoon sergeant?” He was looking at Hanson.
“I am,” Hanson replied.
“I have here privates Plesko, Campbell, McKeever, and Groom in the wagon. All from Indiana.”
“Thank you. They’ll be welcome.”
It was Nip who spoke up and asked, “Are any of you good at foraging?”
11
Lyndel returned to Washington from Fairfax Station on Wednesday, the third of September, and went to her house to change clothing before reporting for duty at Armory Square.
To her dismay, she had fallen asleep and the host family had tucked her in. She slept, exhausted, for more than two days.
She awoke to frustration and anger at herself for having lost so much valuable time. Further, now that she had experienced Fairfax, closer to the front, she was no longer content to work in a Washington hospital. No, now she knew she had to get closer to the front and nurse soldiers within minutes or hours of their wounding.
Accordingly, she proceeded to knock on the doors of Indiana congressmen and senators and officials
. For more than a week she persisted, but all to no avail. Brandishing letters from two Indiana captains she had cared for after Manassas brought praise from the Indiana statesmen, but no efforts to procure a pass through the lines so she could work with the ambulance service on the battlefield.
“I’m not asking to go everywhere and do everything,” she pleaded in office after office. “I just wish to assist the surgeons and ambulance men of the 19th Indiana. I want to keep Indiana boys alive. You mustn’t think of me as weak or a coward. I was at Fairfax when we fired the station and fled by rail from Rebel cavalry.”
The men all nodded and thanked her, but nothing was done. They pointed out that Clara Barton was already in the field, traveling by wagon in the steps of McClellan’s army. They couldn’t ask the army to authorize a pass for yet another woman.
“Suppose something happened to you,” a congressman argued. “Think of the scandal. Think of the disgrace. Indiana sends a woman to war and then isn’t able to protect her from the enemy. Impossible. Your plan is well intentioned but far too risky for yourself, the state of Indiana, and this federal government to undertake. You’re greatly needed at the hospitals here. The wounded will reach you soon enough.”
Lyndel’s’ blue eyes had blazed white. “That’s the whole reason for my appeal to you, Congressman. They will not reach me soon enough! They will die on the way. What if it was your own son lying on the field without so much as a mouthful of water or a bandage or a word of hope?”
On Sunday the 14th there was another battle involving Nathaniel’s brigade—the 19th Indiana and the 2nd, 6th, and 7th Wisconsin. They fought so bravely the papers were calling his men the Iron Brigade—if Nathaniel was even alive! Now there was talk of an even greater fight looming like thunderclouds over Sharpsburg and Hagerstown in Maryland. How could she stay in Washington when the soldiers were going to be fighting and dying a hundred miles away? What if Nathaniel was still with his regiment and needed her? Clara Barton had already left with the Army of the Potomac weeks ago. How was it possible God had left her here in Washington when any of a dozen other young women could easily take her place?
