by James Fearn
A thousand voices bid you rise.’
John and his fellows were ready for battle and eager to teach the Yankees a lesson not to be forgotten. One day, however to his surprise, John was summoned together with three fellow infantrymen to the tent of the commanding officer, Colonel Gray himself.
‘Men,’ said the Colonel. ‘It has come to my notice that there may be spies operating in our ranks. I want you men to get around the camp in your off-duty hours. Socialise, get to know the men, and see if you can discover anything unusual. Anything at all suspicious, however simple should be noted. Report to me at this time each evening with what you find.’
‘Yes, sir!’ they replied. He saluted and dismissed them.
John found no trouble in socialising amongst strangers—being a good conversationalist since early youth. During off-duty hours, he would make his way about the camp, stopping here and there and chatting with men from Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi.
One evening, he struck up a conversation with a handsome young man with rather fine features, fair hair, and blue eyes. What particularly interested John about this soldier was his accent, which seemed to lack the heavy drawl of most of the others from the southern States. He had been chatting for some time when the young soldier, who had introduced himself as Tom, suggested that they walk back to his tent to share some chocolate that he had just received from home.
The two had no sooner entered the tent when the young soldier removed his brimmed hat revealing a head of tightly coiled tresses which fell freely to his shoulders. John stared in amazement, but his astonishment was nothing to the shock he was about to receive. Turning to face the back of the tent, the young soldier removed the jacket of his uniform and swung back to face John.
John could hardly believe his eyes. Standing before him was a young woman, her torso only partly covered revealing her shapely breasts.
The girl took John’s hand and pulled him down on to the palliasse with her. Like any red-blooded army man, John experienced the urgency of temptation. The girl ran the tips of her fingers lightly around the contours of his lips, and drew him closer to her. John’s heart raced. ‘Do you know when we are moving out?’ she queried, looking up longingly into his startled eyes.
John’s breath came short and fast. His emotions were a blend of desire and fear. He could smell the perfumed aroma of her body. ‘Is it true we’re going up to Richmond soon?’ she whispered.
John’s mind flashed to Anna and the children, and his ardour cooled slowly as he sat on his hands. Suddenly she jumped to her feet and listened. ‘Quick!’ she said, dragging him with her. ‘Someone’s coming! You’d better go! Come back tomorrow night!’
As John slipped out of the tent, he observed a group of officers coming along the row of tents carrying out a spot inspection. He was glad to be out of the place before being apprehended by the inspection party, and relieved that his role as an undercover agent remained a secret.
Colonel Gray was pleased with the activities of his counter-spies in the camp at New Orleans. Within a week, three young women posing as Confederate troops had been arrested and incarcerated as prisoners of war.
Both sides used women as spies and couriers. All manner of things passed over the lines under the huge hoop dresses worn by women, and these were sometimes torn off by suspicious officers. It was not so much the ladies’ legs that were of interest to these love-starved men, but other arms and legs that were sometimes found. In fact, women made good operatives. They were suspected less readily than men and, when caught, punished less severely. Not only did they act as traditional spies, but some were carriers of syphilis and gonorrhoea. This conflict was a test of the moral fibre of the troops, as well as their courage and skill in battle. Vice offered to some a pleasurable, albeit momentary escape from the grim realities of war.
The experience as an undercover operator was hardly what John had expected. Neither was the task that he and half a dozen of his fellow infantrymen were assigned over the next few months. Their party was dispatched to serve as orderlies in a hospital some five miles behind the battle lines in Georgia. Nothing could have been more dramatically effective as an introduction to the horrific results of battle than this.
As the wagon bearing the hospital party rolled to a stop outside the disused church building that had been converted for use as a hospital, John was horrified by the screams and groans that came from within. And the stench! His stomach turned as the stink of rotting flesh and ether wafted into his nostrils. But the smells and sounds of this house of trauma were only part of the horror. The party was greeted at the door by the Senior Surgeon, an officer of gaunt appearance, his face portraying the effects of a thousand agonies upon a man of unswerving duty.
John was immediately deployed as one of the Junior Surgeon’s assistants. His task was to dress the wounds of the young men who had been cut down in the murderous fire of battle. He was surprised to observe that most of the official nurses were local volunteer women and watched in admiration as they dressed the moist, offensive gangrenous wounds of the dying men. John had heard that only women whose sense of respectability was at a low ebb were to be found in these army hospitals. But his attitude changed as he saw their compassion and self-sacrifice in this most loathsome occupation.
‘Over here, Private!’ snapped the Surgeon. ‘Lay him on the table and cut off his trousers!’
John shrank from the sight of the poor wretch who was placed on the amputation table. Taking the scissors in his right hand, he carefully cut the right trouser leg away to reveal the shattered remains of what had been the young soldier’s right leg. The lad cried in pain and in fear of what was about to happen to him. It was widely rumoured among the troops that few who entered those battlefield hospitals ever came out alive.
‘Here, Private! Clean these instruments,’ barked the Surgeon, thrusting two scalpels and a bone saw into John’s trembling hands. He looked in horror at these instruments of death.
‘Dip them into the carbolic solution over there and wipe them on that towel.’ The Surgeon pointed to a blood-stained rag hanging on the end of the table. John obeyed the orders and handed the instruments to the Surgeon in trepidation.
‘Hold him by the shoulders!’ ordered the Surgeon. ‘And, you men, hold his left leg and arms firmly.’
Anticipating the pain, the lad opened his mouth and screamed. The Surgeon placed a tightly rolled towel between the soldier’s jaws and waved the ether bottle under his nose. Even John began to feel light-headed and turned his head away. The lad’s stifled screams subsided as he slipped into unconsciousness. As the Surgeon took up the bone saw, John felt sick in the stomach but gritted his teeth as he watched.
The sound of the saw cutting the shattered end of the femur was horrendous. John began to wonder if he was at work in hell itself. War! War! What could justify these brutalities? What loyalties could transcend humanity to this degree? John was emotionally and physically exhausted and stared blankly as the Surgeon applied the hot tar and bound up the bleeding wound.
John and his fellow nurses lifted the unconscious boy on to a stretcher and moved him to a bed in the corner of the room. As they carried him, John caught sight of a gruesome pile of amputated legs, feet, and hands thrown irreverently into a large basket like so many offcuts in a butcher’s shop.
John found it difficult to eat that night, and returned to his tent, tired and shocked. To his surprise and delight, there on his bed lay a letter addressed to him in Anna’s hand. He opened it shakily.
‘Dearest John,’ it began.
‘We send you our love from home and hope that it will not be long before you are with us again.’
A pang of homesickness gripped John’s being. His eyes moistened.
‘As you know,’ the letter continued, ‘it has not been a good season here in Mansfield, but I think there will be enough corn to feed the family at least. We shall have to a
sk our creditors for an extension on our loan once more. We can only pray that next year’s crop will be better when, God willing, you will be home with us. Anola and William are well, and we pray for you each night. Love from Anna.’
John lay on his bed, staring at the canvass roof of the tent. How ever did he get himself mixed up in all of this? Thank goodness, Anna and the children were in good spirits. Surely, next year’s crop would redeem the financial situation for them.
During the next few months, the Twenty-eighth Louisianians were engaged in action in Tennessee and Northern Mississippi. But the Union army’s superiority in numbers was beginning to be evident, and John could see that the tide was inexorably turning against the Confederacy. He began to feel more and more dispirited as the constant living in the open, inadequate food, and high risk of death from battle and disease became part of his daily experience. This was not uncommon for family men who had spent a year or more away from their loved ones. Military camaraderie, supportive as it was, was no substitute for the love of family and the security of home. Some of John’s fellow fighters, tormented by loneliness and their inability to protect their families from poverty and the risk of occupation by marauding enemy troops, had deserted. Some had made their way through the forest and mosquito-ridden bayous to reach home, exhausted and more in need of care than able to give it. Others had been captured by the Federals and imprisoned, while still others had been caught and summarily shot as deserters.
It was after one particularly bloody skirmish against a brigade of General Grant’s Union troops near Shiloh that the Twenty-eighth retired to regroup. John was summoned to the Colonel’s command post. As he entered, he observed Private Johnson standing to attention. Johnson was one who had enlisted at the same time as John had in Mansfield. John saluted the Colonel.
‘Private Francis!’ he began. ‘How’d you like to go home?’ John’s prominent jaw dropped in surprise.
‘The Brigade is desperately in need of new uniforms. The men look a disgrace in their present outfits. I’m sending you and Johnson back to Mansfield to collect some. The women of the district have stitched up a new uniform for each of us.’
‘Yes, sir!’ replied John enthusiastically.
‘Now you’ll need to travel under cover particularly behind enemy lines,’ continued the Colonel. ‘So it’s a particularly tricky and responsible operation I’m entrusting to you. Take every possible precaution. No heroics now! Do you understand?’ barked the old soldier.
‘Yes, sir!’ they replied as one.
It was a good four day’s journey on horseback to Mansfield. John was surprised that they did not encounter any Federals on the way, although, on several occasions, they could here the explosions of shells and the exchange of rifle fire in the distance.
Upon reaching Mansfield, they found that all had been prepared. They were provided with a wagon packed with clothing for a hundred men and some non-perishable foods, more than enough for the whole Brigade.
Within an hour, they had set out on the return journey, John driving the wagon and its team of two splendid draught horses. Johnson rode ahead on a fresh horse. Down the Mansfield-Natchitoches Road they went, with a few children waving to them as they passed. John was surprised that none of them seemed to recognise him. Had he changed that much in a year? Had the ravages of the road and the horrors of the battlefield altered his appearance to such an extent?
Although it was only a short digression, John could not resist steering the wagon into Crosby Street and driving slowly up to the farmhouse. Anna and Maria were working together in the field, when Maria suddenly looked up and let out a scream of surprise.
‘Lands sakes, Mrs Anna!’ she yelled. ‘Look who’s acomin’ up de road. It’s Massa Francis!’
Anna dropped her hoe and ran to meet him. The wagon came to a halt, and John jumped down in time to catch her in his arms. ‘Oh, John! John!’ she sobbed with sheer joy. Her body shook with emotion as she clung to him. There were tears in his eyes too as he held her securely in his arms and kissed her. For twelve long months, he had lived with hardship and cruelty. For twelve long months, he had dreamt of this moment of reunion when he would hold her close once more. What a release he experienced as the warmth of Anna’s love drove the realities of war, albeit momentarily from the forefront of his mind. Private Johnson remained in the saddle.
‘Howdy, Maria!’ said John, holding his hands out to her. He took her in his arms and hugged her too. He had no idea why he did it, after all he was white and she was black. It was as if the horrific traumas of recent months had stripped away his veneer of assumed superiority. Here was another human being struggling, like him, to survive the exigencies of her own life. John would die, if necessary defending this black woman as readily as he would any white girl.
While it had been a comfort to John to make contact with Anna and the children, his worst fears had nevertheless been realised. Living conditions were deteriorating rapidly in Mansfield as they were all over the South. The Union blockade of the Mississippi River had not only bottled up the cotton industry, but also denied the population’s much-needed imports. Some trade was possible through Texas, but the transportation difficulties of this route significantly reduced its impact on the shortage of provisions.
Like many of the women of the Confederacy, Anna bore an enormous burden of work and responsibility, and there were times when she staggered under the load. The South was running short of every necessity of life. This was perhaps the cruellest irony of the war—the sad spectacle of an agricultural nation unable to feed itself properly. The cotton on which the South had thrived now became virtually valueless. It could neither be eaten nor could it be sold to obtain provisions.
Perhaps the greatest worry for the Confederate men at war, however, was the lack of flour, which their families were enduring. Anna was one of the majority of southern women who nourished their families on secession bread, an unleavened loaf made from rice flour. Indeed the term ‘substitute’ came to tyrannise the lives of the southerners. It was said that at least three quarters of the common necessities of life were replaced by substitutes. When their wardrobes could no longer be patched, the women converted fabric from drapes and carpets into wearing apparel. The pink floral dress that Anna was wearing was a good example. John stared at it for a moment, trying hard to remember where he had seen the pattern before. ‘Is that a new dress, my dear?’ he asked. ‘I like it. It’s so cheerful at this depressing time.’ The thought flashed through his mind that Mrs Godbehere may well have passed on one of her dresses to Anna. He was about to ask when Anna took his hand and, without a word, led him inside. Leaving him at the door of the parlour, Anna went over to the window and stood beside it. John noticed it was draped with hessian and tied back on either side.
Immediately, the light dawned upon him. So that was what had happened. Anna had remodelled the curtains into dresses for Anola and herself. He had always admired her creativity and adaptability.
But despite these hardships, the spirit of the South was not ready to be broken. Anna and her children were frequent guests at dinner parties and soirées hosted by the Godbeheres and other families of the district. But although the social ritual of visiting and the traditional parlour entertainments continued, the war was inexorably casting its shadow of gloom over the community at Mansfield.
Anna and Maria stood at the corner of Crosby Street, waving and sobbing, as John and Private Johnson disappeared into the distance down the Natchitoches Road.
The wagon’s arrival at Natchez where the Twenty-eighth Louisianians were now encamped was welcomed by the troops with three hearty cheers. The two had been gone for just ten days, and had covered quite a long distance on their quest for much-needed supplies. For distinguished service to the Brigade, John and Private Johnson were commissioned as Second Lieutenants, a well-deserved recognition of their courage and sense of responsibility.
Despite sever
al Confederate battle victories, the war in the North was not progressing well for the rebels. Skilled as General Lee was and brave as his troops were, the Confederate forces were slowly yielding to the growing strength of the Federal war machine.
After the fall of Jackson, General Grant had turned his troops back in the direction of Vicksburg. President Lincoln believed that the fall of Vicksburg would bring the Confederacy to its knees. Situated high on a bluff on the eastern side of the Mississippi River, Vicksburg controlled the northern reaches of the great waterway. If ever the South were to be cowed, this town, above all others, would need to be conquered. Colonel Gray’s men had been ordered to defend Champion Hill in an attempt to delay Grant’s advance on Vicksburg. This was a considerable eminence about a mile across from East to West. It was steep and its sides were roughened by boulders and gullies, and it was heavily forested.
By the time the trenches had been dug below the brow of the hill, a line of Yankees appeared out of the lower forest and advanced towards the Confederate line firing as they came. John and those near him took cover in the trenches as the Yankee bullets and shrapnel flew above them. He was grateful for several large boulders, which offered a measure of protection as well. Crouching behind one of these, John picked off some of the stragglers among the Federal troops.
Reloading his rifle, John peered around the edge of the protective boulder. He was amazed to see two of the Federals walking slowly up the hill towards him, each with hands held high in the air. One of them carried a white flag.
John stood up to meet his foe. ‘Halt!’ he barked. ‘Keep your hands high!’ he ordered as the two came within twenty yards of the line. He was immediately suspicious of their actions. To his surprise, the figures appeared to be lads in their late teens. Noticing their bulging jackets, he walked cautiously towards them with his rifle trained on them. He had gone no more than five paces when a sudden burst of fire came from his left. Crack! . . . Crack! Crack! He knew immediately that that was a trap and he had fallen for it. Dropping into a prone position, John kept his gun trained on the two decoys. ‘Don’t move another step!’ he shouted menacingly at the lads. ‘Empty your pockets and put everything on the ground beside you! Now!’ he yelled. A shell screamed overhead and exploded near the trenches behind him. He wondered if his mates were safe. A second shell came screaming towards him. Rolling into a slight depression in the ground, he covered his head instinctively and placed his fingers in his ears.
