Stranger in Dixie

by James Fearn

  An enormous explosion threw shrapnel, rocks, and soil in all directions. He opened his eyes. He was covered in dust from head to toe and dense smoke filled the air. Grasping his gun, he lifted his head to survey the scene. A crater, at least three foot deep, had been blown right on the spot where the two boys had been standing. Not a trace of the boys was evident. John felt sick in the stomach. He crawled back to the trench he had left half-hour earlier, fell into it, and lay motionless in a state of deep shock. Only later did he realise the significance of the bulging army jackets worn by the Union lads who had died for their cause.

  As night fell, the rifle and musket fire gradually abated. In the absence of light, the men rested in preparation for the next day’s fighting, although sleep came fitfully as the hot sultry night wore on.

  It must have been just before dawn when the quietness of the night was rent with blood-curdling yells and pistol fire. John clambered up and looked over the edge of the trench where he had been resting. In the dim pre-dawn light, he could see men lower down the slope engaged in hand-to-hand fighting. Scrambling out of the trench, he took aim at the shadowy figures. A sudden explosion some ten yards away blew him off his feet. The Yankees had mounted a surprise attack, and the Twenty-eighth had been caught unawares.

  As dawn broke, the noise intensified. The screams of bayoneted men and the deafening sounds of gunfire and exploding shells brought every Confederate soldier on Champion Hill to his senses very rapidly. John ducked and weaved and moved instinctively in the direction of the boulder, which had covered him in last night’s skirmish. He tripped over the grey-uniformed body of a fallen comrade. ‘Oh my god, why!’ he yelled in desperation.

  Wave after wave of Grant’s men, far outnumbering the men of the Twenty-eighth swept up Champion Hill. Within half-hour, the Confederate defenders were forced to retreat from their defensive positions.

  ‘Fall back!’ called the Colonel and the bugle sounded the ‘Retreat’. Gray’s brave men had been no match for the fresh, well-equipped Federals. There was nothing for it but to withdraw to Vicksburg and to prepare for the inevitable siege of the town.

  After the decisive defeat at Champion Hill, the Confederates made a token show of resistance at the Big Black River in a last desperate effort to stall General Grant’s relentless advance towards Vicksburg. John heard a rumour that some thirty thousand Federal troops were preparing to attack the five thousand rebels defending the small bridges over the river. General Pemberton, the Confederate supremo, soon recognised the folly of this defence strategy and ordered the bridges to be burnt and a general withdrawal into Vicksburg.

  Vicksburg’s population of five thousand was suddenly swamped by thirty thousand of Pemberton’s men, many of whom were plagued by illness and malnutrition. By midsummer, almost half of the Confederate defenders of the town were on the sick list or in hospital. In their present state, they would prove no match for a fresher, better trained, and numerically superior Federal army.

  General Grant’s strategy was to lay siege to Vicksburg until starvation forced Pemberton to surrender. Pemberton, on the other hand, believed that General Lee’s forces would relieve his men if only he could hold on for a few weeks.

  After several weeks, the siege began to bite. John observed that many of the houses and public buildings of Vicksburg had been destroyed or damaged, fences were torn down, and many of the wooden buildings were reduced to tangled heaps of firewood.

  General Pemberton stood silhouetted in the triangle of light at the opening of his tent. He drew deeply on his tobacco pipe as he stared across the desolate scene. Inside Colonel Gray and his Major poured over the tattered field map that lay spread across a small table.

  ‘Ah reckon we’re in good shape ’ere,’ mused the General. ‘There’s no way that Grant can get at us from the river. Those cliffs are impossible to scale, and we’ve certainly got the advantage from the eastern slope.’

  ‘How long before Lee’s men get here to relieve us would yer say?’ queried Gray.

  ‘That last dispatch reckoned they were two days’ march from us. But who knows what delays they might come across on the way!’ responded the General.

  From the top of the hill, the Confederates commanded an excellent view of the enemy. The yellow clay hills were peppered with shell craters here and there amongst the trenches, which were covered with wood and iron sheets and overlaid with clay to give some protection. The defences bristled with the muzzles of thousands of muskets, rifles, and cannon.

  Grant, on the other hand, hoped to take the town as quickly as possible in order to release his men for other theatres of war. He reasoned that he might achieve this end by storming the slopes ringing the landward side of Vicksburg before the enemy became entrenched. Grant was not one for indecisiveness. Having made up his mind he set in train the necessary preparations for an attack on the Confederate defences at first light the following morning.

  As Grant’s men emerged from the forest, the rebel defence sprang to life with sheets of rifle and musket fire that stopped the Yankees dead in the tracks. Bloodied, but undaunted, they tried again with the support of two hundred guns from the land artillery and a hundred from the fleet on the Mississippi.

  This time there was an initial breakthrough, but Pemberton’s counter-attack threw the Federals back once more. General Grant began to realise that victory would not come easily to his men, and that a long siege was probably likely to be more effective.

  Rumour had it that the civilian population of Vicksburg had dug some five hundred caves in the hillsides. Some even had several rooms and were fitted out with rugs and furniture. But there was no such comfort for the defending troops.

  John sat in the trench, one evening, eating a small ration of rice bread that had been issued that evening. Other members of the Twenty-eighth Louisianians lay around in small groups, their eyes closed with exhaustion. They were stiff from having been couped up all day on their dugout as the shells exploded around them.

  Suddenly, John sat up with a start. A large rattlesnake slithered silently down the wall of the trench and came to rest near the leg of one of the men. Diamond-shaped blotches edged with yellow covered its sinister body. John had learnt that these reptiles emitted a rattling sound when disturbed and about to strike. He presumed that this creature did not appreciate the danger it was in since it made no sound at all as it surveyed the scene, its forked tongue darting rapidly in and out of its mouth.

  ‘Philip!’ whispered John as calmly as possible. A cold chill ran down his back. Philip opened his eyes sleepily and looked towards John. ‘Don’t move!’ John whispered. ‘There’s a snake near your leg.’

  Philip’s eyes dilated with fear as he saw the venomous reptile close to his foot. Keeping his eyes fixed on the snake, John very slowly reached for his rifle and took aim at the serpent’s quivering head. There was a deafening crack as John squeezed the trigger. The snake reared up menacingly and fell in a lifeless heap on the floor of the trench. The two men sat there with their ears ringing from the discharge. Unable to speak, or hear for that matter, Philip held out his hand towards John’s and shook it thankfully.

  The long-suffering population and defenders of Vicksburg had resisted doggedly despite the unrelenting bombardment of the town. As time passed, however, the expected relief from Lee’s forces failed to eventuate, and the Confederate resistance began to crumble. The daily rations were down to one biscuit and a small piece of bacon; water was scarce and medical supplies non-existent. The presence of rattlesnakes was the last straw as far as John was concerned. Even nature herself seemed mercilessly opposed to their survival. John was not surprised when Pemberton ordered the surrender.

  As Independence Day dawned, John looked out across the battlefield and back towards the town. It was with disbelief that he saw dozens of white flags fluttering in the gentle wind that swept up the hillside. White flags also flew from makeshift flagpoles erecte
d on top of the remaining buildings of Vicksburg. A deathly hush hung in the air as Pemberton’s men tried to come to terms with their fate. At about midday, the Stars and Stripes was hoisted above the courthouse, as the defeated Confederate officers signed the instrument of surrender.

  Initially, General Grant had demanded unconditional surrender. All Pemberton really wanted was to ensure that his men were paroled and not consigned to the prisoner of war camps. Grant’s officers urged their commander, however, to make a deal. Unconditional surrender would certainly have been a fitting end to a long and bloody battle, but the task of shipping thirty thousand southern prisoners up the Mississippi would have placed an intolerable burden upon Admiral Porter’s fleet. The Federal General reluctantly agreed and directed that the defeated southerners should stack their weapons, give their paroles, and go off to the exchange camps.

  As the disarmed Confederates passed between the lines of conquering Yankees, not a disparaging remark was heard. Indeed the victors were struck dumb by the woeful sight of this beaten, demoralised, and once-proud army. Wan, hollow-eyed, ragged, footsore and bloody, the defenders of Vicksburg followed by siege guns, ambulances, gun carriages, and wagons stumbled into the town in aimless confusion.

  The parole procedure was quite a massive operation. The prisoners of war were assembled and required to line up in single file in front of the paroling officers. As John’s turn to swear his oath came, he stepped up to the officer’s table. John could see that he bore the insignia of major in the Union army.

  ‘Name?’ requested the officer.

  ‘John Francis, sir!’ replied John.

  ‘Rank?’

  ‘Second Lieutenant, sir!’ answered John, stiffly.

  ‘Company?’

  ‘Twenty-eighth Louisiana, sir!’

  ‘Hold the Bible in you right hand, Lieutenant, and make your oath aloud,’ ordered the Major. John held up the document and read the words printed upon it.

  I, John Francis, Lieutenant, being a prisoner of war in the hands of the United States Forces, in virtue of the capitulation of Vicksburg and its garrison by Lieutenant General John C. Pemberton C.S.A. Commanding, on the 4th day of July 1863, do in pursuance of the terms of said capitulation give my solemn parole under oath that I will not take up arms against the United States, nor serve in any military, police, or constabulary force in any fort, garrison or field work, held by the Confederate States of America, against the United States of America, nor as guard of any prisoners, depots or stores, nor discharge any duties usually performed by officers or soldiers against the United States of America, until duly exchanged by the proper authorities.

  ‘Now sign there!’ John did as he was directed. The Major took the document, recorded the details, and signed it too.

  ‘Next!’ he shouted.

  This was a low point in the life of John Francis. Like many of the men taken prisoners, he had a feeling of acute disappointment. There was a persistent feeling that he had failed in his duty and even that the cause for which he had fought was doomed to failure. He now had time to think and to worry about his family back in Mansfield. The seasons had been bad and there was the mounting debt on his farm. To add to his woes, he had heard that General Grant’s forces were massing for a southern offensive thrust through the Confederacy. Any push towards Shreveport, the Confederate capital would inevitably encompass Mansfield, and this would expose Anna and the children. The sooner he could get home, the better.

  These thoughts dominated John’s thinking for several days and were exacerbated by the news he received in a desperate letter from Anna.

  ‘Dearest John,’ she wrote. ‘I don’t want to worry you unnecessarily, but if it is possible for you to get leave, could you come home to see Anola? The poor little girl has been ill with malaria and calls out constantly for you. Please try to come.’

  ‘All my love, Anna.’

  Clutching the letter in his hand, John ran to the tent of his Commanding Officer.

  ‘Sir!’ said John, saluting briskly.

  ‘Ah, Lieutenant Francis!’ said Grey. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s my daughter, sir,’ he replied with a look of deep concern. ‘She has fever and is gravely ill. Could my discharge be arranged quickly, sir? I must get home as soon as possible.’

  The Colonel was a family man himself and knew the mental torment that John was bearing. He agreed to speak to the Union Major in charge of exchange operations.

  So it was that John soon found himself aboard the crowded steamship, Sultana, with many hundreds of other men making their way home. The three decks were packed with silent bedraggled men with little life on their eyes. Most of them, shell-shocked and emaciated, stared blankly across the water. John thought much about the futility of the last two years of his life and mused upon the affluence and ease that might have been his had his sister not challenged him to look out beyond himself all those years ago.

  The Sultana was a paddle steamer with two tall funnels amidships. She had been commandeered by the Union fleet for troop transport. Living conditions aboard were appalling. But at least they were going home, and almost anything could be endured with that prospect in view.

  Disembarking at Natchez, the men were marched in single file towards a holding camp on the outskirts of the town. Armed Yankee guards marched on either side of the straggling line. Their path led into the camp through a gate in a high wooden palisade.

  ‘Look!’ said John to Philip Johnson who was marching in front of him. ‘They must be the Federal prisoners to be exchanged.’ Some of the Federals waved as if they knew the passing Confederates, but most simply gazed through the fence without expression, exhausted from malnutrition and boredom.

  As they passed through the gate, two Union officers counted the men. John thought he recognised the features of one of them. As he reached the gate, the officer stopped the line.

  ‘John Francis!’ he exclaimed. John had been right. It was Josh Emory, the miner from Victoria who had convinced him of the virtues of American democracy.

  ‘What the hell are yer doin’ ’ere?’

  The irony of the situation suddenly struck John, and he smiled broadly. Josh threw his arms around John and hugged him as if he was his own son. ‘What a tragedy all this is!’ he said with great feeling.

  The men standing behind John were astonished that one of the Union officers should welcome one of their men so warmly, and sat in awe that night as John’s imagination rekindled stories of life on the Australian goldfields and of his decision to emigrate to America.

  ‘I wouldn’t fight someone else’s war,’ said one.

  ‘Neither would I,’ echoed another. ‘You must be mad!’ John wondered about the truth of the last assertion.

  The following morning, the men were discharged and directed to the nearby railhead which would give them transport to their home States. As the train pulled into Shreveport later that day, John was disappointed that so few well-wishers were there to welcome the returning troops. The relatives of a few of the Shreveport men themselves had come to take their men home, but nothing like the crowds that had farewelled them a little more than two years earlier.

  How fickle! How ungrateful! How uncaring! John tried to envisage the scene had they returned as a victorious brigade—a huge cheering crowd, bands playing, a grand march through the centre of the town, and a civic welcome by the Mayor. But none of that. The capricious crowd wants victory, and popularity evaporates like mist in the morning sun when defeat supplants it.

  When John finally arrived at Mansfield, his family was overjoyed. Daddy was home from the war. It mattered not to them whether it was in victory or defeat. Anola smiled as he entered her room and lifted her arms to him. Little William would not let his father out of sight lest he should disappear again. Tears of joy streamed down Anna’s face as she thanked God that her husband had been spared. How many of her fr
iends had lost their menfolk in this futile conflict!

  It was perfectly obvious that the horrors of war had left their mark upon John. Malnutrition and the unbearable stress of daily encounters with death had taken their toll upon him, and not only that, but the experience of military discipline had affected John’s sense of independence. Whereas he had once been his own man who made his own decisions. He now seemed more hesitant and more compliant to those in authority. But that’s the way an army works. Independence is anathema to the hierarchical line of authority around which a disciplined and effective military force is structured.

  Like so many of the Confederate women, Anna had learnt to cope with running the farm and, despite the last two poor seasons, had managed to feed and clothe her family reasonably well. John’s concerns about the financial viability of the farm were not helping him psychologically. They now owed a total of $700, a debt that would take five years to clear, given good seasons. Whereas he was once the supreme optimist, he now brooded for long periods about the situation. Furthermore, his army pay was badly in arrears, and there was little likelihood of ever receiving it.

  In the early months of 1864, the Confederate economy was near collapse. The need for money was becoming desperate, particularly because the army owed more than fifty million dollars to the soldiers. The lack of pay had done much to undermine the morale of the troops and weakened the allegiance of many of them towards the cause for which they had been fighting.