Welcome to Fifth Minnesota Fiction!

Update 1-26-15: Ladies and gentlemen, the show is coming to an end. For all of you who have read, supported, and encouraged this blog and my writing--thank you. While many of these stories have already been previously published in book form, I am about to join the 21st century and publish in electronic reader format. As such, this blog will vanish into the ether March 1st. Thank you all, I hope you have enjoyed my meager offerings.

***********************

This is a blog dedicated to the essence of what my experience doing Civil War living history is all about--telling a good story. In the case of the Co. A, Fifth Minnesota, we strive to tell the stories of history--everyday lives caught up in the turmoils of strife and change. Our purpose, is to give room for some of those stories to grow, and find an end for themselves. The process of good Living History is much the same as that used to write a story, the difference is that with the written word it is the reader that acts it out in their head. With Living History, the participants take those great narratives and give them life themselves in action and word.

Sometimes, I sit about and think about what it was like for the people we portray; how they coped with those issues that are touched on at an event, but never quite get to live out. I know I have always wondered what those first days were like for those companies of the 5th that had initially been left behind in Minnesota, upon rejoining their regiment in the south. Were they accepted? Did people question their skills, and ability to handle the pressures of battle? This is what spawned the idea for my first short story about the Fifth Minnesota; and this collection.

Here those stories we have begun can go on. I hope you will enjoy them as much as I do writing them! A word of warning though--be patient with me. Posts may be spread out a bit (I write these whenever real life allows) but something new is almost always cooking; it simply may take time to get them served up at the table.

A. Wade Jones





Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Salt Horse and Stump

“How can you eat that?”, asked the scruffy faced soldier as he poked his bayonet into the glowing embers of the small fire at his feet. Sparks swirled into the dark autumn air over their heads, dancing slowly until each winked out and vanished. His companion, little more than a dark form crouched with a small skillet in hand by the fire, shrugged. A steady sound of snapping, fizzing grease emanated from the skillet, drawing the shadowy soldiers attentions. The small orange flames flared a moment, revealing his companions blue eyes and easy smile.

“I soaked it for a good long while,” the blue eyed soldier responded, “you really ought to give this batch a chance.”

The scruffy faced soldier shifted on his seat–a mossy edged stump which looked as though it had stood in that glen for years–and shook his head. Overhead, a brisk wind made the skeleton like branches of the old oaks sway and creak.

“Funny isn’t it”, asked the blue eyed soldier as he looked up from his cooking, “how much this country is like home?”.

His companion , scratching his face, looked about silently. After a few moments pause, he nodded. “Yeah, I suppose autumn is autumn everywhere–still it is kind of funny it seems so like home.”

Around them leaves danced across the dewy grass, and the flickering flames of the fire threw long shadows over the men. Private Bill Harmon scratched his face again, thinking that is was time at last to brave a razor. He watched his friend, private John Boyd poking at his crackling slab of salt pork which was snapping away in his skillet, and felt his stomach lurch. Salt pork–a heavily salt preserved, thoroughly fatty staple of the Army–was often called “salt horse” by those dubious of it’s true origin. Boyd, due to his prodigious love of the stuff, was known lovingly by the same moniker amongst his friends. Harmon watched as “salt horse” eagerly fished the still snapping slab of meat from the skillet and carefully took a bite.

“Mmm, that’s good. You sure you won’t have any?”, asked “salt horse” pushing the greasy meat towards him on the end of his fork.

“No thanks,” said Harmon shaking his head as he turned slightly away once more on his stump. “Salt horse” just shrugged and sat back with a contented sigh next to the fire to devour his steaming meal. Taking up his tin cup, “salt horse” plunked the meat into in and sat chewing noisily with fork in hand and a smile upon his face.

“Back home,” he said between a bite, “we would sit around in my brothers house and tell ghost tales around this time of year. Scare the living soul of our poor sister–and she had the furthest to travel home too if she and her’s didn’t spend the night. Ha ha! What times those were–and her pie! Oh, her pie.” He was quiet for a long while, as the fire crackled and Harmon watched his expression fall to a more melancholy set. “Seems almost another life ago.”, he said at last as he absently took another bite of his salt pork.


Harmon nodded, and looked up to see three of their fellows appear from the darkness to join them. They were in their gear, but their muskets hung over their shoulders by the sling.

“Back from post, or just going?”, asked Harmon as the three men took up spots and “salt horse” made offerings of grease to all–none accepted.

“Just back,”, said Husby–a tall youngster who had eyes which showed age beyond his years, “and it was damn cold.”

“Cussing is the sign of a weak mind,” retorted a clerk-ish looking companion with small spectacles on a broad face named Williams, “but you’re right, it is damn cold.” Husby smiled and flashed a gesture to his friend, who laughed and held his hands out to the fire. The third man, a quiet sort named Martin, simply kneeled on his haunches and leaned his musket against his shoulder. Soon his eyes closed, and “salt horse” smiled and poked his knee.

“Go to your tent if you’re going to sleep! You want to pitch over into the fire or something?”, asked “salt horse” with a grin.

“Im not asleep”, answered Martin without opening his eyes, “just resting.”

There was chuckle around the fire, and then silence settled over them as each man huddled together and enjoyed the radiance of heat from the fire. Husby placed two gnarled bits of wood on the flames and once more sent sparks and embers whirling through the night sky above them. Some moments later, Martin spoke again.

“You lot hear about poor Bowman?”, he asked, his grey eyes suddenly open.

“No,” answered Harmon, “his leg again?”

Martin nodded, and several of the men shook their heads.

“I knew he should’ve drained it longer!”, spat Husby, “you don’t break a bone like he did without making sure that there aint no pus! It’s no different than with a draft animal you have to root around in there and..”

“You mind Husby?”, asked “salt horse” interrupting suddenly with his greasy meal dangling only inches from another bite, “I think we get the inference.”

The men laughed, and Husby halted but frowned. Michael Bowman’s plight was known to them all, and though not in their platoon was universally pitied. The man had been kicked in his left leg by an especially cantankerous mule when the whole company had been passing several wagons on a march; and the astronomical chances of being felled so, combined with the public nature of the injury had turned his case into a company wide discussion. He had been taken to the hospital, and after several weeks returned with a limp but seemingly well otherwise. One would think that having recovered would diminish his instant celebrity–but in a camp which was basically sitting with little to do beyond daily drill and fatigue duty this simply was not the case. Discussion instead turned to the likeliness of being so injured while on the march, and followed often with the exchange of every bizarre tale of unfortunate accident and death whilst in the Army. Now it seemed that poor Bowman was thrust to the forefront once more, as Martin would explain to his hushed audience. Michael Bowman had reported to the sick call that morning, his leg swollen and pain wracked. He had been accompanied by his tent mate, Kyle Zimmerman, from whom Martin had gotten the tale first hand.

“Poor fella, he’s loose it this time.”, said Harmon stirring the embers once more with his bayonet.

“If he’s lucky!”, responded Husby, “infection like that take a man fast as you can blink.”

There was a general agreement, and a short few words of prayer was said in Bowman’s name before silence descended once more.

“So,” started Harmon, trying to rekindle the happier mood once more, “ghost tales huh? We used to do that when I was young, sitting around the stove when my granny was still living. That woman could tell a tale!”.

“Salt horse” smiled and nodded, while the others looked on not quite following. Harmon, sensing he had set the hook, explained.

“Salt horse here and I were talking about how this place reminds us of Minnesota in autumn–and telling tales with family and all.”, he said with a shrug.

The others nodded, and Williams removed his spectacles from his face to start polishing them with a rag. “Well,” he said studying his work, “if it’s a ghostly tale you want–I have a good one, and best of all it’s true!”.

Everyone laughed, and several shouts of “sure it’s true” and “we’ve heard that before”, were voiced. At last everyone was quiet and expectantly watching in eagerness for Williams tale to begin.

*****
The Pooka

“When I was young, there was this Irish family that lived about 5 miles down the dusty track that we called a road , and one day the eldest grandfather of the farm died. He had lived a good long life, been kind and generally neighborly, so of course a host of people gathered for his wake. Now, I know Husby–being American-Irish himself--knows what a traditional Irish wake calls for, but let me tell you that I had no idea and what a treat it was! I mean, this poor old fellow is dead (and laying right there for all to see in his casket too) but all around him is food and drink and a great attempt at merrymaking. Not that the family was all smiles of course, but those of us unrelated did our best to celebrate the man’s life as much as his passing. This was in early autumn, and the day had been largely clear bright blue skies; but as the evening came on dark clouds rolled overhead and even the air seemed heavy. My parents and sisters and brothers had packed up to go, but I had begged my father to stay a little longer. It was, I argued after-all, only 5 miles (ah, to be young enough to think 5 miles was a leisurely walk again) home and I could find my way in the dark. You see, I had heard that stories were about to be told amongst those adults and near adults still remaining. Well, when you are 13 years of age, you yearn to be seen as more than you are–and my father kindly allowed me to stay. Well, that and at the time I was terribly smitten with the 16 year old Mary–the second oldest of the family. Anyway, that doesn’t matter, either way my father allowed me to stay and I sat and listened to the old timers tell their tales of the deceased and eventually as the night came on the stories turned to spooks, devils and the like. There were some good stories, but half way through I was bored (what scares an old man often is nothing to the imagination of a 13 year old boy!) And started to make my leave when one of the older women of the family stood up and shrieked. She was pointed at the door frame of the doorway that led to the back yard, and looked very agitated.

“Pooka! Pooka!”, she wailed and pointed to a great big black wasp which had alighted from somewhere on the wood. It was, I admit, large of size–and had these sulfur yellow eyes. I had never seen it’s like before then, nor have I again since–but at the time I simply stood dumbfounded at the terror that a bug could inspire. Sure, it was not terribly common to still see such insects at that time of year, but not wholly odd either. Her shrieking served more to alarm me than anything else, but being a gallant young man (Mary was on hand, how could I not seize the chance to put right her elderly relatives issue?) I stepped over and slapped at the wasp. It went careening about the room, and finally vanished out a window–at which I turned and said triumphantly, “There you are, no more pooka!”. The gathered group, mostly older folks and family just looked at me a moment and then suddenly the whole wake was called to an end.

“Did I do something wrong?”, I asked the father earnestly.

“No, no son. It’s just time we went to bed, and you ought to go home. I will drive you there, just let me hook up the cart.”, he had answered with a distressed look in his eyes. I felt certain I had ruined some custom I wasn’t aware of and apologized. The father simply shook his head and told me again that it wasn’t that way at all, but that he should get me safely home. With that, he stepped out the back door–halting briefly on the stood to look back in at me–and was gone. All at once, the old woman whom had made such a fuss was tapping me at the shoulder.

“Im sorry I ruined the wake,” I said, feeling truly awful, “I didn’t know I shouldn’t shoo it away.” For a moment the old woman looked at me with watery green eyes, before she spoke.

“It was a faerie spirit boy–the Pooka. It takes all manner o’ forms it does, but always black with them gawd awful sulfur eyes! That wasp ye saw! Yes! Beware too it coming as a cat–or it’s favorite form of a starved and bony horse! Ye was foolishly brave, and now it’ll be haunting ye tracks this night.”, and with this pronouncement she stuffed something hard into my hand and climbed the stair to the loft. When I opened my hand, I discovered she had pressed a little metal Irish style cross into my hand. At this moment, the father came back in looking slightly blown.

“The ox has run off into the deeper meadow, it’s going to be a moment before I can catch him–no idea what has gotten into him. Will you wait?”, he asked, looking almost hopeful that I would not. I obliged him, having decided not that I had anything to be afraid of, but instead that I had offended their customs somehow and that it was all they could do to keep from simply rudely throwing me out. The old woman, well at 13 anyone who seemed as old as she did to me then must be slightly off their rocker, so I paid her little mind.

By the time I had made it a 2 miles from their farm, I had almost forgotten the whole affair–centering instead upon Mary. What a beauty she was! The sky above roiled, dark grey upon black clouds–in the distance the occasional flash of lightning punctuated the dim glow of the bright moon hidden behind the turbulent mists. I must remind you, I had no thoughts what so ever for Pooka’s in whatever form on my trip home–otherwise it would be easy to suggest I imagined what befell me after. But as God as my witness, as I walked along the road, I thought for a moment I heard the sound of hoof beats. I turned, expecting to see someone rushing home, but the road was empty. Only the wind and blowing leaves accompanied me along the dusty track, nothing more. I shrugged, and walked on–knowing well that sounds travels funny sometimes–and expecting to be joined by a cart or wagon shortly by. I decided I would ask them for a ride, if they were going my direction.

Shortly after, I heard the sound again–and once more there was nothing behind me along the road to be seen. I had stuck my hands in my pockets, as the temperature had suddenly begun to grow colder, and touched the crude metal cross there. It was then, with a sudden and mind jarring awareness of gooseflesh and hair standing on end that I heard–without question–the sound of hooves and a whinny of a horse. I stopped, and slowly turning was rewarded yet again with a dark road overcast with growing mist. I fought with myself, knowing I was letting the crazy superstitions of the old woman get the better of me, and started home again at a good pace. When I was less than a mile from home, I heard the hooves again–which were followed by a savage gust of wind which filled my ears with its howling. Then all at once, as I rounded the bend of the road and could see my home–a candle lantern burning at the front porch for me–the wind ceased and all was still. I sighed to myself, chastising my silly childish fears of the dark and wild tales likely the workings of an addled mind.

Though this sense of superiority lasted all of three seconds. For as I took my first step towards my won yard--on ground I had walked hundreds of times--I suddenly and violently found myself thrown to the ground. It felt almost as though someone had gripped the heel of my left foot and upended me forcefully, causing me to land in a leaf filled puddle in the mud at my feet. I shook my head, and crawled back to my feet–discovering that the heel of my left boot had been snapped clean off. With a yelp, I ran into the house–and to this day I swear I heard the sound of hoof beats near as I slammed the door.”





Husby nodded, and said nothing. Martin, his eyes closed simply grinned.

“That was pretty good Williams.”, said “salt horse” wiping grease upon his trousers.

“Well, thank you. I swear it’s true too.”, answered Williams with a smirk.

“How much had you had to drink?”, asked Harmon with a sly look in his eyes, “you know...before you got yourself attacked by your Poofda?”.

“It’s Poo-KA”, responded Husby, “and don’t joke, they’re real. My grandfather saw one once, turned his hair white all through when he was only 25!”

“Yeah well, that or the mix of his mash maybe when he was boiling his home brew, eh?”, said Harmon, to which everyone laughed. “Salt horse” shook his head.

“Come on Harmon, you know as well as the rest of us that there’s more to life than what you see. What about that night we camped by them ruins of that inn on the old post road–when we were escorting that ammunition to the fort before we mustered south? Surely you haven’t forgotten that?”

Harmon nodded, and frowned. “Yeah I suppose–still not sure I believe that even myself, but then I have always been the skeptical type.”

“Alright Harmon, tell us.”, said Husby with an expectant look in his eyes.

“Fine, but like I said...I lived it but I still haven’t accepted fully it happened.”, said Harmon, as he began his tale.

*****
She’s Coming

“You probably all recall that back when we first mustered in, the state wasn’t really quite ready to field us right off. All the newest stuff had gone to the battalions that had been formed before us, and so proper ammunition and weapons were at a premium. None of the forts in Minnesota had the right rounds for the weapons the newly assigned companies had been issued, ad so a lot of ferrying crates about was assigned. Most of that work went to the boys in B and C–but thanks to “salt horse” here–he and I had the dubious “honor” of escorting a wagon load of ammunition from Ripley back to Snelling. A company was due to depart for points south in a month, and while everyone else was wishing loved ones a last farewell and showing off their soldierly togs, “salt horse” and I were working.”

“What did you do “salt horse”?, asked Husby interrupting the story.

“I liberated some tinned sweet milk from the officers mess–but blamed the whole thing on Harmon.”, responded “salt horse” with a smirk as he chewed. When the laughter had quelled, Harmon continued.

“Anyway, we made pretty good time and found ourselves on the outskirts of this little river town called Eagle Creek which sits along the post road. He had better part of a day yet to get back to Snelling by road, and given that dusk was coming on we thought we might find a place to lay up and start early the next day. Well, our luck held typical and no one in town had much in the way of courtesy for soldiers (can’t say I blame them really, not sure I would want soldiers in my house if I had a daughter either) so we decided to pitch a fly off the wagon on the edge of town. We got ourselves situated next to these ruins of where this fella used to have an inn–though all that was left of it was crumbled masonry and the foundation now. I guess it had been lost to a fire some years before or some such. Anyway, we got ourselves well settled, dug a nice fire pit and soon even had a good warm glow to ourselves as we snuggled under my old quilt (yes, the one that I finally had to pitch after all that filth and mud outside Vicksburg.). Well, I tell you we were snug–I often long these days for when I could sleep so well out and about since such things felt adventurous. So off to sleep we went, and long about midnight or so I woke up. The fire had died down, and I felt chilled so I crawled out and added some wood. As I was standing there, I thought I heard someone whistling. Yes, I know it sounds crazy–but it was so still that I knew it had to have been someone whistling. It was an odd tune, discordant and strangely startling; but as it sounded a ways away from the direction of the village I dismissed it. I did stand perfectly still for a moment, trying to see if I could still catch the sound but to no avail. I sat next to the fire, warming myself, and sound found I was drowsy. I was about to lay back down when–and slightly closer–I thought I heard the tune being whistled again. I stood stock still, listening intently, but there was nothing. Something about the tune, about the proximity of the whistler, filled me with sudden dread and I stood some time just listening and looking about. I thought about waking Boyd, but you know how it is when you’re sleepy. You start to question everything, and after 45 minutes of hearing nothing more I decided I had imagined it or heard a bird or something other than what I thought it was. I went back to sleep, and drifted off in short order.

I woke again around three or four in the morning, but it was still pretty dark, and found I needed to have a jimmy piddle in the worst way. I made my way along over to this split rail fence that was across from where we had plunked down and, set to my business. Well now, I am in one of man’s most vulnerable moments, when all of a sudden I hear the whistler again–sounding like they are no more than a yard to the rear of me! I froze stiff, and had the most peculiar thought insert itself right into my awareness–“She’s coming”. Now I don’t know what that means, but I buttoned as fast as I could though I didn’t hear anything further, I went directly to the fire and stoked her up well. Now I am standing there, musket in hand staring into the flickering scrub brush and such about me feeling something is going on when all of a sudden Boyd here just–and I am not exaggerating–rose up out of bed and hurtled over to the fire with me. It looked like he was bodily yanked out of the bed roll and pushed towards me. He was awake at once, saying ‘What’s going on? What am I doing here? How did I get out of bed?’. Well, after that, we didn’t sleep anymore–but then nothing else happened either. First sign of morning, we hitched up and made out of there without looking back. Now, I don’t know if I believe it happened or not–but you wanted to hear the tale, and that’s it.”

Everyone looked around at one another, and Williams turned to “salt horse”.

“That true?”, he asked.

“I can only speak to the part I was awake for, but I can tell you what he said of me was true. I think Harmon and I skipped lightly on some place with a spirit, but who knows really?”, answered Boyd with a shrug.

A sudden materialization from the darkness of a soldier startled them all, and Harmon and Husby both stood with a jerk.. Williams squinted, but recognized him first.

“Ha! Bowman! Good to see you up and moving, thought you were at the hospital? You gave us all a good start–fools that we are telling spook stories on a dark night like this!”, said Williams with a smile.

Everyone laughed except Bowman who cast an eye around to each of them before saying, “Has anyone seen my watch? I cannot seem to find it.”.

Harmon sat back down and shook his head. “Haven’t seen it Bowman–but I wouldn’t put it past those stewards to take it. Did you look at the hospital?” But it seemed Bowman didn’t hear him, for he simply turned and ambled along towards where he his platoon was quartered. Harmon shrugged, and Husby returned to his seat watching after Bowman.

“Poor guy doesn’t look too good,” he said quietly, “I wonder if someone ought to go after him to make sure he’s alright?”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” responded Williams with a yawn.

“Husby’s right though,” said Martin with eyes stabbing into the dark into which Bowman vanished again, “I’ll just go over and see if he’s alright.”. With that, Martin rose and wandered after Bowman. As they watched him go, another figure wandered quietly from the darkness. It was Zimmerman, whom they all recognized as Bowman’s tent mate. He was carrying something in his hands, and looked distraught.

“Zimmerman, if you’re looking for Bowman, you just missed him.”, said “salt horse” as he set his empty cup down with a rattle of his fork within. Zimmerman’s gaze shot upwards, and he frowned at the group.

“That’s a beastly thing to say!”, Zimmerman half shouted, letting a shiny watch slip and dangle on it’s chain from his thin fingers. The firelight caught the glint of the metal as it swung back and forth before being returned to his fingers safe keeping. “Salt horse” shrugged, unsure what he had done.

“Is that Bowman’s watch?”, asked Harmon quietly, “he’s looking for it.”.

Zimmerman, who had started to stalk away stopped in his tracks and turned around. He walked closer to the fire, the four remaining men watching him closely.

“What....what did you say?”, asked Zimmerman, his face perplexed and distorted with curious alarm.

Harmon looked about once, then said slowly, “Bowman–he was here shortly ago, looking for his watch.”

Zimmerman took a step back, and then looked down at the watch. He was quiet for some moments, before finally he spoke again.

“Michael Bowman is dead–corruption in his joint must've took root in the blood or something, nothing they could do. I took his watch to send home to his mother, as he asked me too. I’ve only just left his body 10 minutes ago, if that.”

The fire snapped, and threw sparks which swirled into the dark autumn air over their heads, dancing slowly until each winked out and vanished.

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Spanish Fort


The air was very still, and the first light of the morning was just starting to burn through the hazy mist that hung heavy in the sky. Corporal Moran, awake but comfortable under his blanket and greatcoat, hardly dared to stir. His mind was occupied with thoughts, and the unease of change. The war was winding down, at least as far as the country and the press was concerned anyway. General Lee was closely pursued and on the defensive for a change, and the war was said to be nearly over in the press--never mind that General Forrest’s irregular cavalry were fighting on in the west! No, as far as many of the war weary people of the country were concerned, it was only a matter of time. Moran let his eyes wander over the many sleeping comrades in the barracks they occupied--some form of long shed converted for their needs--and thought that maybe soon he would leave this behind. Of course, how many times had they been told that the ‘war would be over by christmas!’, or that ‘the end was in sight!’--only to have it drag on yet again? He decided to remain skeptical this time, if only because as good as old Grant was, Lee had proven even better at wriggling free when cornered. Moran looked to the window and yawned. It wouldn’t be long before the musicians started sounding first call, and the quiet room of gently sleeping men would be jarred awake. They would rise up, as he had seen hundreds of times since he joined the army some three years before, and complain--whine--poke one another and laugh loudly--grumble about the early hour of the day--a thousand rituals bourne of this soldiering life. Moran realized how he would miss that, even as he chided himself for thinking so. How many times had he daydreamed about being home again, complained about the
food--conditions--wondering all the while if he would live to see his 20th year. The musicians sounded their call, and men began to stir around him.

“It can’t be!”, said an annoyed voice half yawning.

“Somebody go kill them musicians...kill ‘em!”, said a voice that was immediately muffled as he pulled covers over his face.

“Quit yer bitching an moanin’ ya ass! Aint ya used to it yet?”, came a sharp accent from the far end of the room. Moran sat up in his bunk, twisting himself about trying to relieve the stiffness which seemed to seize his young body like sudden age. Army life was hard, and he knew that the experience had aged him beyond his years. He was regularly mistaken for much older than he was--the lines in his face were deceptive. A face suddenly appeared at his left, hanging upside down. It was his young friend Patersen, who was assigned to the top bunk above him.

“So, do you think it’s true? You really think we’re going to be discharged soon?”, said Patersen with an excited smile.

Moran laughed, and shook his head. “No. I think there are still plenty of rebels who don’t care a wit for what happens to Lee one way or the other, and who plan to keep fighting. Now, if we were in Virgina--maybe we might be looking at walking sooner than later. But we aren’t, we’re in the west--and despite what the papers are prophecying the war is still very much enaged out here.”

Patersen frowned. “You are spoiled as Army beef--you know that Moran?” With that, he vanished from sight, and Moran only chuckled. He set to getting dressed, knowing that they would be expected for roll call shortly. Patersen was ratting about above him, and suddenly he plummeted from the top bunk to land loudly on the floor. The lanky blonde youth stretched his back with a loud groan and started working at making his rack up for the day.

“Damn blasted tick was twisted tighter than Kentucky tobacco--and not near so smooth. Cramped up my limbs somethin’ akin to knots on a ships line!”, complained Patersen. Moran watched his friend with a smirk, making his bunk opposite from him.

“Matthew Patersen, I have never heard nobody with a habit for such phrases! When you get home again, nobody is gonna recognize you for the soft, gentle boy you were before the Army!”, said Moran shaking his head. Patersen only waved him off and scowled. It was a morning ritual for them it seemed, more so since the news had begun to suggest an end in sight. Moran thought it rather funny really, that having now lived beside these men for almost three years, they had taken on the habits expected of siblings and loved ones. They argued, bickered and fought over the silliest things--but then would immediately close ranks if someone from outside of their company, platoon, or squad dared insult or transgress upon one of their member. Moran sometimes found himself contemplating this bond between them all with a curious humor, and that would set him to contemplating the enevitable end of it all. As he stood in his place in ranks, his mind wandered to what life would be like when that moment came. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go home, had he not dreamed of that nearly every day since he had begun this adventure? Of course he wanted to go home--to see his parents, his home and his beloved sisters. Yet despite his longing for home, he felt torn between two worlds--even a little disloyal that his connection to these men around him could begin to challenge his desire to be home. The roll was called, each man answering as a matter of routine. Until, that is, the sergeant read out a pair of names which were not answered for. There was a brief pause as the spell was broken, and every man in formation looked about for the missing men.

“Ward, Henry!”, repeated the sergeant sharply, looking about. It was dead silent at first, and the name being repeated drew attention of a sergeant-major. The sergeant-major spoke in low tones and directed the other sergent to search the probable hiding spots.

“Willhelm, Erich!”, read the sergeant-major with a stern tone. Now the ranks broke into murmurs, but these were silenced rather quickly with the arrival of Captain Dartt.

“Attention, battalion!”, shouted the sergeant-major and everyone stood eyes front. The captain paced back and forth for a moment, his hands in fists at his side. The absence of these two men was jarring, not because it had never happened before--people were always dawlding, in hospital or simply trying to dodge work. Every company had it’s shirkers and ‘hospital rats’. What was of worry to those who knew these two was the fact that they had, not the day before, spoken of their thoughts of quitting the whole affair. No one had taken then seriously, lord knows every last one of them had threatend to desert more than once through the years. It had become a way for some men to blow off steam, venting around a company fire at night that “this is the last time you see my face! I’m quitting and going home!”. But no one had ever done so, the same men had always turned up the next day for roll.

But now, here were two who had not. It was the first time that the declaration and the after affect had ever transpired, and the mood it cast on the company was one of disbelief, worry and a sense of betrayal. The sergeant who had gone in search of the men returned with a frown, but his report was heard clearly by all--perhaps spoken loudly enough to serve that very purpose--that both men were in the infirmary and that fact had simply not been reported properly or in time for roll. The tension eased, and the captain stalked back towards his quarters--but not before admonishing the sergeant-major for the lack of discipline regarding proper reporting of sick call amongst the men. In the typical and inevitable way of the Army, this then led to the orderly sergeant being dressed down once the captain was out of earshot--followed by the sergeants--and ultimately the entire company.

John Moran, not even quite twenty years of age, suddenly felt very old. The morning’s rituals passed into midday, and not assigned any specific duties for a change, other desires called.

Late March, this far south, was balmy to say the least. Moran, digging with a borrowed spade behind the mikes-shift barracks, dripped perspiration. Patersen and Cole were sitting nearby on a pair of stumps, taking turns trying to hit an old tin cup with juice they spat from their chaw. Moran was trying his hand at gardening--though everyone had told him it was daft. Deep down he know they were probably correct, like as not they would march on somewhere else and leave all the fruits of his labor behind. Still, it passed the time--and if they did remain here long enough the garden might well supply them with some fresh additions to the mess. He wiped his brow with his sleeve, set his spade aside and retrieved his sack coat from where he had laid it in the grass. The week before had been cooler, rainy and overcast--now most of the men went about in shirt sleeves as much as possible. There was a shout of victory from nearby and a soft ‘ping’ noise as one of the pair scored a hit on the tin cup.

“HA! Beat that, Patersen! You can’t never make a shot like that!”, shouted Cole with a slap of the knee and obvious wild joy. Patersen was all grimace and frowns, looking like a thunder head waiting to burst open.

“You just wait you toad, I’ll show you yet!”, and Patersen moved to the line they had torn in the grass for his turn. Shaking his head, Moran simply resumed his work. He started wondering how long they would be quartered here, since the Mobile Campaign was not yet complete. That August the navy had run the bay, and through luck and sometimes reckless bravery taken victory. Since then, the rebels had been confined in a group of fortifications and still held the city of Mobile itself as well. To a casual observer, surely it might appear that the Sesech were bottled up and trapped--weak even. The truth was, while they might have a narrowing field of operation, those fortifications would still prove tough assignments. Everyone knew that the storming of those ramparts would be hot work--and that most likely the 16th Corps would one of those get stuck with it. As he dropped some seeds into a small hole and covered it over again, Moran spoke.

“So how’d you ever get out of fatigue duty?”, he said to Patersen.

“Quiet!”, responded the youth sharply, “can’t you see I am about to take my turn?”

“Oh, sorry.”
There was a soft noise in the grass, and Cole laughed himself hoarse, while Patersen merely growled loudly. Moran turned his head and was about to comment when the hurtling frame of Patersen knocked Cole to the ground. Dropping his spade, Moran lent himself to the massive task of trying to separate the pair, only becoming embroiled in the wildly flailing fists and kicks each was aiming at the other. As they rolled around, each calling the other various names and calling into question the lineage and circumstances of their conception, Moran finally got the better of the other two. With his hands knotted into the collars of their shirts, he held their faces into the grass shouting–“Are you two done yet? Or do I have to thrash you both to get you to behave?!”–just as the captain and 1st lieutenant happened to turn the corner of the building. Corporal Moran saw the captain’s eyebrows knit together, as the lieutenant stood frowning, and let go of the collars of Cole and Patersen with a sudden jerk as though they were hot to the touch. The two men, still prostrate beneath the corporal, lifted their heads and spat out grass and dirt almost as one. Cole just laughed to himself, as Patersen caught view of the officers before him and sighed heavily.

All things considered, they had gotten off lightly. Captain Dartt, while a competent officer overall, was known to be a bit of a pistol when it came to discipline. Still, all in all their “punishment” could have been worse.

“This is the worst possible thing ‘Old Marm’ could’ve done to us!”–said Cole with a grumble as they sat in the forward outpost facing the enemy fortification just a short 1200 feet distant. Moran frowned at him, especially cringing at the use of the nickname some of the men had for their captain. The name had come about innocently enough, when someone had made the comment that Dartt looked remarkably like a teacher they had had in their youth from the profile. Moran had made the mistake of making this comment before Patersen, who in turn began calling the captain ‘Old Marm’.

“Believe me, this isn’t so bad,” chided Moran as their small fire burned in the earthen hearth of the short trench, “I’ve seen what the captain can give in punishment. And as far as that nickname–you keep it to yourself! He ever hears that, and he’ll make you pray for outpost duty!”

“Ah, you’re just worried he’ll find out it was you that came up with it!”, laughed Patersen taking a sip from his canteen.

They’re conversation slowed, and soon everyone was left silent around the small fire. Someone had had the brilliant notion of digging a bell shaped indent into the side of the trench here, shoring up the sides of earthen hearth with some bits of scrounged brick. To complete the affect, a crude chimney was dug down into the top, which allowed the fire to draw--though not very well. All things considered, it worked relatively well (despite some occasional excessive smoke) and was a testament to the growing ingenuity seen amongst the rank in file in improving life when engaged in trench warfare. This adaptation of the men to trenches made corporal Moran strangely displeased--an awareness that getting used to something uncomfortable resulted when one accepted that discomfort wasn’t likely to end any time soon. He held his hands to the flames, warming then and driving the dampness from his joints. As warm as the late march days could become in Alabama, the evenings tended to be damp and cool--especially with the water so close.

Cole, his head nodding against his chest, was gently snoring. Patersen sat beside him, puffing quietly on a short pipe. Moran stared up into the darkness above, his eyes affected by the glow of the fire and making the sky appear a great dark smear without variation. He had just closed his eyes, when Patersen spoke.

“You ever think about what you’re gonna do when this thing is really over, Moran?”

The words were soft, but the question itself lingered loudly in Moran’s mind. This was not the way Patersen usually spoke, so he looked up and fixed his friend with an attentive gaze.

“What do you mean what will I do? I’ll go home I suppose, same as you.” Patersen drew his feet up, his knees near his chest and shook his head. Moran stared at him, as the pause lasted longer than expected.

“I don’t know if I’ll go home, I mean I want to go home--just maybe not right away.”, said Patersen looking down the trench and then back at his feet as though her wanted to avoid his friend’s gaze. “Sometimes”, he continued as Moran listened intently, “I can’t even imagine the war ending--then I realize it will, it has too eventually. Funny, how you pray for something to end so long and then when it might you find you’re almost afraid of what that would be like!”.

“I know what you mean,” remarked Moran, “I wonder sometimes what it will be like. We’ve all gotten used to life this way, and none of us is the same as when we joined up.”

Patersen nodded, blowing a slow cloud of smoke into the air as he did. “Living with my mother now will be a trial,” smiled the youth, “what with all habits I have taken too. I figure she expects me to come back still her boy, and I don’t know how she’ll take to the man I am instead. I feel badly about it, since she missed my growing so.”

Moran nodded. “You’re not alone in that feeling you know. There isn’t probably a man in uniform that doesn’t fret for all those same reasons when given the chance. I’ve done it too--wondering if I will get used to going back to the regular life. Not that this is high living here,” said Moran with a laugh which Patersen joined with heartily, “but I kinda like the Army too.”.

Patersen gave him a look of disbelief, and shook his head. “You like this? I knew you were crazy, but--what do you mean, like a career?”

Moran shrugged. “Maybe, I haven’t thought it out fully yet. I’m not saying I like all of it, but at the same time this ordered existence kinda suits me.”

“How do you know they’ll even be an Army when we’re done? I mean, what if they disband it all like before, and there aint no room for men beyond what they need to replace the lost regulars?”

“Then I suppose I’d join the regulars--or not. But either way, I understand what you are feeling about the afterwards of this whole affair. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about all that just yet. In case you haven’t noted, there are still some pretty juiced up rebs out there in forts we have yet to take.” Moran smiled quietly and Patersen leaned back against the trench wall. Movement from along the entrance to the trench caught their eye, as a sergeant wandered up and motioned to them.

“Alright, it’s you lot--previous watch is about ready to be relieved. Get up and follow me.”, said the sergeant who turned and hardly waited for them to rouse Cole from his sleep. In short order they were following after him, Cole a little wobbly from being so suddenly roused, and moving quietly up to where the observers post was. The post--50 yards closer to the edge of the enemy fortifications--was basically a short trench with a packed earthen lip facing the enemy augmented with a short wall of sawn logs. One climbed a short ladder up to the observation area, and peered out through the darkness by way of rifle ports cut into the logs. Unlike the rear outpost, the observation post couldn’t afford the luxury of a fire--as the light too easily gave away their position and tended to make seeing in the dark difficult.

“Here you boys are, don’t fall asleep or I’ll skin you.”, said the sergeant in a husky whisper as the previous watch filed past them and vanished into the darkness. In a moment Patersen, Moran and Cole were left quite alone to man the outpost in a swathe of darkness which closed in about them like tar. Stumbling about momentarily as their eyes slowly accustomed to the low light, the three decided to do their turn on post with two observers on and one resting. Cole and Patersen decided to go first, leaving Moran down below to sleep. It wasn’t exactly a comfortable fit, as this trench had been dug with practical minds in charge and not those thinking about anything but keeping an eye on the enemy. Moran shifted about, only to disturb more of the loose dirt behind him which then cascaded down into the neck of his coat and shirt.

“Bugger!”, he said rather more loudly than he had intended. The noise sounded like a cannon blast in the silence of the dark night, and seemed to carry forever. Two ghostly white ovals he knew where Patersen and Cole shot over the lip of the trench and a soft hissing issued from their direction.

“What the blazes you doing down there!?”, spat Cole’s voice. Moran shrugged, brushed the dirt from his shoulder and was silent. The ghostly forms vanished, and Moran resumed trying his best to find some position which he might be able to sleep in.

He thought he might have found it when the other voice called out, but this wasn’t from their lines. It was a rebel.

“Hey over there! You aint asleep, we heard you all before. Come on Billy...aint you gots no manners?”, called the shrill voice. Moran was up, musket in hand, and the other two were busy scanning the darkness. Coming along the trench was the sergeant who had brought them up, followed by a lieutenant none of the knew.

“What goes on here then boys? Who gave orders to make contact with the enemy?”, asked the lieutenant firmly. Moran saluted and came to attention, the sergeant giving him a deep frown as the officer moved forward.

“We didn’t sir, they called out to us.”, responded Moran. The officer nodded, and scrambled up to the trench observation post. As soon as the lieutenant was up and conferring quietly with Patersen and Cole, the sergeant moved close to Moran and stared him hard in the eye.

“Just called out huh?”, said the sergeant with a growl. Moran nodded, and tried to look blankly ahead. The rebel voice cried out a second time, and the lieutenant motioned for the sergeant to attend him With a last glare, Moran was free, and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Billy! Come on now, we just lookin’ to chat a spell...promise..aint no tricks or nothin’!”, came the voice again. The lieutenant looked to the sergeant, and then suddenly said loudly; “So, what is it you want Johnny?”

There was a long silence, before the voiced sailed again through the darkness. “Ha! I knew you was over there. How do?”

“Well enough, better if you boys would surrender and let us all go home.”

“That’s rich yank!”, laughed the rebel,” you know well as I do you aint never gonna take these forts! Why don’t you all quit, go on home and we’ll call it even!”

“Not likely.”

“Didn’t figure none.”

“So, what is it you want then?”

There was a long pause, before the voice came back again. “You tired of all this yet Billy?”

The lieutenant didn’t even hesitate. “Damn tired, Johnny. I think it’s coming to some sort of ending though.”


“Like as not, you’re right yank. Aint wanting to agree, but cause or not we aint blind--there’s writing on the wall for sure and certain.”

“Anything else you need then, Johnny?”

“No, I suspect that’s all. Nice talkin’ to you though yankee. You get your rest tonight boys, we aint coming. I promise.”

The lieutenant yelled back his goodnight as well, and turned to the sergeant. “Make sure these men are fully alert. I wouldn’t trust his word anymore than necessary. Sound a good alarm if you see anything.” With that, the officer departed, and the sergeant glared at them all and nodded.

The night passed along quietly, and the events served to give them all a wakefulness that held them through their watch. By the early prickling of dawn, it was clear that the rebel had been good to his word--no mischief was attempted along their lines.

The morning was warm, humid. Sitting upon a stump atop a short rise near the camp, Moran considered the men about him. He cast a long gaze along the nationals encampment, taking in the distinct separation of the white commands from those the colored regiments. They had fought alongside colored troops for going on almost two years, and he still couldn’t say that he really knew any of them. The only time they really ever mixed was in the heat of battle, and then no one seemed to notice any difference. Federal blue was federal blue--irregardless of the man within. He felt a slight pang of guilt, thinking that he had never tired to make acquaintances with the negro soldiers. Of course they never wandered our way much either he thought a moment, before wondering if they could even if they wanted too. He was disturbed by movement, as Patersen collapsed beside him in a heap.

“Whatcha gnawing at now? Lord, never knew a man so given to thinking a hole in the ground he occupied!”, laughed his friend looking along where his friend had been staring a moment before.

“You know me, always thinking.”

“What is it, wondering what the Negroes are cooking for their supper? Like as not something awful, they eat almost anything I hear. Bits of animals no self-respecting man would ever think of chewing on!” Patersen scowled, and shook his head. Moran smiled tightly and started picking at gravel to toss at a spot in the grass which seemed a distractive target.

“Well, maybe. Maybe,” responded Moran after his third pebble, “they never were given much else to eat. You don’t get much fancy eats, I imagine, when you’re someone’s property.”

Patersen was about to respond and seemed to think better of it, picking pebbles as well. After a short time had passed, the young soldier looked up and out towards the horizon. “I think we’re going to be hitting the fort soon, just have a feeling.”

“I suppose it makes sense.”

“Couldn’t just sit here forever, Mobile is one of the last cities of the confederacy never occupied by National troops. Symbology I suppose.”

Moran chuckled. “Symbolic you mean.”

“I know what I mean,” answered Patersen sharply, “either way--it means there’s really a chance it’s almost over.”

“Thank God.”

“Maybe so, but I aint decided what I plan to do with myself yet! What will I do, if we make the push and they decide it’s over tomorrow?”

Moran looked at the true anxiety in his friends face, and smiled. “Don’t worry so much! Haven’t you learned yet that anything as simple as taking a fort with dwindling supplies and no chance of escape for the defenders is sure to end in disaster! This is the Army! We’ll probably be tied up her for months yet.” Patersen laughed, and nodded. He wrapped his arms about his knees and leaned his head down smiling. They sat quiet for a long while until at last Patersen spoke quietly.

“I suppose there’s comfort in the fact that at least one bunch have more to worry about with the war ending than me.”

Moran looked up. “Who would that be?”

Patersen pointed to the camp where the US colored infantry was quartered, and frowned. “I don’t figure any of them are eager for the wars end. Like as not when peace comes, it will be just the start of their troubles.”

*****

“What you looking at, Titus?”, asked Dover Jones, private in the 50th United States Colored Infantry as he sat wiping down the muzzle of his musket. His friend, Titus Washington–who had joined with him in those heady days back in Vicksburg after the fall–gestured to a pair of figures on the hill.

“Fellas up there, gawking down upon us.”, Washington resumed working on his musket. It helped to pass the time, but more importantly it was a matter of pride. Some of the other colored regiments might have been made up of true “contraband”–former slaves straight from the fields and into uniform–but though the 50th (which had started life as the 12th Louisiana Volunteers until last March) hadn’t yet seen combat, they would be ready. Sergeant Roth, who had served with one of the white National regiments that had helped storm Vicksburg, said he had never seen a group of men so steadfast to their duties and ready to scrap.

They had been set to so much manual labor, digging trenches, erecting fortifications and the like–some had begun to fear that they would never get to fight. But Washington had no doubt, not now or ever. He wasn’t a fool, he knew that not everyone wanted them to get a fair chance. Not every solider in the uniform he now proudly wore felt he belonged. But what Titus Washington knew, with the certainty of a man who had grown up in slavery and seen the worst and best of others, was that people didn’t follow one way. He’d known cruel whites as well as Negroes, just as much as he’d known generous, kind whites and Negroes. He’d once seen sad Indians, bereft of their lands and shipped south; but he’d also heard tell of Indians in the south and west that owned their land and kept Negro slaves to work it. His Mama had taught him well, and early. “You take each an’ every folk you meet as you meet ‘em Titus--Lord know there plenty enough small minded folk to go about already!”, she had always told him. So, despite it all he believed. The war might be winding down, and God only knew what might become of them all in the days after, but Titus Washington knew he’d get his chance to fight.

“Them boys still up there,” said Jones, interrupting his thoughts, “maybe we ought to go up and see what they want.”

“They’re just setting, no different from what we ever do. Maybe one of them replacement regiments, what not fought alongside colored troops before. Might be the first Negroes they ever seen not wandering roads whilst they march south.”, responded Washington as he worked.

“Well, lets go up.”

Washington looked over at Jones, his friend smiling gently and setting his musket aside.

“You’re serious?”

“Damn right I’m serious! Aint you the one always preaching to take each man at the meetin’ if you want the same of him? Come on, lets go!”, and with that Jones stood up--brushed straw from himself of the bale he’d been seated upon--and started up the hill. Washington watched him for a moment, motionless, before setting off after his friend. Others in the camp behind them were suddenly aware of their movement, and a silence settled over them. It wasn’t that colored and white regiments never mixed, they did often in formations and drill. But socially, that was another matter. There was no specific rule against it as such--it just didn’t seem to happen. Or, rather, it hadn’t normally--until now. The men at the top of the hill rose, as it became apparent that Jones and Washington were approaching them. They stood with hands hanging at their sides, watching the pair intently. When Jones was an arms length away, he stopped and nodded to the pair of soldiers--noting the taller bore the rank of corporal.

“Corporal, we came to see if there was somthin’ you were wanting.”, said Jones in his deep, scratchy voice.

The corporal looked at his companion, and smiled back at Jones. “Not really private......”

“Jones, corporal. This here is Washington. We’re with the 50th.”

The corporal nodded and a look of realization crossed his features. “The outfit what used to be the 12th--mustered in after Vicksburg?”

Jones smiled broadly and looked at Washington. “Yes corporal, that’s us? You know the unit?”


The corporal chuckled and smiled broadly in return. “I’m Moran, this is Paterson--one of our fellows, from the 5th Minnesota, ended up with you lot. Roth was his name I guess, or something. I remember them going around looking for volunteers when they formed you up after things got settled in Vicksburg.” It was as though a damn broke, and the tension which had been built up was washed away. Jones stepped in close, and now he and Washington were swapping tales of those days with abandon, much to Paterson’s surprise. Much to his discomfort, he realized with a little surprise.

Paterson stood aside, watching them and feeling strangely wrong about these negroes coming up the hill to speak with them. He supposed there was no reason why they couldn’t do so, but it simply wasn’t how things worked. Just as officers didn’t fraternize with the enlisted, negroes stayed with their own kind.

“Hey, Paterson, these guys were there for those god-awful canals started digging for the gunboats--remember that? Why, we might of even ended up digging right aside these boys and never knew it!”, noted Moran with a chuckled, slapping his friends shoulder. Paterson only nodded quietly. Slowly but surely, others from the two camps began to come together atop the hill. First out of curiosity for what was going on, but then as time went on huddled groups formed of lively conversation. On the edge of it all, Paterson watched, arms crossed before finally turning and making his way back to camp. Soon, sergeants from to two groups appeared shortly after, ushering their charges back to their respective sides.

They had broken no written regulations, they were in fact parts of one army. As Moran made his way back towards the camp, he looked back and waved to Jones and Washington. One army when men died and bled; two separate when they might have the chance to get to know one another and make friendships. He wondered what good it was to fight a war in which a race might receive their freedom from slavery, if they remained segregated from society. Shaking his head, Moran made his way back to the ramshackle buildings that their company had been fortunate enough to snag for quarters and ran straight into Fredrikson who was jogging the opposite direction.

“OOOF!”, spat Fredrikson as the air was driven from him briefly, and glared at Moran.

“Don’t you ever watch where you are going?”, asked Fredrikson regaining his balance. Moran hardly knew the man, and normally he might have apologized and simply moved on, but something about his tone spurred his normally dormant temper.

“I might say the same of you, since it was you that collided with me.”, said Moran with a growl. The other man blanched white, not really wanting a fight.

“My fault, sorry. Just need to get these messages to the captain straight away--it’s tomorrow The rest of the boys have started off already!” Fredrikson said as he edged around Moran, and started jogging away again.

Moran watched him going for a moment before calling out, “What is? Started off what?”. Fredrikson looked over his shoulder as he turned and trotted backwards, thrusting his arm out and pointing in the direction of the enemy defensive works. The message was clear, and Moran nodded as the other man continued on his way. Tomorrow then. They were to assault the enemy works tomorrow. With a low whistle, Moran continued on his way to the barracks with the news that they had been waiting for.

*****

March 27th, 1865 dawned initially as any day had, but it didn’t take long for that to change. There was a tension in the air, a charge which made men rise early from their billets and move silently about their morning routine. Meals were eaten with little fuss, no one felt the desire to lay about or horseplay. By nine o’clock in the morning it became clear that the day would be given to hot work, as General Canby ordered the 13th and 16th Corps to break camp and move along the shore towards the rebel flank. Leaving the converted sheds, many a man in his company felt the same heartbreak they had when leaving their own homes, and knew all too well that the next residence they occupied would likely not be quite as grand. As Moran fell into line in full marching order, he nodded to Paterson as he passed. His young friend gave him a feeble nod, and took his place in line, but made no further attempt at conversation. It had been this way since the day they had met with the Negro troops, and Moran couldn’t understand it. He had meant to mention the change in his friend before now, but with the deployment and everything else he hadn’t found the time. As they stood waiting for their orders, the sound of enemy artillery sounded in the distance. Men stood listening to the noises in their ranks. The new men flinching at every blast, whilst the veterans stood still and listened for the sounds which would warn them of true danger.

“Wooden fuses”, said the older veteran Ryan from the end of the rank, “the rebs are using wooden fuses in those mortars. They must be getting deperate using those again--you can tell it’s wooden, you hear the thump and then nothing. More than half of those shells aint even detonating.”.

“Still have to watch out!”, laughed someone in the rear rank, “get hit with one of them and it kill you just the same! Like gettin’ kicked by an ox!”

“What was you doin’ to that ox that it kicked ya?”, asked Charles Cady creating a general snicker. Lieutenant Arkins came up along the line, and called for silence before taking his place. The order came, and the columns moved forward towards the enemy lines along the shoreline of the bay. Shortly though, the 13th continued on forward towards Danley’s Ferry whilst the 16th was moved to its’ left flank into the entrenchments. Shortly the various regiments and company commands were assigned places in the trenches, and spades were brought up and laid close by--resulting in growls and groans from the men. It was clear that the 13th was to rendevous with the other Union forces and make an assault on the bay side flank, isolating Spanish Fort from the other rebel fortification at Blakely. Moran and the 16th would be set to the more or less frontal attack upon the garrison of Spanish Fort, working through the entrenchments and apparently creating new works as they went. At least it seemed so, until Moran saw the men of the 50th moving up towards them through the siege works. They made straight for the pile of picks and spades, and each man hefted one over his shoulder, as a compliment to their musket. Some of the men around Moran chuckled, and several cheered that they would be spared the digging.

“Good work for negroes”, said Patersen behind him, “save our strength for the fighting.”

Moran turned and looked Patersen in the eye, his friend blanching at the gaze and shifting from view. When Moran looked back, Washington and Jones were just passing. He nodded to the pair, and was greated with a smile and a nod.

“Moran!”, shouted a sergeant nearby, “take a squad up with you--you’ll be forward pickets whilst this bunch improves our lines. Take the Bury brothers, Carter, Patersen, Clark, and Hamlin. You’re in command corporal Moran--I expect you to hold the postion and keep me aware of the situation. Understood?”

Moran nodded, a coldness settling in his arms and legs. It wasn’t that he was afraid, but the gravity of the assignment struck him solidly. His moment of dread passed without anyone the wiser. “You heard him boys!”, the corporal said loudly as he stepped into the track behind the 50th as they passed, “on me, at the double!”. As they made their way forward, the rebels lobbed several mortars towards their lines. One of the shells exploded just before the forward lip fo the trenches, the other two malfunctioned and failed to detonate at all. Moran felt, rather than saw, the men chosen by the sergeant fall in behind him as they followed along after the 50th. Off to their right, the sounds of volley’s exchanged could be heard between the booming of the Federal batteries and the responding guns of the fortifications. The air, wrent with a sound like cotton sheet’s being torn, was streaked with trails of black smoke and flashes of sparks as artillery rounds zipped in long arcs over their heads. The 50th--muskets slung over their shoulders--laid to the main trench with a ferocity Moran admired, imporving the works as the picketts rushed forward. Men of the 50th cheered them on as they rushed past, the sound lost to Moran as he rounded the bend of the trench and headed towards the forward post. A pair of mortar rounds slammed into the wall some way ahead of them, throwing dirt into the air which fell like rain over Moran’s squad. Sputtering, and wiping soil from their mouth, the group continued forward again. Soon they reached the forward most trench, and Moran directed his group to spread themselves along the walls facing the enemy even as bullets screamed past them. The world became a frantic swirl of smoke, flying debris and the loud buzzing and crack of rounds at they tore through empty space or found something to smash into. Life slowed, as the terror of the desperate sense of survival settled into them, each felt their limbs grow heavy. They became numb to the noise around them, their fingers loosing their sense of touch so that they could not feel the burns they were sustaining each time they gripped the blisteringly hot barrels of their muskets to reload. Moran felt he no longer aimed, but simply willed the bullet to go where he wished. The enemy could not rush them at the moment, so fierce was the regular pounding of the Federal batteries and their guns, but they did their best to impede what they knew the Nationals must be up too. Grenades and hand thrown explosive shells where rolled towards them, only to explode between the two sides and leave great divots in the scared soil. Their faces became painted in mud, powder, and dirt. Moran looked at the men with him, and began to wonder if they were men anymore. He ducked, and a round whizzed over his head to splinter into a wooded slat behind him. Clark, stood up to return fire and was hit almost before he could finish saying, “That was a close one!”. The impact of the bullet tore through his right eye as Moran watched, exiting and tearing away his ear. It happened in a second, but he seemed to spin and fall heavily to the trench floor forever. Clark’s last words, still echoing in his ears as his body came to rest in the dust and his musket fell down beside him with a loud CRACK as it discharged into the ground. Then all was frantic again, as a mortar round screamed over them, and vanished over the edge behind them. Every man had ducked low as it came in, but now sat looking to one another, unsure if they should move and afraid the rebels might be upon them if they tallied in cover too long. There was a sound from somewhere towards the enemy, and Paterson jumped up screaming, “They’re coming, those bastards!” and fired with a snarl on his face. As Moran stood, and the others with him, the rebel mortar round blew behind them making them jump. There was no time though to wait, to seek cover, as a dozen rag-tag men with bright bayonets had rushed over the walls of their fort towards them. When the Federals rose up before them, several slid to a stop and started back to safety, but none made it far. Vengeful screaming lead sought them, tearing the rebels from life and Moran found he was glad. He had shot down men before, and at first he had felt guilt. In time, he had been numb to taking life. Now, three years a soldier, he had found joy.

Moran smiled and laughed allowed. “For Clark! CLARK!”, he yelled loudly. The Bury Brothers, and Hamlin started at his shout, but then joined in. Faces like dark angels, eyes shining like demons. Paterson frowned, and ducked low to reload his musket. One of the boys from the 50th came up the trench, sweat drenching his face and stopped short when he noted Clark.

“Corporal!”, he said as he recovered, “Captain wishes to report that we have moved the trench line forward on your right flank, but we are taking fire now. The boys are holding it, but the Captain wants you and your men with us. That’s his orders, sir.” The man, older and with a white stubble, stared down at Clark again for a moment. Paterson stepped over with a frown.

“What’s the matter, aint never seen a man killed fighting, boy?”, said the youth with a sneer.

“Yes sir, all rebels though. They aint sent us to a fight yet. Still hoping to get in this one afore it done.”, said the soldier, looking a little ashamed and eager at the same time. Moran stared hard at Paterson, who shook his head and resumed his place--glaring as he spat at his feet.

“Tell the captain we’re coming. Ask him to have someone come up and collect Clark for us, will you?” , Said Moran, ducking without thought as a bullet whizzed overhead. The private nodded and was gone, followed only by the hard eyes of Paterson. Already another group of soldiers was coming up to take their place in this spot, as others moved up. A flare went over, hissing loudly and leaving a slowly drifting smoke trail behind it. The new men ducked low with the passing flare, but Moran and his men hardly flinched as they trooped out of sight.

******

Carefully edging his way to the berm of the defensive wall, the haggard man with the ragged chestnut colored beard dressed in what was once a well tailored uniform of cadet grey, scanned the enemy positions with his field glasses. He stood looking a certain direction for a time before cursing under his breath and lowering the glasses with a shake of his head. After a moment of looking at his feet, the officer resumed his inspection by field glass.

“Well, I’ll give them this–they do make good work, and even under fire.”, said the officer with a grudging tone. Suddenly he moved his focus off to the right, and spat loudly, “who in--By God what a waste, and so near an end to it!”.

“What is it General Gibson? To what do you refer?”, asked major Dawlings from behind his commander. The general had resumed his scan off to the left again, with an aire of deep disgust.

“Men foolishly throwing away what little they have left, Major.”, responded the general without ceasing his study of the enemy beyond, “Fine and gallant when one is in poetry or epic tale, but foolhardy when it serves no purpose but to rob your cause of sufficient strength to defend ones fortification.”

Major Dawlings began to scan the enemy works as well, ending where the general had been previously. He smacked his lips in understanding. “Boys getting too eager. I shall send Captain Beams out to remind the officers on the walls to keep better handle on the men sir, if that will suffice?” The major looked at the dozen or so men who had tried to rush the observation post the Yankees had along that portion of trench. They had been caught in the open, and shot down like dogs. Nothing surprised the major anymore, like soldiers on both sides he had been engaged in this war long enough now to have seen nearly everything. No cruelty seemed beyond the pale now; from the burning and looting of civilian homes by Sherman and his devils; to the horrors told of prisons kept by North and South–Dawlings was becoming certain that this war might well be the end of all things if it went on much longer. But, he was a soldier–so he must do his duty.

To the end.

For the first time, he felt that that end was truly close at hand.

******
It was like being in a grave, and he hated it. Cool, damp, dark, with occasional earth falling into his face when a shell came close enough to dislodge it. He could just make out the opening to his left, but as it was night the light was only slightly lighter than the blackness of the Bomb proof–really just a hole dug into the ground with wood slat pillars and ceiling. Moran remembered them well from Vicksburg, and had swore back then never to shelter in one again. But, necessity seemed determined to reunite man and menace–so Moran was stuck. The rebels had taken to random but heavy mortar shelling of the new works the 50th had dug, so sleeping in the trenches just wasn’t safe. Sure, more than half of the rebel shells weren’t going off, but why take chances?

“This is good earth,” said a voice from his right, “feels good to the fingers. Bet you could grow a furrow and then some ‘round here”.

Moran could only just make out the shape of the man, but knew the voice.

“You never liked farming Paterson, but if I didn’t know better I might think you missed it from such a statement”.

Paterson, only a shadow next to him, visibly shrugged. “Just commenting on the dirt is all. Moran, I just wanted to apologize for our fighting before--we been friends too long to let somethin’ get between.” Before Moran could say a word, there was shouting from up near the front of the bombproof and suddenly a mortar roared in detonation somewhere above them. Dirt cascaded down over them, then a second explosion could be heard and there was a crack as the world went black.

Paterson felt the blackness surround him and crush the air from his lungs. His life flashed before him, altogether too brief, and he became aware he might very well die. No, he would die if this went on too much longer. A thousand thousands fears, his mind raced and his lungs burned as he longed to breathe. He could hear the noises of men buried in the collapsed bombproof around him, men crying out only to have their mouths stuffed with soil when they did. Paterson began to see white spots before his eyes, when suddenly something hard struck his left leg and strong hands gripped and pulled him from the suffocation of the dirt. He sputtered, being rolled forcibly to his side as he coughed and choked from air. His eyesight was foggy, his eyes refusing to work at first--only dark shadows moving about him in the night air, interrupted by fuzzy smears of weak light which he surmised to be lanterns.

“Take some water, jus’ a little now, not too much”, said a voice close by as a figure knelt down and tipped a canteen up for him. The water made him cough some more, but helped rinse the dirt away. He was given a damp cloth, and soon his eyes stopped burning with the dust and debris of the collapse. Kneeling beside him, was one of the men of the colored regiments--the brass “50” emblazoned upon his kepi. Paterson coughed, the man patting him on the shoulder, and helping him sit up. Around him, men worked feverishly with shovels and sticks trying to unearth survivors. Overhead, artillery flares raced through the dark sky from both sides, their arc followed by grey-white trails of smoke. A shell burst in mid air above them, but the work of these men never wavered.

“You all lucky we was out in the trench! Would been nobody what to dig you all out again!”, said the man as he stood up from Paterson and started away to attend to another survivor that had more recently been unearthed. As the soldier made his way from him, Paterson called out.

“Outside? What were you doin’ in the trenches and not out of the way of the mortars?”

The soldier stopped, and turned briefly--the whiteness of his grin visible in the dark. “Always that way, an aside, as it turns it was good for you all we was there!”

Paterson watched the colored soldier move on to his work, and the terrible cruel realities of war and place within the suffering and triumphs of others became a reality for him. He stood up on shaky legs, and wandered over to take a spade that was laying near by. He joined a group of soldiers from the 50th, and began to dig with them for survivors. It began to rain towards dawn, slowing their work. Still, they did not give up, and slowly men were recovered from the earth. At first, they found the living. Men choking and frantic for air but still alive. These men, black dirt and grime head to toe, were moved off to one side to be attended too by several of the medical stewards that had been summoned when news of the collapse became wider known. Over time, these men joined the crews of the searchers, a growing desperation to free the trapped from the horror they themselves had endured. But as the hours passed and the sun began to filter through the grey of the clouds, they found only the dead.

12 survivors, still caked in the soil that had buried them, stood looking down on a neat row of 23 men whom had not been so lucky. Paterson, wiping sweat from his brow and succeeding in smearing further dirt across his face, planted his spade in the dirt before him and looked to the man next to him.

“What’s your name?”, said Paterson quietly to the private of the 50th.

“Hayfield. Ezeikel Hayfield.”, came the deep response.

“Well Hayfield, I thank you for pulling me out of that mess. I’ll be eternally thankful you were there to do it. If only he might have come out of it though. That there, Hayfield, was the best friend I ever had. He don’t even look dead really, does he? Just sleeping.”

Hayfield turned dark eyes on him, and nodded quietly.

Paterson kneeled down and laid his hands on the feet of Moran, and closed his eyes a moment. A bugle sounded somewhere in the grey distance, and after a moment the young man stood and turned away from the row of the dead. He wiped his eyes of the tears that welled there and sighed deeply.

“I’m sure sorry you all had to be out in the trenches tonight.”, spoke Paterson as the offensive along the new trench fronts renewed in vigor and fury. The federal batteries opened and the sound echoed loudly through the early morning air.

“Yes sir, weren’t no happy place to be. We took some hard knocks out there.”, responded Hayfield hanging his head. Paterson turned back to Hayfield.

“You mean you all were hit?”

Hayfield nodded. A sergeant came along in a rush. “You lot! Get your greasy arses together and quit that loafing! Orderlies be along soon fer them dead lads, now get yerselfs movin!”

The group made to comply, but Paterson stopped Hayfield.

“What happened? Mortar round?”

Hayfield nodded. “Yes, lost 14 men. Good men, but then an officer comes up and tells us to rush over and help in saving you all. Lucky we was so close I guess.”

Paterson gritted his teeth. Lucky? Lucky that they had been left in the open? Left as easy targets, and then put to work helping the men that had the plumb spot? Suddenly, looking at the careful arrangement of the dead by these men, Paterson looked up.

“Where are the dead? Those boys who got killed in your bunch?”

“Where we was, back there”, said Hayfield with a surprised look on his face as he pointed along the trench line. Paterson nodded.

“Come on Hayfield. We have to fetch them.”
They set off, several of the survivors and men of the 50th looking after them as they went. They were going to opposite way from where the sergeant had told them, so soon the onlookers stopped moving as well to wait to see what was up. Several of the survivors, knowing Paterson, thought it must be a fight--given the younger man’s known opinion of Negroes. The men of the 50th murmured amongst themselves, until it became clear what the pair were doing. Soon, the survivors knew too, as Paterson and Hayfield approached each carrying one of the fallen from where the 50th had been stationed in the trenches. Paterson gently laid down a man he had never met, beside his friend Moran. Standing back up, he looked at those he knew.

“Come on, help us move them. They shouldn’t be left in that trench, lets put them together.”, said Paterson as his eyes glistened. The whole group moved together, and as the renewed assault on the fortifications around the city of Mobile continued, the fallen men of the 50th were laid aside their comrades. In the end, their uniforms made them brothers, even as the world around them tore itself apart.

Spanish Fort fell the same day that General Robert E. Lee surrendered in the East, and Fort Blakely only held for a day more.

The war, officially was over. But the new struggle, to understand what had been won and lost, was only beginning.

My Brother, My Enemy


Somewhere far from the cot he was laying in, he knew that his mother was checking all the doors and windows as she always did--always had for as long as he could remember life at home--before she turned in for the night. His father would be ushering petulant cows through the dusky pasture towards the shed for the night, singing those silly songs to himself that drove everyone crazy. He used to make them up as he worked in the garden and hay loft, silly rhymes he would sing to the tune of the “battle hymn of the republic”. Suddenly the pain was severe again, and it was all private Hopkins “Hop” Young could do to remain silent. He had decided he would not be like the man at the end of the ward, moaning all night and keeping the new arrivals awake. He breathed deep and slowly, trying to master the pain. They had told him it would be so, for awhile, offered him morphine. That was until the most recent crop of casualties had arrived from the latest trip to the butcher, and only the very worst cases were given doses of the always fluctuating supplies of drugs.

That was the beginning of the “Phantom of the Ward”, as Jenkins called the man. Hop just thought of him as a pain in the ass. It wasn’t that they didn’t have compassion--surely the man was in pain--but until one got used to the sounds at night none of them had gotten any sleep. Three days of that had left them none too friendly, no matter the reason for the ruckus. Such was the life here in the U.S. General No. 2 Hospital, Ward B. The commanding officer was Colonel R. F. Stratton, a lofty man who spoke of the fight and God’s desire to see them well again. He seemed determined to remind them all that if the national army could render mighty Vicksburg ruinous (to which the hospital was quartered near) with such ease, surely the war must soon be won.

Hop never had the heart to inform the good colonel that the “ruination” of Vicksburg had been neither easy nor all that quick. He, and two others in the ward had been there with the 5th and knew first hand the hell that the siege had become for both sides by the end. But, Stratton meant well, so Hop kept his tongue. As the pain subsided, he ran his hand over the wrapped bandages that covered his torso, thinking of the stitching and the inevitable scar he would have. The bullet had been fired at very close range, but had thankfully passed through his side missing everything. There was the chance of infection of course, which is what killed most men in the end more so than the wounds themselves, but the surgeon seemed certain it was a fairly clean shot. He didn’t like to think about it too much in truth. It wasn’t that he was afraid of dying so much, as he found that when he thought too much about the battle and being wounded, he become dizzy and sick to his stomach. He moved his hand away from the bandage and made himself think of something else. He stared at the ceiling, and noted--not for the first time--the uneven and obviously rushed brush strokes of the flat white paint. It appeared to be lead paint, which gave such a deeper and more solid color than whitewash ever did. He began to think about such normal things as how much paint must have been needed to do this room, and how he had once had to worry over such trivial things not so long ago.

He was 9 nine years old, and his brother Jacob was supposed to be helping. He wasn’t of course, as usual. Their father had sent them out to whitewash the inside of the granary, because he felt certain it helped in further preservation of the logs. Jacob said that the whole idea was foolishness--well he said so to Hop, but never would have dared say so to their father--and vanished as soon as possible. Jacob and Hop were fraternal twins, only minutes apart in age but years apart in personality. Hop was technically younger, but acted the old man--Jacob was forever swanning off from work but adored by their mother. What could Hop do, but whitewash the old log interior himself? As he tore open the paper bag of store wash his father had provided to add to the bucket of water, Jacob suddenly swung out of the loft above scaring Hop and spilling the chalky powder everywhere.

“HA! Nearly greased your drawers there--didn’t you? Ha ha ha!”, laughed Jacob gleefully as he swung from his knees in the open hatch to the loft above. Hop stepped back and brushed powder from his pant legs.

“Jake, you fool! Look what you’ve done! Father’s gonna whip us both when he sees this, and that’s for certain! Now get yourself down from there and help me with this mess!”, Hop snarled crossing his arms and scowling. His brother, griping the whole way that Hop “weren’t any fun” set to the cleaning up. They had worked together that day, painting the whole interior. When they finished, both boys were head to toe in whitewash; and Hop never told their father of Jacob’s misadventures in the loft.

The shadows cast by the candles in their lantern sitting upon the desk of the orderly danced, as a faint breeze shifted the flames. Hop listened to the ragged breathing, the snoring, and the creek of the floors in another ward. Sleep evaded him this evening, but he did his best to not allow the familiar guilt to creep back in. It seemed harder now that he was on the mend, which he supposed made sense. When he had first come, he had heard orderlies suggest openly that it was a waste to treat him. This callousness had shocked him, and he and fallen quickly into a serious despair. In the end it was the Matron, the stalwart and motherly Mrs. Crewes, who had ensured his treatment and rejuvenated his spirits.

“Well now my boy, we’ll have no more of this feeling sorry for yourself! The surgeon will be over shortly to look you over and we’ll have you mended in no time!”, she had said to him, propping up his pillow and unintentionally causing a nasty pain to shoot through his wound. He grimaced, but managed a smile. The plump, round Mrs. Crewes had kindly eyes, and the firm “you will do what I say because I know what is best for you, even if you think I don’t” gaze that his own mother had such practiced skill with her own children. In some ways, it was this similarity to his own mother that had ultimately ensured Hop’s obedience to the Matron’s order. In time, as Mrs. Crewes work to produce positive care for him proved productive and his health began to return, gratitude and appreciation for the uncompromising Matron was enough to guarantee his following her rules.

“You mustn’t worry yourself for the attitudes of these orderlies, Private”, Mrs. Crewes had told him one evening as she spoon fed him a warm broth, “They’ve seen too much, and the carnage and slaughter makes them hard in their hearts. It’s part of why they and the surgeons fight so about having my ladies here–we remind them of their humanity.”
Hop swallowed, feeling the warmth of the liquid flow into the depths of him. He watched a pair or orderlies roughly carrying out a man, recently died, upon a stretcher. Mrs. Crewes looked at them a moment as well, before returning to the task at hand.

“You mustn’t hold it against them. Could anyone carry on for this long seeing men in pain, men dying, lives so beyond their ability to do anything without becoming hardened? They’re wounded too,” the Matron had said with a sad smile, “but their wounds don’t show like yours do.”.

He watched the shadows dance for a moment or two more before he felt his eyes closing, heavy with sleep. Just as he was slipping into the soft embrace of sleep, the “Phantom” began his moaning from the far end of the ward. Soft at first, then a little louder. Hop’s eyes squeezed shut, and then opened.

“God almighty!”, said Bill Jenkins in a loud whisper from across the room, “he’s at it again!”

“Right on schedule too, more regular than rail service.”, stated Kelley from Hops left.

Hop sat up slightly, a hot stitch shooting through his side briefly. “He doesn’t even know he’s doing it.”, he said, playing the advocate briefly.

“Yeah well, I KNOWS he is! Keeps me from sleeping proper!”, responded Jenkins. The Iowan with the surly disposition was little more than a half white form floating in the grainy dark to Hop, but the gruffness of his tone made his meaning clear.

“Yeah well, now you are waking the rest of us,” said a fourth voice from Jenkins side of the room, “so please yerself and shut your pie hole!”

Kelley chuckled, and the sound of his cot creaking spoke that he had turned over. The “Phantom” had subsided again, and Jenkins went to bed again with a grunt. Laying back, Hop closed his eyes and slowly drifted into a troubled sleep. He was taunted with the dream–more of a memory really–of that fateful day that he had received his wound, and of the churning hell of the battlefield.

*****

Jenkins, Hop, and Kelley sat propped up in their beds, the bright sunlight suddenly streaming through the windows of the ward as one of the nurses drew the curtains. Days came and went this way, and it was easy to loose track. Often, the only way to really take note of the passing of time was the removal and addition of patients. Now, new forms had filled their ward; bringing fresh bandages and all the accompanying aspects of wounded men. Sounds of labored breathing, groans of pain and unconscious despondency--even the strange mix of various ointments, salves, and weeping wounds. Outside their ward, it sounded as though it was a busy day. Orderlies were no where to be seen, and only one nurse was seen drifting through to check on them. It’s a strange thing, thought Hop, to be a soldier in a hospital. To know what those around you have seen and experienced first hand, but often not know the men themselves. To share more in common with the man whose face is a mass of yellowed bandages, who cries out for friends who are likely no more--than the Surgeons or even those stalwart ladies who fought the establishment every day simply to offer care and compassion to the wounded. To know the war, to hate it and want nothing better than to return home--yet to feel strangely left out and seek eagerly whatever news of the progress and failings of ones own most despised subject.

What a strange thing, to seek so hard to survive the dangers and boredom of the army; days and hours spent complaining about bad food and little sleep, fool commands and close calls. Thinking always of home, and loved ones, and the end of it all. The terror of being hit, being wounded and dying or worse--becoming an invalid.

As time went on (assuming you survived your wound; the trip to the field hospital; the field hospital itself; the ministrations of the orderlies and surgeons; and everyday chance of infection during your recovery) the fear slowly subsided for most, and one became accustomed to their new role. Fate would begin to make her appearance in the room then, and soldiers would drift into those that would go back--and those that would go home. Some who would go back, were the men they were before; enduring and complaining and longing for home. Some others were changed by their wounds; as though the harm done them by their enemies made them hard and introspective. For those for whom the fear had never let go fully of their hearts, returning was terror. Hop had seen this, a private from Ohio who was literally dragged from the ward to be taken back to his company. He was a boy, as so many of them were, and had begged and cried for his mother. Hop often wondered what had happened to him.

Most of those that went home did so because they were used up; old men long before it was their time to be so. Young years bent under the weight of war, missing legs and arms and eyes. Human beings whose whole lives had been changed in one engagement. Standing up too soon from a trench--victims of the randomness of shrapnel and the whirring bullets. Some struck down by the flying bits of those who had stood beside them when the shells exploded amongst their company lines. Some of those wanted to go home, wanted to escape. Others felt like cowards slinking away into the safety of the cozy homestead and family awaiting them.

But today, both kinds of soldier felt the flurry of action beyond their walls and couldn’t help but be curious. They strained to hear, and cast curious glances at a few of the new men who had joined them. But these men were not yet sociable, still out of the world in a daze of injury and exhaustion. Beyond their doors, came shouting orders, the sound of scuffling feet, and the cries of wounded or dying men.

“Big offensive, must be.”, said Kelley nodding with excitement.

“Might be the push towards Atlanta, that’s said to be any day now.”, responded Jenkins.

“As if you’d know!”, said Hop chuckling. Jenkins shot him a dirty look.

“I know! Franklin told me, and an orderly hears things!”

“Hears you pass wind at night! Which is all your surmising is.”

“I don’t!” responded Jenkins, looking to Kelley for support and not finding it.

“You do, Jenk....raise the sheets on occasion too.”, said Kelley, smiling.

They were quite for a long time then, simply listening. Listening to men cry out in pain and terror, the bustle of action. The nurse wandered through, checking each of them with a glance as a stern nod. She was younger, but far from attractive. This one the one someone had given the nickname “stone face” because she had never once smiled at any of them. Indeed, from the look on her face, Hop rather imagined she likely had never so much as attempted the warm action in her life. Despite the demeanor, she tended to be the best for information--provided you were respectful in asking.

“So, what’s going on then?”, asked Kelley.

“The casualties are coming in from the campaign in Georgia. We’re only getting those that are mending or were not as badly wounded, and from the look of things it must be going well.”, said stone face with the tight lipped expression she always wore.

“Going well? How so?”, asked Jenkins.

“The numbers,” she replied as she started towards the doors, “when the numbers that overflow to us are small, it tends to mean things are going well. Mend quickly gentlemen--you might miss the rest of the war otherwise!” With that she was gone, leaving the ward in busy whispers.

“Mend quick, she says!”, said Kelley pointing after the nurse with a frown, “does she think we wanted to be here?”

“Stoneface” wandered out, and a short glimpse of people bustling back and forth was all that they were afforded of the war beyond their little piece of it. Hop lay back and stared up at the ceiling again, sighing loudly as he tried to master the dull ache in his side.

“Hey, Hop”, came the gruff tone of Jenkins from down the line of beds.

Hop didn’t sit up, but still staring at the ceiling he licked his dry lips and answered.

“Hey Jenkins.”

“Phantom’s gone. Must have had it in the night; poor guy.” , came the response. Hop felt elation at the possibility of a night of undisturbed sleep. How long had “The Phantom” been there? Long enough that they had gotten to where they simply took his presence for granted, and yet had not noticed that he had been silent the night before. It struck him suddenly too that Jenkins had said “poor guy”, suggesting some sort of compassion for a stranger who had otherwise only garnered scorn and displeasure.

“I hate this place.”, came a quiet voice from somewhere on the left.

“Could be worse”, said Kelley, “like them field hospitals. I was in one when they first got me off the field.”

“Yeah, we all were Kelley”, responded Jenkins.

Kelley was silent. The voice down to the left, quiet but steady, spoke again. “I suppose there are worse places.”

Hop closed his eyes, thinking of the worst place he had ever been. It was a small corn field, dry brown stalks all about, except where the passage of troops or eruption of artillery had gouged holes. He could almost still hear the sound that the dry stalks had made as they crunched through them, the corn rows giving way as they scraped against their woolens and leathers. The ground had been soft, and gave at their stepping, making the march difficult. In the ragged horizon of corn tassels and grey sky they could see the enemy flag waving this way and that. Corbin Hansen and his brother Thomas had both shouted insults at it and even fired trying to score a hit on this symbol of rebel pride. Hop was aware of the lines of the brush on the ceiling. He drifted between awareness of the conversation between the men around him and the remembered sounds of battle. The taste of powder, acrid and like nothing else, in his mouth. The overcast clouds had rolled like fish in the shallows of the river, when he and his brother Jacob would go throw stones at them. Why, now as an adult he didn’t understand. One of those childhood cruelties he supposed–they had been replaced with the cruelties of adulthood. The first enemy volley had come whistling through the corn at them, snapping and cutting stalks like some great invisible sickle. Then a second, clearly being fired blind into the corn but doing damage nonetheless. Hop felt the tightening in his stomach of anxiety and anxiousness–the corn never seeming to open up to allow them a chance to fight back. Instead, it seemed to replant itself just as they thought they should be free of it, and more fire poured into them. Men fell with groans, shrieks, some without a sound--falling hard face first into the dirt and fallen silage to the sickle of the enemy bullets. Suddenly, Jacob had been there at his side. Filling a hole left by Corbin Hansen, smiling at Hop with that usual devil may care look. He was smiling because he could finally get a chance to fire his weapon–Jacob had made sergeant and spent most engagements in the rear as a file closer. Jacob had joked many times that as the 5th sergeant he had the dubious honor of being more likely to have to fire on one of our own trying to skedaddle from a fight than the enemy. Hop had many times told him outright that he didn’t think Jacob was cold enough to shoot one of their own. Jacob had always been quiet, and simply mused that he was hoping one day to get into the fight himself and kill a reb. That day, he had his chance. When the corn was mercifully down to the last thin row between they and the enemy, his memories became blurred. Hazy, like someone had draped cheesecloth over his eyes.

Hop found it was often so when he tried to think about the tumult of combat. He supposed it was a way to protect himself from the horrors he had seen–and perpetrated. They had murdered the enemy before them that day. There was no other way that he could think of it, for soldiers kill as a matter of course. But they had waded into these men from Mississippi in a way that could only have been murder–coupled with the pent up fear and anger for being fired upon as they approached through the cornfield. Hop remembered clubbing a man with the butt of his rifle as the rebel drove at him with his long bayonet. For a moment, he felt the elation of survival again. His brother there beside him, shooting down a rebel as he ran away from them. Officers slowed the men down, reformed what was left of their line and started them forward again, just as the rebel artillery struck. It was hurriedly aimed, for the explosive shells fell far forward then behind them–but this was not so for the units on their right flank. One shell hit amid them, and blew men into vapor. Hop felt his face, for the rough scar on his temple–where some part of a man had driven itself into the flesh of his face. At the time, he had simply pulled the splinter loose and bled–only later did he realize the red white sliver was bone. Another shell burst over them, and though this battle–really only a skirmish that surely no historian would ever remember–was clearly in their hands, men were rattled. They pressed forward, firing into running men who would retreat and regroup under cover and start again. Hop admired the enemy for that, and wondered if he could have been so brave. Always at his side was Jacob, taking gleeful pleasure in loading and firing at the enemy. Impervious to bullets it seemed, never even flinching from the snap hiss of a close shot. He saw Thomas Hansen spin out of the line, and flop to the ground. His hands pressed tightly to his throat, as blood like a geyser pumped from him. Hop stopped then, rushed back to Thomas, whose eyes pleaded the pain and terror he was in.

“Hop, come on!”, shouted Jacob lagging behind, “they’re on the run!”.

“Hansen! God look at him! What do we do?”, Hop had shouted back. Jacob looked at the dying man whose blood had sprayed all over his brothers hands and the knees of his trousers as though he here not a man at all but simply part of the landscape.

“He’s dead. Get back in line.”, came his reply as a bullet zipped overhead.

Hop looked at his brother, this man who used to be his brother. His eyes were cold as steel. Stumbling to his feet, Hop wiped the sticky blood on his coat, and stared down at the lifeless body of Thomas Hansen. His eyes were pained, even in death–-his skin pale wherever he wasn’t painted in the bright red blood which had flowed so rapidly from him.

“Get back in line private.”, growled Jacob again. Hop dropped his rifle, suddenly unable to hold it up any longer. He had had enough, he couldn’t do anymore. He turned his back and a sudden panic–-a need to escape this inhumanity--gripped him. He was no longer in control of his feet, they chose to make him run. An officer cried out from somewhere, “Where is that man going? Stop! By God, stop you coward! Sergeant! Shoot him! Do your duty or I will!”.

Hop opened his eyes and took in the ceiling again, the late afternoon light fading. He wrestled with his thoughts, the madness of that moment. He couldn’t escape the feeling that his own brother had been the one who had shot him down; yet he was at a loss for why he was not recuperating in a stockade. The terror and conviction to run left him with a sense of shame, yet he could not bring himself to condemn himself further. Had he not fought in 8 other engagements with bravery and grit? He was no coward, this he was certain of. It had been the shock of his brothers utter lack of humanity; the drastic change in him that had made him run. That had been the final stroke against his ability to be rational, as he had been so many times before. Jacob wasn’t there anymore, but how–-and why?

“How did that happen to Jacob?.”, said Hop aloud to himself.

“War does strange things to men,” said the usually silent man immediately to his left. Hop turned and looked at him. He was an older man, beard and mustache shot through with grey and white. He was missing his left leg, and was bandaged on his right arm.

“Pardon?”, asked Hop, not sure this newer man was speaking to him at all.

“War does strange things to men. Some walk through it with no greater affect than to make them a little older; others are never the same.”, responded the man, turning his grey eyes on Hop.

Hop nodded. “Jacob is my brother.”

“He give you your wound there?”, asked the man.

“No.”, answered Hop suddenly.

“Huh, mine did–-well most likely or might as well.”, answered the man. “He’s a rebel, family near as split down the middle. I’m originally from Kentucky, and it was his regiment what did this to me”, said the man gesturing to his leg and arm with his free right hand.

“That’s awful.” responded Hop quietly.

“My brother, my enemy.”, said the older man, turning to stare at the ceiling. “But you know, I still love him, aint that funny?”

Hop found his eyes welling with tears, and he shook his head as he help back a gasp of sorrow. “Not really. I figure that’s what makes this all so bad.”

The older man sighed and nodded, and then returned to being quiet. Hop decided then and there, to harden his heart–-he could see no other recourse. For whatever reason, he was spared from the stockade for cowardice, and he would make the most of it. Perhaps that was why his brother has been so cold–-he understood that he had a job to do and the only way through the hell of this war was to push on with that duty. The feeling made him feel a little better, for he surmised that this meant the Jacob he knew wasn’t gone, just waiting for the end. Like mothers silly and impractical flowers that waited through the winter to sprout again in the spring. On that thought, Hop drifted into a deep sleep and rested well through the night.

****

He had mended, and was reassigned to his regiment–though he’d been gone for long enough that he was placed in a new company–-E–-which apparently had gotten pretty hammered and drew in more replacements than any other in the 5th. Hop made some new friends quickly enough, and kept a low profile in case the tale of how he’d been wounded ever came out. He had made sure to check on his brother, and found he was said to be very well and had risen to the position of 3rd sergeant in company A. Thus assured that Jacob was alright, Hop went about doing his best to remain detached and serious about their duty. He was determined to make the most of his second chance as a soldier. Though not the first company in line, some weeks of cold stalemate against a well entrenched rebel force supplied ample first test to his mettle. He came through very well, and soon Hop was promoted to corporal after being instrumental in taking the enemy by surprise during a night time raid to their trench. He had killed dispassionately, having learned how to close himself away from the moment. He felt nothing now, and many were the men in his platoon who looked to him for guidance.

Sitting one night in a forward skirmisher post, Hop and three others tried their best to listen for any sounds of the enemy. The night was so dark, that to orient onself you had to reach out to touch the sides of the entrenchment.

“Lord it’s cold. I thought it didn’t get cold down here in the south.”, said Timmons, fresh from the fields of Minnesota.

“It does,” responded Hop, “but wait until the heat, now THAT’S something.”

“Wish we had a fire,” said the other man, Henly, “feel like I’m in a deep hole with this darkness.”

“Sure, we can have a fire–assuming you don’t mind maybe attracting some reb mortar crew or crack shot. Usually don’t fight much at night, but why risk it?”, said Hop sagely.

There was no reply from the darkness, but Hop didn’t care. These new men had so much to learn yet, but that wasn’t their fault. They were fresh and hadn’t seen much yet. They would learn plenty in time. A sound made them all turn with their muskets and call out in a loud whisper “Who goes?”.

“It’s me, Dave.” came the reply.

“What’s the password?” asked Hop cocking his musket.

“Crimeny, ah...Ridgely”, came the response.

“Alright..come on in”, said Hop as he lowered his weapon and a black on black shadow slid into the shallow trench.

“Hey boys, just come up to tell you that there’s gonna be a group from A company that is going forward of our line to cause mischief–-they wanted you to know so you wouldn’t shoot them. Of course, they kinda suggested you wouldn’t be able to hit em anyway...but...”, said Dave Geoffrey, a private in E company as he felt around for his audience.

“Just for that, we ought to pop their lieutenant in the backside”, laughed Henly.

“It’s wide enough not to miss.” answered Timmons.

“Thanks Geoffrey, you staying or going back?”, asked Hop.

“Sadly, I must return to the rear–-promise I’ll save some stew for you boys though. Sergeant says your relief will be up soon–-so figure sometime before dawn.”, and with that Geoffrey scrambled as quietly as he could out of their hole and rapidly vanished into the dark around them.

Hop stared into the darkness, and soon heard very faint movement off to the left.

“Rebels corporal?” asked Timmons excitedly.

“That patrol of A company Timmons, listen–-sound is moving up from behind our lines. The enemy is off there, to the right center–-remember?”, responded Hop firmly.

“Right, just so dark...”, before Timmons could finish there was a shot–very close by–and a man cried out shortly. All three men leapt to the edges of the tench, and watched the darkness. Nothing more, until the sound of the patrol from A company slunk back towards friendly lines. For some minutes it was quiet, and finally Hop waved his two companions down.

“Sounds like the rebs wounded somebody...or maybe we did them one–-either way it’s over now. I guess those A company boys decided better of their little look see.”, said Hop as he got himself comfortable in the bottom of the trench.

“Now what corporal?”, asked Henly obviously nervous.

“Simply Henly. I’m gonna try and get some sleep, while you two keep your ears for odd sounds. Try not to shoot each other or any of our men–-wake me in an hour and one of you can get some rest.”, and with that Hop pulled his cap over his eyes (though there was almost no need, one could hardly see anyway) and tried for some rest.

It didn’t last long. From the darkness, forward and left of their hole came the soft sound of a man crying for help. Before either of them could do so, Hop was awake and peering into the gloom.

“We should go out and get him..that man is wounded, must be the one what we heard shot before.”, said Henly starting towards the lip of the hole. Hop grabbed him and tugged him back.

“You stay right there you fool. You go out there, and you could be shot by them OR our lines.”, said Hop in a heated whisper.

“But, corporal–-listen he’s”, said Timmons before Hop silenced him with a gentle jab to the chest.

“He’s dead, or will be soon. It’s hard, I know. But this is the way it is–-it’s not worth you getting killed for.”

There was silence, and Hop took it to mean they understood–-he returned to his place and tried again to sleep. The man suddenly went quiet, and the darkness was still.

“See,” said Hop,”now, wake me in an hour.”

15 minutes later, the voice called out again–-but louder.

“Help me, please, help me”, came the hushed sound. Hop awoke instantly, and felt deep resentment at once.

“Lord, won’t you die already?”, he spat out loud as he stood up.

“Please, it hurts,” said the voice, “someone help me.”

“Ignore him.”, said Hop again, “Henly why don’t you try for some rest.”

“Yes corporal.” said Henly, as Hop took his place. The voice was silent again, and stayed so for almost an hour, before coughing was heard and then a louder voice called out, “Help me, please!”.

“Poor fellow”, said Timmons in a whisper.

“He’d better to just go ahead and die–put us all out of misery.”, answered Hop, slightly angry.

“I suppose.”, answered Timmons quietly.

All through the night, the man cried out. As he became delirious, he began to call for his mother–-then for water–-and then he became hard to understand. About dawn, their relief finally came, and weary Hop and the others started back towards the line–-only to be told not to bother. Sometime during the night, the enemy had withdrawn. A group from A company was carrying a body back from forward–the man who’d they had heard crying out in the dark–-and Hop stepped over to take a look.

His brother Jacob was pale, his eyes rolled back into his head and dark blood had frothed from his mouth to dry at his lips. He tripped when the line was moving forward it was surmised, and his musket had gone off. The bullet, his own, had struck him in the stomach. Because of the darkness of the night, and because Jacob had been so far forward of his men, they hadn’t known where to find him–or even if the enemy had fired. As such, he had laid there all through the night and died.

Hop stood, ashen and shocked as he stared upon the man whom he had thought impervious to bullets. The man whom had been a stranger and whom he had wished would simply die as he cried for help in that dark night, so that he could get some rest. As Hop wandered back to the line, he realized that truly war does strange things to men in the course of it’s time. He piled his gear in his tent, and sat down in a heap on the cold ground. He felt a familiar stitch in the scar of the wound to his side, but ignored it. It paled by comparison to that which filled his heart; and he began to write home to tell his parents that Jacob, his brother and mother’s darling, would not be coming home.