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





Thursday, July 22, 2010

Interlude at Camp Ford

“It could be worse.” said the scruffy man whose arm was bound in a dirty sling.

“How? How could it be worse?” shot back a lanky man with a large hole in the right leg of his trousers. The man in the sling started to respond but then stopped, his lips screwed up in hesitation.

“We could be in Andersonville.” posed the gruff Irishman with the sergeant stripes, “But instead, we’re at Camp Ford. It could be worse, especially if all them tales we hear is so about some of them other camps--and double so for Andersonville. We got water and the food aint too bad.” O’Malley sat back, and folded his hands in his lap. The other men in the ramshackle shelter--a “shebang” as the men called them--nodded and murmured assent. They had been imprisoned at Camp Ford for almost four months, ever since the assault on a strategic railhead had gone terribly wrong. O’Malley, along with a mixed group of men from several units had been carted across the Louisiana border some miles into Texas and interned at Camp Ford. Their new home was little more than a log palisade enclosure, set with guard towers at certain intervals along the fence. There were no structures to shelter the prisoners within, but necessity had proved the mother of invention. Scrounging from various sources, the prisoners had erected shanties for themselves. This slap-dash building meant that the camp interior was crowded and mismatched by appearance--with log huts shouldering into canvas tents, and even dug out trenches with wooden planks and canvas for roofs. Rumor had it that the camp had once been a rebel training camp before it was prison, and O’Malley felt some pity for any man who might have had to do his basic training here. Still, it wasn’t as bad as it could be, though it was crowded. Over 4000 men were now quartered in a space of about 10 acres, which had already been increased in size once due to a large influx of prisoners. So in addition to O’Malley and a handful of 5th Minnesota lads, soldiers of nearly one hundred regiments called this place home--plus an odd duck gathering of Union sailors. O’Malley smiled to himself and chuckled a little thinking of the sailors. The Navy kept to themselves, choosing to camp together in their tidy little sod and canvas hut. Keeping to oneself wasn’t really all that uncommon of course, as pretty much all the various groups by state or service did so--but none so ferociously as the New Yorkers. The “Empire Staters”, true to their Eastern “Yankee” tendencies, made their familiar bond a thing of honor amongst them and as such proved a source of aggravation for everyone else. While gambling, stealing and fighting happened amongst every group, the New Yorkers seemed to have a special gift for such activities. It was wise to give way if a group of them came ambling along, cheering their camp motto--”New York City against the world!”

Of course, the New Yorkers weren’t the only issue. There were the many officers in internment as well, which led to issues of rank and command. O’Malley scratched his head and took his time in enjoying dispatching squirming lice between his thumb and forefinger. Yes, there were a lot of officers--7 colonels; 4 majors; 48 captains; 90 lieutenants; 1 doctor (but HE was useful!) and 1 bombastic Naval captain. While honestly most of them were fine, several were downright horrid, and spent most of their time trying to devise how they might be considered as “fully in charge, and in command”. Much of the time this really didn’t matter all that much, and amounted to little more than additional brawling or factional thievery. Where it became a disaster though was when a spokesperson was required to speak to the camp commandant regarding grievances or general negotiation. It came to head at last when the New Yorkers sent their colonel to see the commandant--only to have a second colonel show from Indiana, followed by a major from Iowa and all claiming to speak for the “gathered regiments”. After that, a spokesperson was chosen for the men from amongst those officers who seemed most capable of handling the job. This of course was not the end of the issues, but at least the soldiers in general gained representation.

Their lives at Camp Ford were both dull and difficult. From time to time it would rain for days at a time, forcing them to remain within their shelters as the ground around them became soupy mud. When the rains quit, it could be become blisteringly hot and the ground would end up baked to a sandy grit which would blow about with the slightest wind. They had a makeshift hospital, but no medicine and so everyone knew that if you got seriously ill--you died. Still, the doctor and his steward T.J. Robinson did their best to relieve suffering and fight the scurvy, dysentery and diarrhea that was widespread in the camp. O’Malley flexed his left hand, trying to work the stiffness from his joints which plagued him. He had taken a bad fall in the wild moments after the confusion and terror in those last moments that they had possession of the Ward Yards; he’d healed but not fully. It could have been worse of course; he knew that certainly men he had considered friends had died or been made invalids. He wondered how Stephenson, Honan, and the Dills brothers had faired in that mess that came afterward.

“Mick”, spoke a withered looking young man from the tarp covered door way, “laundry. Come on out and boil your stuff.”

O’Malley stared at Beyer, whom the boys once called “Rooster”, and nodded. He ambled out of the hovel with the other men and began to strip his clothes. Nearby a crooked looking soddy, a big pot was boiling and naked and near naked men tossed their clothes in. An Ohio man named Miller was stirring the lot with a ragged bit of lathe board, as steam arose from a tangled mess of clothes another man was fishing out of the pot.

“Glad its laundry,” said “Rooster” at O’Malley’s elbow, “grey-backs were getting pretty bad. I wouldn’t ever thought to get lice, but this whole adventure has proven apt to expose me to many firsts.” O’Malley smiled wanly, and chuckled.

“Sometimes I have no idea what you are on about ‘Rooster’, but as to lice--well, yes it’s more than time to boil them buggers.”  No matter how they tried to keep clean, when you crowded so many men together it was inevitable that the scourge of lice and other vermin would follow. O’Malley often pondered that such was the way of the habitation of men, more so since becoming a prisoner of course since he had time to give to such things. No matter how clean they started out, put a group of men together long enough and disease and vermin would result. It begged the question then; did this prove that men--by their nature--were corruption? Michael O’Malley laughed at the absurdity of his philosophical frame of mind, and started to strip his clothes for his turn at the boiling kettle. It was hard to allow oneself deep intellectual thought when you were waiting to be deloused.

Overhead the sky was a grayish blue, reminding one of polished steel. The mood was equally heavy today, and no doubt would worsen as the morning went on. It wasn’t surprising he supposed, they were in a prison camp after all, and the battle for morale was an all consuming process. Each group within the camp had done their best to encourage high spirits, often assigning the responsibility to whoever was brave or crazy enough to take it on their shoulders. The Ohio boys had a particularly energetic pair of fellows worried with morale who seemed to know their work very well; often mustering effort equal of Titans to produce rag-tag plays and minstrel shows which worked wonders on spirits. Beyond such things, it came down to the bolstering influence of pards upon one another; and sometimes the sheer blunt effort of that imaginary force which rank has in a volunteer army. A spring breeze came up, and O’Malley shivered a little as he stood near naked and plucked a louse from the back of ‘Rooster’ who stood next to him.

“Thanks.”, said ‘Rooster’ as he rubbed his hands together trying to stay warm.

“Cheers.”, responded O’Malley as he flexed--carefully--his still somewhat painful arm.

“So, I hear that the Ohio boys are working up another show.”

O’Malley nodded. “Good, I can’t wait to see what they do this time. That fella what dressed up as Mrs. Washington in that last one they put on--what was his name?”

“Peters I think.” laughed ‘Rooster’.

“Well, we could use another show. Spirits is low, and I can’t say I don’t understand why. Finding it hard to stay sunny and charmin’ me-self these days.”

‘Rooster’ laughed and turned his head slightly. “When were you ever charming?”

“I can be charmin’”, retorted O’Malley with a frown, “when needs as be the case.”

Clothes boiled, the better part of the afternoon was spent tending to their clothes at the drying lines. Some ingenious boys from an Indiana company had worked up a long set of pits in which they kept low fire and hot coals; these assisted in drying the garments that men hung from the lines strung up over the whole affair. The only trick was making sure ones garments didn’t slip into the coals and catch fire or scorch. O’Malley was always surprised that the guards had allowed the prisoners to have so much twine for the lines they used, since it seemed someone could think to use it to climb over the palisade. Apparently they weren’t concerned--or maybe had never considered the possibility since no squawk had been heard in the construction of the drying lines. Of course, that also could be due to the rumor that went about regarding the captain of that same Indiana company which had built the drying lines to begin with.

His name was Captain Davis Lea, and the story went that in exchange for selling out his fellow prisoners by informing on plans to at escape and mayhem, he got special privileges. The Indiana boys from his company did seem to luck out when it came to work details--they almost never were assigned to them--but they didn’t really prove anything. O’Malley knew a lot of the lads from Captain Lea’s company, and they seemed decent enough. It could be that the Captain himself was the only bad apple there, since deflecting work details from his men could only mean he didn’t desire to serve them himself--after all, men and officers alike served side by side here. Reaching out, O’Malley felt his blouse hem and finding it dry retrieved it from the line. He slipped back into his clothes, feeling warmer and pleased with the delicious sensation of clean clothes.

“When I get home, and out of this whole sick-brained affair,” pronounced ‘Rooster’ with a slight skip in his step, “I am going to bathe twice daily and never wear the same clothes.”

“Then ye best be rich,” responded O’Malley as he pulled his worn cap on his head, “or you’ll never carry it off.”

The sky had cleared overhead, and as the day wore on the soldiers busied themselves as they always did--work details, repairing their ram-shackle huts and tents, gambling, singing songs, and plotting a myriad of disobedient deeds and escapes. When they returned to their hut, having collected the ration for their group from a foul mouthed and even more foul tempered butternut clad sergeant, O’Malley deposited his load and stood stretching his sore arm when he noted someone waving at him. It was sergeant Peel, an Iowan, his pale blue eyes steely as he stood across the road from their hut waiting.

“Make sure you lot divide that out honestly, I’ll be back shortly”, said O’Malley as he left his hut-mates with the rations and made his way to meet with Peel across the street. The Iowan seemed in the mood for secrecy, as he stepped around the corner as soon as O’Malley reached him thus obliging the Irishman to follow.

“Alright now Peel, what’s with all the sneaking and skulking then?” asked O’Malley when he caught up.

The Iowans expression softened for a moment, but he clearly was here on business.

“Mike, the Steward has called a meeting. Seems our worries might have been confirmed.” said Peel, tight lipped. O’Malley felt a knot form in his gut, and responded flippantly--such was his nature when faced with trouble.

“Robinson. You can call him by name Peel, it aint no kind of code or nothing’”

“Hang it all, Robinson then,” responded Peel tersely, revealing how this news had unsettled him, “be at the hospital tonight at the usual time.”

Peel turned and was gone, leaving O’Malley scratching his scruffy chin in thought. He turned what this message likely meant over in his head a few times, the reality of it becoming ever more like a stone in the pit of his stomach. He turned his thoughts to dinner, and returned to his hut where his pards awaited. For now, he would act as though nothing were awry, beyond that they were interred in a prison camp--but that was nothing new. He would have to focus his energies on what awaited him later; sneaking half way across camp after curfew without being caught to partake in a highly prohibited gathering to discuss some very disturbing news.


*****

The sky was grey-white as the moon tried its best to shine through the cotton-like clouds which thankfully blanketed the sky tonight. It was best for what O’Malley was about--making it difficult for the sentries and guards in the towers to spy him as he crept across camp from the shadow of one hut to another. Of course, the other side of that coin was that he couldn’t see where he was going terribly well. But then, that was the benefit to wandering back and forth all day with nothing better to do in a camp like this--it tended to afford one a good mental map. He felt his heart in his throat only once, when he almost walked headlong into a sentry who crossed the road in front of him with a lantern in hand. Luckily for O’Malley, the guard had the lantern up at eye level in attempt to get a better look at something off in the opposite direction of where the Irishman was pressed up against the wall of a nearby hut. Thanking every saint he could remember the name of when the sentry wandered down the lane, O’Malley hurried along and arrived at last at what passed as the hospital at Camp Ford. He gave the short knock pattern of a pass code and the door opened to him, revealing nothing as the room within was bathed in darkness. He could hear several persons breathing within, and as the door was shut and latched again behind him, someone struck a Lucifer and gave light to a very sad stump of what once was a candle. Though the wick burned, it gave very little light, though this too served their purpose well. After all, this was not exactly a sanctioned gathering.

O’Malley looked about at the familiar faces, and nodded. T. J. Robinson, the hospital steward was here; pale eyed Peel; Fitzgerald, a red headed Irishman from the New Yorkers sat picking his teeth; Smythe, an Ohioan and next to him Felman from Illinois. These men, along with O’Malley, comprised the camps answer to captivity. This was the escape committee; and though they were not elected or even largely known to the men of the camp, they took their work very seriously. Robinson had started the committee some months before, when he had looked down at the ruined bodies of two 17 year old lads returned to the hospital for burial upon being caught attempting to escape. He had said more than once, that the sight of these two young men had snapped something inside him, and made him realize that someone had to organize resistance to their captivity. O’Malley always thought it a strange facet of a man who also openly admitted to having chosen the medical corps because he knew he could never willingly take the life of another human being. Robinson kept the rolls of those interred at Ford, as well as a detailed accounting of those that died here. Perhaps all those names had worked on his sensibilities a bit as well. For now though, O’Malley set aside his thoughts and listened intently as the meeting began. Robinson smiled thinly to them all and he spoke.

“Gentlemen, I’m afraid we have a problem. It is not something we were completely unaware of, simply lacking proof. While we still do not have definitive proof of who, we now know for absolute certain of the what. Someone is giving aid to the enemy in this camp, in the form of information.”

Robinson halted a moment to let that sink in before he spoke again. “You may recall that we let slip the rumor of an escape set for last night in camp, and though our boys talked it up amongst themselves as they often do, we made sure to give only the full details of the rumor to two persons in particular. These specific persons were discussed last time, being those that we had the most speculation about regarding their behavior and scuttle-butt from the men.”

Smythe nodded and hung his head. “Lieutenant Borland and Captain Lea.”

Robinson frowned. “Yes. We know by the action that the guards took tonight that it has to be one of the two of them, though I wish I could say otherwise.” For several moments the group was quiet, the only sound the wind blowing outside over the odd assortment of huts and tents in the camp.

“So,” spoke Fitzgerald, “what’s to be done about them then?” Everyone one looked from one to another.

“We have to be very careful here,” said Felman, “there are things to be considered.”

“We shut them up”, said Peel, a flash of cold in his steel eyes.

“But which one?” said O’Malley with a shrug, “It could be either of them, or one or both? Couldn’t it?”

“Can we take a chance?” responded Peel.

“I don’t know that I am comfortable with the idea of dealing with both--what if we got the wrong man?” said Felman nervously.

“What do we mean by ‘dealing with’ anyway? What are we talking about?” said Fitzgerald.

“I think that is clear enough Fitz,” responded Peel with a coldness which made O’Malley look at the man he thought he knew.

“Even so, lets not beat about the bush, lets be plain”, interjected Smythe.

“We must consider them the enemy”, said Robinson with a grim look on his face.

“We have to silence them.” interrupted Peel.

The group was quiet again, Robinson a look of consideration on his face as he stared at Peel who sat across from him, staring back. Smythe looked nervous, and stroked the short beard on his jaw. Fitzgerald stood up and paced, watched by Felman. O’Malley sat back on his stool, cradling his stiff arm with the other and considered what was being discussed; the killing of fellow soldiers. Not that any of them (with the exception of Robinson) hadn’t already added that particular sin to their souls--or at least tried to--in the time that they had served on the battlefield. But this would be different; this would be murder. O’Malley realized that if indeed one of these two officers had been passing information to the enemy, they were the enemy, and had the blood of several soldiers caught and killed in the process of attempting escape on their hands. Did that make this thought easier?

“You all know me,” Robinson said quietly, his face obscured in the pale light of the pathetic candles flame, “I am not a man of violence. I do not turn to such things easily or without great thought. But I think we must consider what is best to do here.”

Robinson’s words hung in the shadows. No, O’Malley realized. It didn’t make this any easier.

“On the one hand,” continued Robinson, “we may be wise to let them alone and feed them false information that assists in screening real escape attempts.”

“The risk being in the guards ignoring them when too many tips prove worthless, and cultivating some other informant”, added Smythe. O’Malley had heard that the man had been an attorney before the war. He could see it in the way his mind worked sometimes.

“Exactly. If we--”, Robinson paused ever so slightly, revealing his distaste for his own words, “decide to deal with the guilty, then we serve ourselves in removing the spy as well as sending a message to others that treating with the enemy is unhealthy.”

Fitzgerald smiled and shook his head. “That’s all fine and good, but ye know that means we’d have to do it. And which one does we aim for?”  This set off a short murmur of discussion, as the reality of what they were considering began to move into the more mundane logistics and issues of narrowing their target. O’Malley noted that Peel did not join in, but had taken a place against the wall and was standing watching them with his arms crossed. As Robinson called for quiet, Peel returned to his seat. He looked to O’Malley to be a man who had come to his own decision regarding the issue, and the Irishman began to wonder what storms were raging inside the quiet Iowans thoughts.
“We haven’t much longer to meet, and with things as they are I dare not drag this out longer than any necessary. I think that we have come to the realization that this must be done, but the issue at hand is insuring we have the right man before we act.” said Robinson in that self-assured tone of his which would have seemed cocky in any other person. In Robinson, it just seemed to fit, and even Peel seemed to relax a bit as he listened to their unofficial leader. There was general murmur of assent, and several nods.

“I think we ought to elect someone to investigate further, try to decide the truth of the matter.” added Smythe as he turned to O’Malley, “I would like to nominate O’Malley.”

One moment O’Malley had been intently listening, and the next several eyes had turned to take him in--now the center of that conversation. Fitzgerald was nodding, and Felman was agreeing with the selection.

“Now wait a moment then lads,” said O’Malley standing up, “why me?”

Smythe stood and patted the agitated Irishman on the shoulder. “It’s simple Mike; you’re well known and have friends in several camps. You aren’t known to be staunchly in any one camp politically, and you have the gift for explaining anything away.”

“He’s being polite,” said Felman, “he means you can lie better than any two men here.”

O’Malley opened his mouth to defend himself, but then realized the reasoning was sound. Peel wandered over, his pale blue eyes less steely than normal. “Don’t worry Mike, I’ll help however I can.”, he said with a smile.

The next few days were the same for everyone else, but for O’Malley the normal routine seemed to take on all new meaning, and obstacles. He had to devise reasonable motivations to be near each of his subjects of interest through out the day, which was proving impossible. Captain Lea wasn’t so far from where his daily routine took him, but Lieutenant Borland was situated about as far from where O’Malley was typically found as possible. It became clear that he would simply have to focus upon one man at a time, and hope that which ever he started with either proved the traitor right off or the opposite, and thus eliminated the need to investigate further at all. For the ease of location, this meant that he would focus first upon the often gossiped name of Captain Lea; and so on a relatively bright Sunday morning after a make-shift mass O’Malley began his work. He started trying to get better acquainted with the Indiana men from Lea’s company, and though it took time he eventually made hay. It turned out that two of the fellows--Franklin and Jameson--were avid but awful hands at cards. The opportunity arose one night when it became apparent that the two men were trying to help their situation by cheating, only to be caught doing so. As the group descended into chaos of the angry cheated and the fleeing cheaters, O’Malley served as the pair’s savior by rescuing them from a very unhappy mountain of humanity dressed in the faded blues of a Union sailor. As the prison guards arrived in groups at the sight of the brawl, O’Malley led the pair into his hut with a suggestion that they lay low for a little before starting back for their own quarters.
“Thanks pard,” said Jameson with a fast smile, “without you that sea beast would have made jelly of us!”

“No doubt,” said O’Malley with a chuckle, “and ye two best be wary for a bit lest ye runs into him again before he forgets yer faces.”

“Don’t know what they were getting’ so worked up over anyway!” said Franklin as he peeked out into the street beyond the huts doorway, “we are playing for buttons, aint like it was real coin!” O’Malley shrugged, but said nothing. He went and looked out into the lane, and then turned to his guests.

“Looks safe enough now boys, but if ye take me advice ye will avoid the pasteboards for a few days.” smiled O’Malley, ushering them towards the doorway.

“We wont forget this pard,” said Jameson with that smile of his, “you ever needs anything, you come see us!”

He would. He most certainly would.

*****

It was a month before O’Malley made any progress towards his goal, and the longer it went the more anxious the Committee became. It wasn’t just that they felt the traitor should be punished, but lives were on the line. Three New Yorkers ended up lucky to be alive when they attempted to outrun the pack of hounds that the guards employed to track escapees. As it was, one would lose his right arm, thanks to the mauling he had received before the dogs had been called off. No one dared warn men off of attempts at escape, less the traitor get wind of it and the situation get worse. But a month into the assignment, O’Malley finally met Captain Lea. He had been sitting with his pards Jameson and Franklin when in walked an older man with hard eyes and a drooping mustache. He had a limp which was noticeable, but carried himself like someone who was a hard case. His two friends stood up, saluting the Captain--something O’Malley rarely saw anymore. But, slowly he climbed to his feet and followed suit.

“Who is this man?” asked the Captain with a sharp huff.

“A friend of ours Captain,” responded Jameson smartly, “sergeant O’Malley, Sir.”

“A pleasure to meet you Captain.” said O’Malley with the nod.

“What regiment?”

“5th Minnesota, Company A, Sir.”

Captain Lea brushed his mustache and looked O’Malley up and down. “Well, a sergeant ought to know to come to attention when an officer appears. I trust you will remember that in the future?”

O’Malley suddenly thought that he hoped Lea was giving aid to the enemy, because he didn’t like his manner one bit. “Yes Sir, sorry Sir.”

Captain Lea nodded and continued on his way, and O’Malley turned to Jameson with a frown. “Is he always like that?

“The Captain is alright,” responded Jameson as he settled back in place, “a little stuffy but well worth getting on his good side!”

“Hush up!” said Franklin, looking past O’Malley to Jameson.

“Oh hush yourself! Mike is a good egg, why not tell him?”

O’Malley looked from one to the other and chuckled. “Tell me what? What the hell is the two of ye talkin’ about?” Franklin stared hard at Jameson, who in turn stared him back. It was obvious that Jameson won after a moment because Franklin sighed and threw his hands up.

“Alright fine, you’re right. Tell him”, said Franklin with a shake of his head. Jameson leapt from his stool and crowded in close to O’Malley, looking all the world like a child with a wicked secret to share.

“How long has it been since you had a fine boiled beef--not the dried and desecrated type, but real fresh beef? A drink of aged, fine whiskey?” asked Jameson smacking his lips with excitement. His manner gave O’Malley a start, and he had to force himself to resist the urge to shove the man away. The thought of fresh beef, or whiskey did make his soul yearn though, and it was this feeling he let override all others. He was getting somewhere.

“Faith, I wouldn’t even know how long it’s been--ages no doubt!” O’Malley said with a glance to Franklin.

Jameson looked about and started to speak when two butternut clad sentries abruptly stepped into the hut and the one, with a scruffy beard and saggy eyes, jerked his thumb out the doorway and shouted; “Out for roll call. Come-on you lazy bastards, git!”

The three piled out, followed shortly by Captain Lea marching stiffly with the pair of guards looking more like they were under his order than the other way around.

Roll call was normally done twice per day; once in the morning and once before retreat was sounded and everyone was supposed to go to sleep. Every so often however, the powers that be would call one of these surprise counts just to keep the prisoners on their toes--and of course to try to catch out anyone not where they should be. Sometimes it was done just as a good housekeeping measure, but other times because the commander of the prison had heard that someone was thinking of an escape. O’Malley wondered which it was this time. Waving farewell to Jameson and Franklin, O’Malley made his way over to join his section, and pushed his way into the rank next to ‘Rooster’. The parade ground was dry, and men scuffed their feet in boredom--some marking out games of tic-tac-toe. Shortly, the baritone voice of the First Sergeant began to call out names of a section down the way, as others did the same for theirs. O’Malley just rocked back and forth on his heels and watched the Colonel who had command of the camp pace on the tall platform erected before the parade ground. A tall, stately man with a pronounced limp to his gait; but for all that proud and not to be underestimated.

He looked bored to the Irishman’s eyes; a man imprisoned here by his duty every much as O’Malley and his side were by theirs. Looking down at his feet, he tried to banish such thoughts from his mind. What help was it to start recognizing the humanity of his captors? What would it provide but the dawning of understanding for them, and an erosion of his hate for them? The sky above the assembled men opened into sudden sunshine, and a collective gasp of surprise issued from many parts. O’Malley looked up into the first true blue sky they had seen in several weeks, feeling his spirit lighten whilst at the same time the increased awareness that he was imprisoned. Trapped.

“Have you gone deaf?” asked ‘Rooster’ from beside him.

O’Malley snapped back from his thoughts and looked at his companion. “I’m sorry lad, what was that?”

“I said bad luck for us. You know…having the wood detail today.”

“Oh, yes,” responded O’Malley still a little absently, “still, it means we get out of the stockade for the afternoon. And depending which guards they send, we might be able to barter for some eats from the locals.”

‘Rooster’ nodded and considered that. It was a funny fact of being in custody here at Camp Ford, that depending upon what guard one found oneself with when outside on a detail, various options might be available which when a long way to improving life. Ford was only a very short distance from a small town--Salis Springs--and the land where they went to harvest wood took them very nearby there. The people of this town seemed not to be aware that the prisoners were supposed to be their enemy, either that or they simply didn’t care, for they would treat with the men in trade. What, you may ask, would a soldier imprisoned even have to trade with the locals? Crafted goods. With so much down time between details and delousing, many of the Union prisoners spent their time fashioning all manner of wooden crafts from various scraps they could lay hands to. Some men made little boxes; others improvised musical instruments or carved figures. For whatever reason, these people of Salis Springs found these items desirable; and in return often offered food stuffs and other items which would go a fair way to making life more livable to the men interred at Camp Ford. Of course, this all depended upon the guards assigned to your detail. Many of then didn’t care what you did, so long as they returned with the same number of men they left with and the quota of wood required. Others simply took a cut of whatever you traded for, in exchange for looking the other way. Of all the guards one could end up with, the last you would want was Corporal Fry, and his little gang of cronies.

Corporal Fry, a thin faced man in middle age, seemed determined to fight the war anywhere he was assigned. It was said he had been at several hot fights before getting shot through the leg and being sent home as unfit for the long marches of infantry life. Fry must have loved being in the army, because he had since taken it upon himself to punish every Union solider he came in contact with for robbing him of his chance to fight for his country. He was malicious, sadistic, and the worst possible companion for work details. So naturally, O’Malley groaned inwardly and cursed his luck when he discovered that that was exactly whom their detail had been assigned to for the afternoon. ‘Rooster’ frowned and forgot all thoughts of trying to trade the little wooden toys he had fashioned over the previous weeks.

“You just keep your mouth shut good, and stay out of his way” said O’Malley wagging his finger at ‘Rooster’.

“You know me! When did I ever go out of my way to find trouble?”

O’Malley just shook his head, and when roll had finished they made their way towards the gate. There, an impatient scowl on his face, Corporal Fry stood waiting for the men of his detail to arrive. A bad feeling crept over O’Malley then, and he hesitated a moment.

“What is it?” asked ‘Rooster’.

“I’ve got a bad feeling.”

‘Rooster’ chuckled. “What else is new?”


…..To be continued in “In the Presence of Mine Enemies”

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Somebody's Darling


Smoke drifted overhead like phantoms through the blue sky. The acrid tang of powder was thick in the air and it could be tasted; smelled; even felt against the eyes as a burning annoyance. There was an explosion close by, and dirt and grit pelted him on one side. He could feel this, but yet couldn’t. Minneballs made a noise like angry hornets as they zipped overhead; one striking a ruined artillery caisson with a hard thud and the sound of splintering wood. Somewhere the bugle call to advance was sounded, and he felt the unconscious motivation to obey. He was beyond that now and he knew it. He felt no fear, which he thought was strange yet a wonderful surprise. Corporal George Barnes had long worried more about how he’d act if he’d ever been hit than the fact of becoming wounded itself. He felt numb and a bit cold, but no real pain. With a certainty he could not explain, he knew he was dying. He felt passing regret, a momentary sadness which pricked at his awareness. How could he have ended up this way? How had this happened? He remembered how the battle had raged around him and his friends. Sudden worry for them crowded out his thoughts for himself. How had they faired? He couldn’t move to look about him, so he wondered with dread if any of them might lie nearby. Did they, even now, endure this inner struggle he was going through? He felt, more than knew with the evidence available to him, that this was not so. He had been the one who had fallen from their line; he suddenly recalled with vivid awareness the memory of David Williams stopping and bending over him but being shoved back into the line by the file closer. Now he remembered everything, as though his memory had been corked into a green glass bottle but suddenly set free. Yes, yes the green bottle. Its cork eschew, and the precious contents pouring out onto the ground. He remembered--that bottle of wine which Murray had surprised them with this morning, only to be knocked over by the ever clumsy antics of young Olaf Carlsberg.

Private Collin Murray swore a blue streak, and grabbed up the bottle before most of the wine had spilled into the greedy dirt and grass below.

“What the hell are you doing Carlsberg!? God damn Jonah! Mind your stupid Norwegian feet!”

Carlsberg frowned. “I am a Dane, not Norwegian!”

Murray shook his head and sneered. “Well whatever, mind where you are walking!”

“How long have the two of you been married anyway?” asked Private David Williams with a smirk.

Murray just shot a dirty look at Williams, and handed what was left of the bottle to their friend Trestain, who along with Barnes smirked and shook their heads at the feuding pair.

“Thank you Murray and Olaf don’t worry. It was an accident!” said Private John Trestain soothingly. “This is supposed to be a happy occasion gentlemen! Besides, Corporal Barnes is here and you know what a hard case he is about fighting in the ranks!” Everyone laughed at that, and Murray and Carlsberg made peace.

Barnes watched them with the same strange wonder he had since their first days at Fort Snelling. Had he not known better, or had he happened upon them as a stranger, he never would have suspected the deep and abiding friendship which flourished between these men. They fought like cat and dogs, and indeed that was what had led to their friendship from the start. They had met in barracks, and in no time at all were trussed up and thrown into the stockade for fighting. They’d been bosom companions ever since, in truth like brothers in many respects. Funny how men related to one another sometimes, and how much like a family of a great many of brothers they tended to act when forced to abide one another in situations such as they were in. Now they had something truly grand to celebrate. John Trestain, who in many ways acted the older brother or even father of their group, had somehow met and fallen in love with a woman who lived nearby where they had spent their winter camp. Now, despite the war and everything else--they were to be married. Given that the season was upon them when the generals took their armies into the field, Trestain and his bride to be--Charlotte--decided they couldn’t afford to wait much longer. While they wouldn’t be able to throw a grand affair, they did at least have Henry Herrick, company A’s Chaplin to do the service and Charlotte’s parents small farm to host. This was the reason for the wine, or what was left of it, to be had in a pre-celebration toast for Trestain. They had to be careful, since alcohol in camp was forbidden. This of course meant that it was everywhere, but so long as you didn’t get drunk and do something stupid or flaunt your spirits for all to see, you were relatively safe. This was simply how life if the Army worked; everyday a contradiction in some way.

“Well, there’s still plenty for a good toast--cups boys!” said Trestain with his usual positive approach to all things, taking up the bottle and raising it up in salute. Murray tossed his cup in the air and caught it; Carlsberg went looking for his; Williams had his out and presented it for his share of the wine. Barnes smiled and rose up to go back to his tent for his cup.

“Be right back, have to fetch mine.” he said as he strode the short distance to his tent. Behind him, Trestain joked.

“Why even the mighty corporal Barnes is going to toast! The fates be praised!”

Barnes smiled and made a rude gesture back at his friend, who simply laughed. Trestain, Barnes thought once more of many times, should have been made a corporal over him. Trestain was a calm and reasoned man, and brave. Barnes always felt that he was playing his part more than being it. Not that being a corporal really made all the difference really in ranks; the amount of authority the two stripes on his coat amounted to only as much as privates were willing to give him. In essence he was little more than a marker in the line; a convenient reference point for the men to follow during maneuvers. He gave his thoughts over to happier subjects as he returned, and offered up his cup to be filled. When everyone had their share, Williams held his cup aloft and the others joined him.

“This toast to our companion, to our brother” said Williams, his eyes shiny with emotion, “the only man I know who could meet, court and win such a beauty in the midst of a battlefield!” They all chuckled as Williams went on. “Brother, we wish you and she happiness and health; but most of all we wish for this war to end--and soon--that you two may be together always.” Everyone cheered that, clanked their battered tin cups together and threw back their wine with gusto. This was followed closely by coughing and sputtering from everyone but Murray, as the not so pleasant wine burned and fought its way down their throats.

“What in God’s name was that?!” shouted Williams. Murray looked into his cup and frowned.

“Wine. What? You didn’t like it? It was a bit strong I’ll admit, but I thought it was quite good!”

They had celebrated together that whole afternoon, until evening roll and chow was called. Standing in roll call, Trestain had plucked at his sleeve. Barnes looked over.

“What?”

“Barnes, after roll and everyone settles to start their mess; I’ll need to wander to the farm for dinner. Will you cover for me?”

Barnes nodded and smiled at his friend. “You know I will. Ready for tomorrow?”

A warm smile came over Trestain’s face. “I know I am lucky fellow--and not just for Charlotte, I have good friends too.” He lightly cuffed Barnes in the shoulder and nodded. When the rations had been apportioned by the first and second sergeants to the company, Barnes and his mess wandered to their cook fire. Trestain followed them along shortly, but vanished through the tents shortly and was away. He would enjoy a good dinner with his very soon to be in-laws and bride, and no one could deny him that pleasure. Indeed if anything, they all lived vicariously through Trestain; each man recalling his own family, wife and children. Of course officially there was and would be little tolerance for Trestain being out of camp as he was, but this was the risk soldiers took and lived with. Besides, Williams was on picket duty, so their friend had a safe route through their line. So long as he was back before roll in the morning, no one would be the wiser.

More smoke drifted over him, the smell of wood burning brought back focus briefly. The sounds of musket fire had moved from where he thought he had remembered them. He found it was increasingly difficult to place himself in the tumult of this battle. A horse went skittering off somewhere nearby, without a rider the animal darted in a circle for a moment before vanishing over the hill. Barnes thought the color of the horse very lovely. He felt sad for the animal which was clearly wounded, and wished someone would put it out of its misery.

Miss Charlotte Ward--now Mrs. Charlotte Trestain--stood beaming at her new husband. She wore a simple but very nice dress, hoop and all. Barnes knew very little about women’s fashion, but he rather thought this pert beauty was well--beautiful. Her hair was braided in a way that made him wonder after the natural engineering skill she must have possessed, but the color was what struck him most. A lustrous brown, deep and faceted in tone. Her eyes matched, and looked now at her older but still comely mother; he could see that the apple had not fallen far from the tree. Herrick slapped Barnes on the back and smiled in that wide grin of his.

“They make a grand couple, eh Barnes?” he said enthusiastically.

“They do, they do indeed Chaplin.”

“In the midst of all this, it’s nice to have helped give life to something wonderful--something that will build and with Gods blessings--and grow.”

Barnes stropped watching his newly married friend and bride accept the well wishes of those few of the company in attendance and looked at the Chaplin. Nodding, be put his hand on Herrick’s shoulder.

“I can imagine so. Ever do a wedding before?”

The Chaplin shook his head. “No, though I have heard a great many deathbed confessions.” He grew quiet for a moment, his face serious. Suddenly he smiled and laughed. “I thought I was going to faint doing the service, I was so nervous!” Barnes laughed.

They left Trestain with his new wife that evening at his in-laws farm, the Chaplin having worked some deal with the Captain, and returned to camp. When roll was done that evening and Trestain’s name was called, someone had answered--’engaged in matrimonial maneuvers!’--which got a very good laugh.  Even the Captain smirked and nodded from his place overlooking their ranks. The fireside conversation that evening proved sedate and introspective which was not at all surprising to Barnes, though the civility between Murray and Carlsberg was remarked upon.

“I’m not in the mood for antics tonight” Murray had explained “I’m too occupied thinking of my dear wife.”

“As am I.” remarked Williams with a rue smile. “She’s not exactly a beauty mind you--not like that moonbeam Trestain got for himself! But, I love her.” Everyone nodded.

“You have what--three children?” asked Carlsberg.

“Yes--Bartholomew, Theodore, and little Henrietta. I miss their antics, though with you lot around I have a close reminder!”

Barnes sat and listened to their reminiscing of home and felt as he often did as an outsider. He was not married, nor did he have anyone waiting for him at home. He had grown up an orphan, adopted late in childhood by a family in Ohio and put to work on their farm. He had left that all behind as soon as he could, and moved West in hopes of making his own life at last. For him, these men where his family.

Someone bent over him, a face he did not know. He knew the man was speaking to him, but he couldn’t quite seem to understand. It was a Negro, and he smelled of dried beef and wood shavings. Suddenly he was lifted up, and the world around him shifted and blurred. He wondered briefly if he was being buried, or taken to a field hospital. The terror of being buried alive shook him, and he tried his best to let it be known he was not dead. He willed himself to thrash about, but didn’t notice that anything happened. Perhaps, he thought with a start, I AM dead. But then he saw the edge of an ambulance and he realized he was alive. He wanted to thank this Negro for carrying him to safety, but he had no words. Instead, he felt the wagon sway and lurch as it started off, and then all was darkness.


*****

Charlotte Trestain was a strong woman, but the horrors she had seen that day made her question a great many things. She lifted the hem of her work dress and made her way around to the soldier who lay moaning in the open bay of her fathers threshing barn. She took to heart that each one was somebody’s darling, and if she could bring comfort she would. She didn’t care what color the boy’s uniform was, just that he was suffering and that it was her duty as a Christian woman to tend to him. She knelt down and whispered into his ear, as she lifted his head for a drink of water.

“When can I go home?” the mud spattered boy asked her. His eyes grey and pleading with inner pain searched hers.

“Soon, don’t you worry.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t clean out them stalls like you asked Mother.” Charlotte gasped quietly, her eyes filling with tears. She shook her head, caressing the soldiers face in her hands. He simply stared at the roof above them. She stood up and wiping her eyes with her apron started slightly when someone called her name. She came up towards the log house where still more wounded lay in the grass and was ambushed in the embrace of her husband.

“Oh John! I have worried so for you!” she cried as her drew her tight into his arms, kissing her forehead and lips.

“Are you alright Charlotte? Where are your Mother and Father?”

“They are helping with the wounded--oh John! So many!”

Trestain smiled grimly and nodded. “I’m sorry they took your farm for this.” She shook her head.

“No John, Father offered. We wanted to help anyway we could. I’m just so glad you’re alright!” she said hugging him tightly again. They heard someone call out his name, and turned together. The dirt and powder residue of his face smudged neatly across her forehead and cheek. Williams, Murray and Carlsberg came trotting up from the road. Each man was disheveled and filthy, muskets slung over their shoulders.

“Trestain! Did you hear, they brought Barnes in here!” shouted Murray. Carlsberg tapped his friend on the shoulder and put a finger to his mouth. Murray frowned and turned back to Trestain, looking sheepish.

“Sorry! A shell went off overhead and all I can hear is ringing, so I can’t tell how loud I am!” he spoke loudly.

Trestain nodded and the group went in search of their friend. They found him a little ways back behind the granary, under the shade of a large spreading oak. When they saw him there, Carlsberg gasped quietly, for their friend was very pale. They gathered close around him, as Barnes opened his eyes.

He thought he might be dreaming again, but seeing the concern in the eyes of those gathered over him convinced Barnes he was quite awake. “Well, I imagine you’re all wondering why I asked you here” he joked before her coughed and asked for a drink of water. Charlotte knelt down, taking her husbands canteen in hand and giving him a cool sip of water. She was beautiful, Barnes thought. If he had had a sister, he would have wanted someone with the depth of caring this woman showed.

“How are you corporal?” asked Williams with worry in his face. “I wanted to stop for you, but they made me go on forward.”

Barnes smiled quietly. “It’s alright, I saw you. You did your duty, as I have done mine. Did we win?”

Murray looked close to tears. “Yeah, we whipped them good. Sent them scattered and scared.” Carlsberg nodded but said nothing. Barnes realized how bad he must look, but he had found he felt nothing but calm. He thought that must mean he didn’t have terribly long. That didn’t matter anymore though, he was among his friends--his family.

“We should get back” said Trestain hesitantly, looking first at him and then to his new wife “can you stay with him until we can come back to visit him?”

Charlotte Trestain smiled warmly at her husband, and nodded. “Of course I will. Go on, I’ll watch over the corporal.” She stood, and hugged each of them, kissing her husband who stayed back a little with a sad smile on his face. When they had gone, she sat down beside Barnes again and cocked her head to one side.

“You’ve been a good friend to John, corporal, thank you.”

“Just George” he said quietly, “you’re family now.”

“Alright then--George. John talks about you all the time, I feel I already know you.”

“Well, he loves you more than life.”

She smiled and laid a hand on his, a momentary look of surprise betraying what he could not feel--but suspected long since.

“Sorry I’m so cold, but I haven’t long.”

“Don’t talk that way! Shall I fetch you a blanket?” she made to rise but he shook his head slightly.

“No, please just stay with me. I was born an orphan, and I’d rather not go alone.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and she sat back down. She leaned closer, taking his hand in hers. He could feel her warmth, the softness of her fingers. He felt such a welling up of affection for her, for her kindness that a tear trickled down his face.

“Are you afraid?” she asked, her voice breaking a little.

“No.” he said quietly with a thin smile “But I will be sorry not to see what is to come from this war. Things will be so different when it is finally over; I wonder if any of us will even be remembered for what we did here?”

Her lip trembled ever so slightly, but then she smiled warmly. He could feel her strength then, and he smiled too.

“They’ll remember--John won’t let them forget!”

“He was like the brother I never had, you know. Funny how as terrible a thing as war is, it gave me a family and brought you and he together.”

Barnes nodded, coughing again. She gave him another drink from Trestain’s canteen, before replacing the cork.

“I wonder where I shall be buried?” asked Barnes looking about. She patted his hand.

“Right here, under this oak. That way, I can come and visit you. Then someday, John and I can come together with the children. Introduce them to brave Uncle George, tell them all about their Father’s friend from the War.”

She sat awaiting his response, but there was none.

Years later, John and Charlotte Trestain watched their children place flowers upon the grave of a fallen friend for Decoration Day.

“It seems so long ago.” She said looking up at her husband and embracing him. He kissed the top of her head gently, and squeezed her back.

“Another life, when you’re young.” Came his quiet response. She watched her children play around the tree’s massive trunk, skipping and singing with glee. Barnes had been right; so much had changed in the years since those days of fire and turmoil--some for the better, some not.

“Mother! Can we have something to eat!?” said her youngest, tugging at her apron. She laughed at her husband’s exasperated sigh, and took him into her arms.

“Of course, but not too much or it will spoil your supper!” she said with delight, shooing the other two on to return to the house. John Trestain waited back briefly, laying his hand on the simple stone which marked the grave of his friend. He spoke very quietly to himself, a deeply personal message which he always felt sure his old friend could hear.

The great oak spread it’s leaves as white puffy clouds drifted overhead like phantoms through the blue sky. The sweet aroma of a magnolia tree was thick in the air, and wafted with a serenity which spoke of a land at peace. Overhead honeybees zipped in zigzag patterns, intent upon their work.

At last John Trestain turned from his memories, and returned to the warmth of his home.