Of Pork Barrels and Smoked Yanks

February, 1864
If being in winter camp could be dull, monotonous and uncomfortable, then being in the stockade while in winter camp was a sight worse. How had he ended here, pacing the straw covered floor of the log frame building in which he was to spend the next week? Oh, Private Henry Bollum knew alright -- and all in all it had been worth it. He was not the type usually to fall under the eye of the provost, as he was not normally given to actions which would result in corrective action of any kind. But, he had gone all in this time -- charged with insubordination and reckless mischief. What choice had he really had?  He sat down again and leaned his head back against the wall with a sigh. In the end this would be worth it, he knew, and smiled to himself as he thought back to the Monday last when this had all began.

*****

To say that the discovery of the ingredient required to create a bit of heaven in the doldrums of winter camp was a miracle wasn’t quite accurate. After all, there had been a lot of trial and error over the last few days. Yet all the same, Bollum had it. His patience alone had guided him simply by the law of averages to discover what he now called ‘the secret’ -- but he preferred to think of it as Divine Intervention. Falling to his knees, he clasped his hands together and said a prayer of thanks.

“What you doing? Lost your wits at last?” said Private Noah Cartwright, slipping into the small earth, log, and canvas hut and out of the cold of the day. Bollum jumped, and shook his fist at his friend. Cartwright was from the 50th US colored regiment down the hill, and the only Negro that Bollum had ever known personally.

“I’m praying, ’aint you never seen a man pray before?”

Cartwright smiled and laughed as he took a seat and warmed his hands near the fire.

“Why you got to go and sneak up on a fellow like that anyway?” Bollum laughed and smiled. “Near scared me half to death!”

“What you got to pray for today Henry; it’s cold out there an’ the land is froze!? Say, how’s that barrel I fetched you?” asked Cartwright, stepping over and examining the makeshift flue of the chimney.  Bollum resumed stirring the simmering pot that was situated over the coals.

“Good, no sign of it catching a-light at all. But that’s not what I was praying over -- Noah, can you keep a secret? I don’t mean no simple secret neither, I mean a real darling.”

Cartwright smiled, and chuckled. “What are you on about, Henry? You agitated fierce today!”

“No, you damn fool, listen! You see this?” Bollum tenderly stirred the simmering pot, the steam rising from it beginning to give off a scrumptious aroma. Cartwright breathed in heavily, leaning over for a better look.

“What you made there? I didn’t notice much of the smell before now, but it’s making my bread basket turn somersaults with craving. What is that, Henry?”

Bollum beamed with pride, he gestured to the simmering mixture as he might if he were introducing his firstborn son. The brownish liquid began to take on a golden color and a mouth watering aroma began to fill the hut.

“This, my dear friend, is ‘Bollum’s Heaven in a Pot.’ ”

Cartwright sniffed deeply and smiled.

“It looks like slum -- but it don’t smell like no slum I ever had!”

“Slum? This aint no slum! THIS,” Bollum gestured to the gently boiling mixture, “is ‘Heaven in a Pot!’ Anyone can make slum my friend, I mean what is slum?”

“Anything you got to boil in the pot with salt horse”

“Exactly! This, though, is not just anything in the pot, no sir! It has a secret ingredient which brings out the flavor and sticks to the ribs!” responded Bollum, looking very pleased with himself. Cartwright nodded.

“All right then -- can I have a taste?”

Bollum looked at his friend, hands upon his hips for a moment. At last he nodded, took up a small tin cup from a peg near the hearth and served up a small portion. He wiped the sides of the cup with the hem of his blue coat, and handed it over to the expectant Cartwright. Bollum stood watching his friend, who blew on the contents of the cup before raising it to his lips and gingerly sipping. By this point, Bollum was nearly jumping about in place in anticipation of his friend’s response.

“Well?! How is it?”

Cartwright lowered the cup, his face glowing with pleasure. “Henry, I don’t know what to say! This is the best -- well you’re right it aint no slum -- well it’s fine! Very fine indeed!”

“It is, isn’t it? I was just throwing things together for a slum and, well without giving anything away, I was short on something for flavor and that’s when I found the secret ingredient! It was an accident really, that’s what makes this so fine, like an act of the Almighty or something!”

Cartwright chuckled at the excitement of his friend, and finished the cup with a wet slurp. He sighed loudly and passed the cup back to Bollum. “Secret? What you got in there that makes that taste so fine then, huh? Don’t hold out on old Cartwright now!”

Bollum cocked an eyebrow, and frowned. “You are the same age as I am Cartwright, you ’aint old!”

“Well, for friendship sake then! What is it in this here ‘Heaven’?”

Bollum crossed his arms and smiled.

“Aint gonna tell me, huh?”

“No chance brother, I’m holding this closer than the Almighty. This little wonder is gonna make me a success after this war is over.”

Cartwright nodded; he had heard Bollum’s great dream many times before. “After the war,” Bollum would always say “I am gonna open myself an eating house  -- not some two bit shanty either! -- a fine establishment for regular hard working folk. I’ll open up down in St. Paul along the river, what with all that steamboat crew and train workers needing good food between runs I ought to clear a good living!”

Cartwright always felt a pang of envy when his friend would dream this way, feeling the great gulf between the two of them open up for what might lie in store for them, when and if this war ever really came to an end. Bollum could dream easily; for him the future was not such a new prospect. For Cartwright -- a slave until the Federals had occupied the land around Vicksburg and given him the chance to fight for his own and his peoples freedom -- the ‘future’ was a strange and uncertain concept. So, for that matter, was a word which so many bandied about without a second thought: freedom. What would they really have when this war ended? Some believed it would mean equality for the Negro people; Cartwright felt that was less likely than a state generally better than slavery. One had only to see the attitudes of some of the very men in this army which had given him his freedom from slavery. Not that he held any less admiration for the entity that had freed him from the work he had done for the Chase family; Cartwright loved the army. He loved being a soldier, and wearing the blue suit of the Union. But he had always been a realist, and tried to see things for what they truly were. People were to be taken one at a time, which was how he always hoped others would consider him. His friend Bollum had started thinking aloud about what his place would be like when he had it, when suddenly Cartwright got a flash of genius.

“What if I bought in to this place you want to set up?” he said, interrupting Bollum mid-sentence and leaving his friend with a confused look on his face.

“What?” asked Bollum as he stirred the ‘Heaven’.

“I got $10 saved, some in gold, the rest in Greenbacks. If I threw my stake in with you after this whole thing be over -- we’d be well on our way!”
A funny look crossed Bollum’s face, but then he smiled. “That might work. We’d be partners then, work it together, eh?”

Cartwright smiled and put out his hand, which Bollum took and shook enthusiastically. “I aint no hand for cooking, but I can do figures. I was Mr. Chase’s clerk for six years, so I know something or two about keeping books.”

His friend smiled broadly and nodded. “Good, cause I aint got no talent for the business parts! I can cook though, thanks to being the oldest boy of a squabble of children and Mother dead.”

“Didn’t you have no sisters?”

“Not a one! Eight boys, me on down to the baby what lived when my mother died birthing him. Father was sad to see me grown and on my own; not for my absence but for the loss of my dumplings! Still, he married again. I imagine she filled in nice.”

There was a sound and the door opened, ushering in Private Cooper, one of Bollum’s fellow hut mates. He stopped in the draft of the open door and scowled at Cartwright. “I thought I smelled something off. I figured it was Bollum boiling laundry and calling it chow; but now I see it was one of you people.”

“Shut your mouth, Cooper, this man is a friend of mine!” said Bollum quickly, stepping forward with balled fists. Cooper put up his hands, and backed up.

“No need for getting like that! I’ll leave and let you two finish holding hands.  When that one is gone I’ll come back.”  He left the door slightly ajar, and Bollum went over and kicked it shut.

“I cannot abide that man!” he growled.

“Aint his fault he hasn’t manners or sense -- growing up in the pig slop with the other animals will do that. Beside, I’ve heard worse,” calmed Cartwright, as he left and smiled to his friend. Bollum turned back to his bubbling pot and set a lid down over the mixture as Cooper wandered back in.

“Rotten taste in friends -- but for a change whatever you is boiling there is pleasant; I guessing that ’aint no laundry then?”

Cooper made to lift the lid to investigate what was cooking, but Bollum shouldered him aside and carried the pot out the door. “HA! You are more likely to catch a weasel asleep! You ’aint never getting none of this!” he shouted as he hurried into the cool day and along the company street towards someone he could trust -- the Chaplin. As he made has way along ‘Saint Anthony Avenue’ -- as this street had been christened -- he realized the risk he was taking. Even with the lid in place the aroma of the ‘Heaven’ was seeping out, and he was surrounded by men whom had been thoroughly transformed into ravenous beasts by the rigors of Army life. Surely, the Federals ate so much better than the Rebels did, that much was an established fact. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean that WHAT the Federals ate was always quite so appetizing. Nothing could rouse men from slumber, vice, or duty faster than the awareness of something not only different to eat -- but actually enjoyable to consume. Bollum had seen it before, in an incident still reminisced about on occasion around the fire at night -- the “Lemon Macaroon Affair”.

It had all started innocently enough one cold autumn afternoon the year before, when Private Henry Dahlgren had received in the post a large package. By chance, the post had run faster than normal and the contents -- two dozen lemon macaroon cookies baked lovingly somewhere by feminine hands -- were not yet hard as stone. Worst of all they had retained the faintest sent of their former freshly baked goodness (there was a great deal of debate about this being completely true, but that hardly mattered in regards to the outcome) which drew a crowd in no time. Poor Dahlgren learned a horrible fact of life in an Army camp: there are no secrets -- but especially when you receive a package containing anything remotely edible. At first, Dahlgren shared openly with his pards. He made a wise career choice in using two of the baked gems to smooth his relations with a third sergeant, which everyone agreed made sense. Of course by this point the wolves had begun to gather around poor Dahlgren, who like the lone shepherd never really had a chance. A mob descended, everyone wanting just a taste. Dahlgren, stalwart and brave, drove them off. That night, someone stole his package and by the next morning word in camp was that Private Dahlgren’s lemon macaroons had been delicious for having been packed up in a box for so many weeks.

Heads were turning already as Bollum went, trying not to rush and knock the lid ajar. Spill even a drop of ‘Heaven’ and they would catch the full aroma of this masterpiece -- and where would he be then?

“Whatcha got there?” asked a lanky looking solider who had stopped repair on the side of his hut as Bollum went by.

“Laundry -- boiled my socks is all.” Bollum didn’t slow to converse. He was almost there, just across the cross street at ‘Ramsey Avenue’ and up towards the officers quarters and he was home free. The Chaplin was not only a good man and a friend, but an illness as a child had nearly left him without the sense of smell -- what better place to hide his creation until he was sure it was complete? He was so close to something he felt would make his name in eating houses, a dish travelers would seek out and his place would get famous for. He realized suddenly how absurd the whole thing seemed: hiding a pot of boiled soup in an Army camp in the midst of a terrible civil conflict -- but then absurdity was commonplace in war, so maybe it actually made sense after-all. That was when he realized someone had called his name; or rather someone had called for ‘Private Bollum’, meaning it was likely official -- a non-com or a full blown officer. It proved to be the latter, much to his dismay. Bollum halted, and stood at attention with his pot in hand.

“Yes Sir?”

The officer was a lieutenant he didn’t know very well, but was from one of the other regiments within the 5th Minnesota because he bore an embroidered number 5 on his cap and he had seem him in battalion drill. His heavy mustache twitched as he approached, gloved hands clasped behind his back in appraisal.

“What do you have there, Private?” asked the officer, his brushy brown eyebrows cocked in a look of feigned ignorance.

“Some slum, Sir.”

“Slum?” the eyes brows knitted together.

“Yes Sir, you know -- a little bit of everything boiled to death in water. Soldiers stew.”

“Ah. Where are you taking a pot of slum then?” Bollum noticed the lieutenant seemed to say slum just as another man might say “garbage”.

“To the Chaplin, Sir.”

The lieutenant smirked, and nodded “The Chaplin is an officer, and dines with the Officers mess, private. Why would you bring him a pot of simple slop--”

“Slum, Sir.”

“--Slum for his dinner when I know for a fact, he eats with the Officers Mess? Private, I think you have liquor in that pot.” With this, the lieutenant took a stop closer and poked a bony finger into Bollum’s shoulder with a scowl of disapproval upon his face. Bollum couldn’t believe this man, and had to stifle a smirk.

“It’s not liquor, Sir, honestly. I was simply going to see the Chaplin to have him taste it for me.” As he said it, Bollum knew he was only digging himself deeper with the officer. Worst yet, he was starting to draw an audience. It could be the “Lemon Macaroon affair” all over again, but perhaps much worse.

“The Chaplin isn’t yours to monopolize like that, private! Besides, I don’t believe a word of what you are saying! You’re a liar, and I shall have you out!” The lieutenant reached forward suddenly and drew the lid from the pot, the look of certain victory rapidly melting from his face as the dishwater colored liquid within sloshed back and forth. Bollum gritted his teeth, trying not to spill the precious slum as the lieutenant replaced the lid with a frown. “What is that?”

“Slum, Sir, just as I told you.”

“Don’t take that insolent tone with me, private! It looks awful, but if it is to the Chaplin you go I shall accompany you.” The lieutenant gestured onward, and though it meant he was moving again he also had company. Bollum didn’t so much worry that the lieutenant would want to keep the slum for himself, as that he would end up ordering it dumped out. It was the kind of thing that self important bad egg big bugs tended to do when they couldn’t find any other way to make your day miserable. The lieutenant knocked on the door of the modest hut that served the Chaplin for quarters and waited. Suddenly, the thought that no one might be home hit Bollum and fear rose up in him. Why had he not simply stayed put? Why had he let Cooper rile him up so?  The lieutenant seized upon the pause, and started to reach out to take Bollum by the shoulder when the door opened and the Chaplin stood before them.

“Oh, hello there, Private -- Lieutenant -- I must say I am surprised to see you. What can I do for you two?”

Bollum smiled, knowing he was hopefully soon to be free. But as he was about to launch into the same explanation he had given to the lieutenant, the officer piped up behind him.

“Good morning Chaplin. This private here has cooked up something for you, some kind of soldiers stew, he says.” The Chaplin looked confused, and looked at Bollum who gave him a pleading glance.

“Oh, how kind and Christian of him. I shall take it then -- thank you, Bollum.” The Chaplin reached out and took the pot from him, private Bollum smiling quietly that things seemed to be going well enough. Of course in life, that is usually when most to be on guard and this moment was no different.

“Well, Chaplin, if you are for trying it, I wonder if you would mind I did as well,” said the lieutenant suddenly stepping forward and smiling at Bollum.  “It’s so different from anything I have ever tried, and I suppose it is good for an officer to try new things -- even get to know his men through experiencing their lot -- or in this case, food.”

Bollum frowned, and the Chaplin stammered. He looked at Bollum, truly uncertain what was going on and why this had been brought to him beyond the fact that the private was his friend, and this lieutenant was clearly goading the situation along. It seemed there was no way but to see it through, and try his best to serve the interests of friendship. The Chaplin gestured in through the door into his hut, simple but which suited his needs well enough. Here he would do his best to meet the needs of the army, and the men that made it. He placed the pot upon a wobbly camp table, and stepped back as the other two men stood expectantly. “Well, I suppose I ought to give this kind offering a try!” he said as he reached down to take a hold of the lids handle. The moment of truth arrived, and as the lid came away from the pot, the aroma of the contents began to immediately fill the space. As expected, the Chaplin was immune. He stood studying the golden hue of the broth within, and stirred it once and then twice with a large spoon he produced from a makeshift shelf. He dipped into the slum, filled his spoon and quietly brought the sample to his mouth. The Chaplin’s watery blue eyes turned this way and that, before he smacked his lips and smiled.

“Very nice Henry, it warms the body well. I think you have something good there.” Bollum knew that the Chaplin was lying, since he had previously admitted that with the loss of his sense of smell, most food carried very little taste for him. He used a great deal of pepper when he could get it as a result, simply so as to taste something of what he ate. Bollum sincerely hoped that the lieutenant didn’t know any of that, and that he hadn’t truly meant to try the Heaven in a Pot. What if he liked it? What if he wanted the receipt? He would have to lie, lest he gave away the secret of what he hoped might someday prove his fortune when he got back home. On the other hand, maybe he wouldn’t like it. No, how could he not? Suddenly Bollum realized the lieutenant was raising a spoonful of his own towards his mouth, and stood frozen between finding someway to keep this man from tasting his creation and simply giving himself over to the most fervent prayer for delivery he had given since last seeing action. In the end, the prayer won out -- but it was not Henry Bollum’s day for miracles.

“I don’t know why you would call something that is so surprisingly flavorful by such a base sounding name!” said the lieutenant with a genuine grin of surprise as he returned for a second helping, “why, Private, I must admit that I was gravely mistaken! This is quite good!”

Bollum gave a feeble grin and shrugged. “Thank you sir, that’s most kind.”

“It’s quite like nothing I have ever had!” added the lieutenant, relishing his second spoonful. The Chaplin looked at a loss for what to do, and stood nervously rearranging buttons.

“Simple soldier stew, really nothing special about it at all --”

“Nonsense! Why this is just the thing to set spirits to rights in this cold and wet season!”

“Oh, Lieutenant, Sir -- I’m sure it is nothing compared to what--”

The suddenly jovial officer clapped a hand upon Bollum’s shoulder with a friendly familiarity and shook his head. “Private, this is perfect! To be honest, even those of us in command find winter quarters dull and a drain upon our good cheer -- but thanks to your slur--”

“Slum, Sir.”

“--oh, yes -- horrible name -- you might well find yourself the object of a great many cheers from your officers! I will see to it that you are granted ease this evening after mess, so you may come around and give the receipt to the cooks.”

And there it was, appearing upon the horizon with terrifying reality -- the ruin of his hopes of a signature dish and fortune to boot. There had to be a way around this, some way to dodge it yet. He would find a way, there was no other option. He thanked the lieutenant, who cheered his concoction once more and reminded him to report to the cooks as soon as mess was through. When he was gone, the Chaplin patted Bollum on the shoulder and ushered him out of his hut. Stopping him just outside, the Chaplin apologized if he had not been of assistance, and suggested that he might add pepper to the slum to give it a bit more taste.

On his way back to his hut, Bollum stopped briefly to watch the efforts of a crowd to extinguish a chimney fire. Using a pole, the men had knocked the blackened ruins of the barrel which had served as the chimney to the ground, sending sparks floating haphazardly through the crisp winter air. While prized, these cast off barrels within which the Quarter-Master shipped salt pork, sometimes proved dangerous due to their saturation by inflammable grease. A lucky ember could set the pork grease alight, leading to serious trouble for the occupants of the unfortunate dwelling. The excitement was abating, so Bollum wandered on with his thoughts returning to his own predicament. He didn’t want to just give over the receipt of his own “Heaven in a Pot”, but if he didn’t he would face certain trouble. He could give the cooks a list of the ingredients without revealing that which had proved to make it so delicious -- but then it would just be slum. That lieutenant would be made to look a fool, and he would in turn make the cooks suffer. They would of course plead innocence, citing that they had only followed the receipt given to them. As such, in the typical ‘manure rolls down hill’ fashion of life in the Army, trouble would find him in the end. Bollum looked down at the pot which held his joy, and unceremoniously tipped the contents into a clump of weeds. For a moment the spot steamed a heavenly aroma slightly tinged with an earthy scent, as the ground greedily soaked up the golden broth. He would simply have to take his chances and give over the receipt. As he entered the hut though, the thought of loosing his secret suddenly lost its importance as a hand closed on his throat and another shoved him hard into the wall. A small candle stick clanged loudly as it toppled from its make-shift perch to the floor, as Cooper’s hard face came into focus with an unpleasant smile.

“Well now, I hear you came up with something that got you notice of the officers, eh? You’re playing for some stripes -- right?”  For a moment Bollum didn’t quite understand what Cooper was on about, but then it all began to make sense. He thought he had purposefully introduced the lieutenant to his pride and joy! Rather than answer, Bollum tried to kick his assailant, but missed and got bounced against the wall for his trouble. Cooper sniggered.

“So it’s true! Well, chum, you know I been working for that spot, and I ’aint about to have you go and steal it out from under me!” Bollum shook his head and managed to squeak, “Cooper, it’s not like that”  -- before the other man cut him off.

“You and that darkie conspiring to take what you know ought to be mine, rightful! That’s right; you think I forgot he was in here with that stew of yours, eh? Well, here’s what we are going to do: you are going to go and give that receipt just like that lieutenant wanted, and then be sure I get the credit! Oh, and don’t be thinking you can cross me, cause I’ll be going along with you!”

Now you might be thinking that by this point, Bollum surely must have been out of his mind with grief -- and yet you would be wrong. At first he had been, until the tiny ember of an idea began to kindle a plan to escape the snare he found himself in and perhaps even pay Cooper in proper kind for his rough treatment. He nodded in confirmation of his understanding and acceptance, and Cooper let him go but remained a menacing shadow before him.

“Now, you understand how this is going to be?” asked Cooper with growl. Bollum nodded, trying not to smile or give away just how lucky this turn of events had truly been.

“All right, all right -- the lieutenant wants me to bring the receipt to the cooks after mess, so I suppose I ought to be off to chow --” said Bollum as he started to make his way towards the door and past Cooper’s bulk. A sudden hand laid upon his shoulder in an aggressive sort of friendly gesture stopped him, and Cooper chuckled and began to guide Bollum along out the door.

“Oh now, I wouldn’t want my good friend to get lost on his way to the mess line and miss out on the best bits! Come along now friend, and we’ll enjoy some good food and then wander along over to the cooks to be sure that they receive my gift to the officers!” Bollum swallowed hard and nodded, pushed along outside towards the cook line by his new friend. Half dragged along by Coopers iron grip upon his shoulder, Bollum grimaced outwardly, but inside he was feeling elation. If he wanted all the credit, then that was exactly what he would have.

*****

It would go down as the most rushed he’d been at an evening meal ever, and not only due to the looming presence of his new friend.  The long-winded reminder that the lieutenant expected him to report to the cooks promptly, delivered by a sergeant Johnson, assured the sense of haste as well. Cooper made a stunted attempted to claim that the slum was of his creation then and there, but the sergeant ignored him in favor of completing his task and returning to whatever it was that he might have been doing before being sent to find Bollum. This fact only seemed to intensify Cooper’s desire to ensure his scheme not only came off as planned, but was expedited with all possibly urgency. When the last of the warm stew they had been served had been eaten, Cooper had Bollum up by the elbow and pushed him along to see the cooks. A corporal, who was throwing wood into a box stove which sat in the yard behind the log-frame cook shack, stood up from his labor and gave them a quizzical look.

“Whatcha want? We’re finished serving.” The rust colored beard of the corporal needed a good trimming, but now wasn’t the time to point out such things. Cooper punched him in the shoulder blade and whispered,  “Tell him, and don’t forget what to say!”

Bollum winced from the blow and spoke. “I was asked to come around after mess with a receipt --”

The corporal stood and smiled. “Well, so you have! I heard tell that you have a slum that beats all, if that mealy mouthed stink-finger lieutenant is any judge.” The change in the man’s demeanor was so sudden that Bollum was lost for a moment before he realized that not only did they have no love for the officer in question, but that that extended to anyone favored by him as well. Still, there was nothing to do but carry on, for it was the only way to escape with his true secret intact.

“We’ll see what is what when them stripes are mine, and the ear of the officers too! Tell him, and be done with it!” said Cooper accentuating his words with a bony poke of his finger. Bollum took a breath and began, but didn’t get far before the sour corporal was interrupting him.

“Now hold your damn horses, don’t go telling me a receipt to remember! John! John!” said the bearded man turning and yelling into the cook shack, “bring out your journal and pencil so we can write down this receipt!”

“Yeah, yeah,” returned a gruff voice from the shack, which became the hulking form of a broad plough- horse of a man that wandered out to join them. “I got it here, Bill, this the fella then?”

Bollum suddenly felt that things where getting worse. The large man jerked a thumb in their direction, and frowned. The corporal -- who apparently was named Bill -- nodded and pointed towards Bollum. “Yes John, that fella there is the reason that you and I got cussed out for our -- what was it the lieutenant said?”

“Unimaginative swill,” finished the hulking John, wiping a hand on a tattered apron. Bollum suddenly felt his chance at escape vanishing, and wondered if Cooper still wanted to take the credit here. Clearly, when the lieutenant had informed the cooks of his arrival, he had also taken it upon him to complain about their work. Perhaps he had even compared his “Heaven in a Pot” to their endeavors, leaving behind a bad taste and bad blood towards the man they saw as showing them up. He was about to apologize, agreeing with them that the officer in question was a piece of work when Cooper spoke up.

“It wasn’t Bollum that came up with the idea for the slum, it was me -- and if I were you I’d watch how you talk. Now, do you have something to write this receipt down with or not?” Cooper stared defiantly at them, and John handed over a rough bound journal and a stubby pencil without a word. Taking it, he stepped hard on Bollum’s toe and whispered, “Now you just tell me what to write down, and don’t you think about trying anything! I know you were working to cheat me, but that’s it. You cross me, and I will break your damn legs!”

Bollum felt tears run from his eyes as Coopers mashed his toe, but followed along and whispered the ingredients to Cooper who wrote them down -- Bill the corporal and the living bulk that was John seemed none the wiser for this ruse. At last Bollum came to the secret additive, and taking a breath he whispered, “leather laces, three boiled in the whole mix until the grease rises.”  Cooper stood erect, his reaction clearly suggesting that he didn’t believe he had heard right.
“Are you serious?” Cooper said.

“I know, it’s mad, but it put the broth in the proper tone. The lieutenant seemed to like it, what can I say?” came the response. After a moment, the pencil scribbled on and the journal closed. Cooper gave John his pencil and journal back, and looked them both up and down a moment.

“Now, that is the receipt. Make it just as it is written there, and be sure that the lieutenant knows who was responsible. Cooper is my name, Josiah G. Cooper.” The cooks nodded, and Cooper --  head held high with dignity -- marched away.

John looked at Bill and shook his head. Bollum smiled and hobbled away to have an orderly look at his foot, afraid his toe might be broken.

*****

February, 1864
Bollum kicked the log wall of the stockade cell and smiled to himself. Everything after that had gone off well enough; the cooks followed the receipt (and probably enjoyed initially serving the officers boiled shoe laces) resulting in the disgrace of the lieutenant. Apparently he had tried very hard to explain that when he had tasted the soldiers stew it had been delicious, though he had failed to sway opinions finally when the major had discovered a portion of leather lace in his bowl. He in turn had of course gone seeking his revenge for what he saw as a blatant attempt to disgrace him and disobey orders, turning first to the cooks and then to the man who had so eagerly claimed responsibility. Poor Cooper had had no idea when the lieutenant came knocking, and was so eager to take credit for his success that it took two or three kicks from the lieutenant’s boot before it began to sink in that he would not be promoted as he had hoped. He had been instead granted to the pioneers for work details, and promised he would never rise about private. All had worked out well, and as hoped -- except that the lieutenant had not forgotten him, and in the end Bollum, too, earned some time in the stockade. Still, it could have been worse! He sat down against the wall, and closed his eyes. After the war was over, he would open his eating house in St. Paul and working folks from all around would flock to try his famous “Heaven in a Pot”, and wonder just what the secret ingredient was.

The Fall of Gibraltar

June 19th, 1863

General Grant fanned himself with a dirty slouch hat, looking for all the world like a private soldier rather than the overall commander of the siege. To General Hickenlooper, he looked fully improper for the position he held. But, he also recognized fully that appearance was utterly deceiving in this untidy man, and anyone who mistook him learned that lesson harshly. The general retuned his crisp salute, but did not rise and instead gestured to one of the folding chairs seated about the table strewn with papers and a map of the siege works. Hickenlooper always found it interesting how tidy the general’s headquarters were in contrast with the man himself. He cleared his throat.

“Thank you for seeing me, General Grant.”

The bearded man chewed his cigar and nodded.

“Of course, General Hickenlooper, after all it was I that ordered you to report here this morning to brief me on the progress of the engineering.” 

Hickenlooper cleared his throat again, and proceeded to give his report.

“Yes, General. If I may direct your attention to the map?” He detailed the progress, giving General Grant an overview of the drive to push the sap into the enemy works. There had been increasing attempts on the part of the enemy to forestall their efforts, but so far they had prevailed. Reports from Lieutenant Russel suggested that the sap would likely reach the outer ditch of the enemy fortification by the 22nd, after which they might begin mining the wall. So far the work had gone well, the only recent casualties in the first weeks of June during an unexpected enemy salvo of artillery.

“How long do you think the gallery for the mine would take to dig -- assuming the enemy doesn’t discover and counter-mine our position?” asked General Grant staring at the map.  Hickenlooper thought for a moment before at last answering.

“Best case scenario would be two days -- if we dig night and day. Three would be more likely.”

General Grant nodded. “Then by the 25th of June, the powder might be loaded-- and if the mine opens the enemy line as I expect, we might take this section and flank these.”  He traced out his thoughts upon the map with his sun-browned finger, deep concentration upon his face. At last he stood up, repositioned the stub of his cigar between his teeth, and tapped the table top. “Very good, General Hickenlooper. You have until the 25th; six days from now.”

*****

The empty space left behind by the loss of Franklin affected each of them differently, but profoundly. Considering the amount of action that they had seen, it was surprising how few men they had lost to battle. Knapp supposed this was why many of them had yet to cultivate fully the hard, fatalistic attitude you found amongst those companies upon whom the war’s harvest had fallen heaviest. Not that Franklin’s death had reduced them to weeping either, rather that a silence and reverent resistance to mirth settled into their duties. Killmartin grew irritable; Anderson took renewed interest in reading his soldiers hymnal. Knapp felt a sudden urgency to write home, and to say in those letters things he realized he sometimes neglected. Of all of them, it was Hastings who seemed affected most -- though given his close relationship with their fallen comrade this made sense. For Hastings, his grief took the odd turn in having encouraged a change in nature which was quite astounding. Though he had never run, Hastings had long struggled with his courage in battle, yet now he was often the first to volunteer for every duty and detail regardless of risk or peril. Knapp tried to talk with him about this, but the other man simply refused to discuss his motivations. Common opinion, when the mess discussed their friend and his recent drive towards martial perfection, was that Hastings would work through this -- given time.

“What’s the real harm,” commented Anderson, “if Hasty takes every work detail or guard? He’s in no more or less danger in such work as he would be in camp.” The logic seemed to suffice, until word came that Hastings had volunteered to work at the sap.

“He’s lost his mind, or he’s trying to get himself killed!” spat Anderson as he, Knapp and Killmartin sat discussing it in camp. It was the 21st of June, and as the siege wore on the signs became more and more obvious that the enemy couldn’t hold on forever. Bat as the potential for an end dawned, so too did a the potential for rash and sometimes even suicidal behavior amongst the rank and file. For the rebel part, their men became increasingly trigger happy -- taking shots at anything that moved. In response, some enlisted men on the Federal side took perverse delight in drawing fire. Often this was done safely, with someone’s cap on the end of a ram rod  --  but not always. Gambling and fighting became common place, as men sought outlets for the growing stress.

“You think he wants to kill hisself over Franklin?” posed Killmartin as he smoked his pipe. Anderson just shrugged.

‘Who knows, but working the sap? That’s crazy,” Knapp shook his head, and tossed a twig into the remaining embers of a nearby fire. He started to speak twice before he finally got it fully out.

“Crazy, suicidal or whatever it might be, Hastings has made his choice. We all know that he has not always faced his duty with a firm resolve, but face it he has. I think we need to support him.”

“Even if he gets himself killed?” asked Anderson with passion. Knapp shrugged, and shook his head.

“I am not saying we allow Hastings to go stick his head in the bore of a parrot rifle; but if he feels the need to risk himself working the sap, then I don’t think that he is risking any more than anyone here.” Anderson looked as though he might argue the point, but then relented. Killmartin smiled around the stem of his pipe.

“This is why we call ye our Da, Gus! Ye gots a way about speakin’!” he said, patting Anderson on the shoulder. Knapp smiled and shook his head, feeling the weight of Killmartin’s words. They were like his sons, but there should have been more of them sitting here. The first man lost from their mess was William Thompson, killed during the Big Black River campaign. Knapp realized how difficult it was to even remember his face now, even though it had been a mere three months since he’d fallen. Then Gregg Alexander, in the first charge against Vicksburg -- followed then by Franklin. They had been seven, and now only four of them remained. Knapp knew that even those losses were paltry compared with what some regiments had absorbed, but then that didn’t matter to them. Loss was loss. Besides, given the terrible law of average which existed in war, given enough time the fatal musket lead or well aimed shell would find them all. How long could this war go on before there was no one left alive who had begun it?

Knapp rubbed his forehead with his hand and closed his eyes. He knew better than to allow himself to think that way -- you simply couldn’t -- not if you wanted to keep from going mad. He suddenly realized Anderson had asked him a question, and he chided himself mentally for getting lost in his own thoughts so much of late.  “I’m sorry, I was thinking and wasn’t paying attention.”

Anderson smiled, and lifted the kettle they made coffee in. “That’s alright Gus, been plenty to think about of late. I asked if you wanted some coffee, as I was thinking of getting the fire stoked and start a kettle.”

“That would be good, thanks.”

Anderson smiled and turned to start to where the woodpile was located back towards the provost post when the enormous guns on the riverside of Vicksburg began to open fire. Despite being so far, their report was terrible and several men ducked before regaining control of their reflexes.

“Sounds like them Navy lads is making a run by the batteries!” commented Killmartin helping Anderson back to his feet. Anderson swore when he realized he had spilled the coffee water upon reflexively dropping for cover at the sound of the guns. He set off towards water, passing Hastings who stopped briefly in the company street to talk out of earshot. When he joined them in by the tent, Hastings chuckled.

“Anderson told me about the guns and spilling the coffee water. Poor fellow, couldn’t quite bring myself to tell him he spilled a portion such that he looks like he’s wet himself!” Killmartin sniggered and shook his head. Knapp wondered how awfully Anderson might be made to suffer for jokes and commentary once some of the other men saw him. Hastings took a seat across from Knapp and looked him in the eye. A smile crept across his face and he shook his head.

“So, when do you plan to try to talk me out of working the sap?”

Knapp shrugged. “I don’t. We’re all worried a bit for you, but no one plans to try to talk you out of what is yours to decide.”

Hastings crossed his arms and nodded. “I appreciate that.”

“As long as ye aint tryin’ to get yerself killed! If ye are then I plan to box you about!” put in Killmartin suddenly. 

Hastings laughed, and shook his head as he took on a more serious look. “I want to help bring this siege to an end. Franklin died because of this damnable city, and I want to know I truly did something to make a difference.”

Knapp nodded, and Killmartin patted Hastings shoulder. “It’s a good reason lad, but ye get yerself killed an’ I’ll kill ye.”

They laughed together, and as they drew apart Anderson returned.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me I had spilled water all down the front of my trousers!?”

*****

Hastings saluted when he was brought before the lieutenant, but the hard faced man shook his head. “No need for that here in the sap, we all are toiling in the dirt here. Welcome to the crew.”  The lieutenant shook his hand with a serious grip, and introduced him around. He met Sergeant Morris, a solidly built little man with a handle bar mustache and coal black eyes. He said nothing, but nodded. This man, thought Hastings, was the steam boiler for this group, if the lieutenant was the engineer. In turn he was greeted by the energetic welcome of privates Brown, Congden, Williams, Fitzallen, Best, Cliff and McNeil. He went on to make the acquaintance of eight other privates and three corporals but hardly learned the names of but a handful. He was assigned to filling grain sacks with earth from the digger’s positions, and then carry it to the rear where the they could be deposited in a trench. Hastings was told that men from the lines to either side of the sap would then empty the sacks and then return them to the trench to be refilled. The work was strenuous, dirty and dull - -but Hastings still found excitement in seeing the progress being made. Filling a sack with a short spade, Hastings hummed to himself. A man with a dirt streaked face wielding a short handled pick-axe halted a moment to wipe his face and jerked a thumb towards Hastings.

“Hey, Davis! This new fella is singing, what’da make of that?” Another one of the diggers shook his head but continued working.

“What’s wrong with singing!? So, he likes his work!” said another one of the diggers nearby. The man who had spoken first turned and pointed his tool towards Hastings.

“So, what’s your name songbird?” Hastings smiled and swung his full sack of dirt over his shoulder.

“Hastings. What’s yours?” The other man shook his head and resumed his work. One of the other men carrying the sacks matched pace with Hastings and turned to smile at him. “I’m Wade -- Josiah Wade -- you’re new on the sap?”

Hastings nodded but said nothing, Wade went on. “Don’t worry about Jones -- that fella what called you songbird -- he just likes to give everyone spit and hellfire when he first meets ‘em. He don’t mean nothing by it.”

“Thanks, but don’t worry too yourself too much -- I didn’t take offence.”

Wade seemed satisfied, and the pair chatted all the way back to the drop and back. Wade, it seemed, had been working the sap since the start. Work had been perilous at first, but as they proceeded and the ramparts were improved, things got much better. Not that the rebels ceased to try to slow their work, but at least now it was less frequent. The latest method the rebels were trying was to roll explosive artillery shells down from their fort walls to explode at the base of the ramparts of the sapper works. While the chances of destroying the ramparts was small, the affect of the sudden violent explosion rattled the nerves of those working and often halted progress for several minutes. “The only thing that really gives it away is the ‘woosh-hiss’ sound you hear over and over as the shell rolls down the redoubt” explained Wade, hefting dirt into his grain sack.

“How often do they hurl these things at us?” asked Hastings, feeling a slight nervous tension gnawing within himself.

“Once or twice a day, but this one time the rebels threw nine of them at us in one session. That was a rough day.” The pair of men slung their sacks once again and carried the dirt away. They worked steady for six hours before taking a break for lunch, brought by orderlies for the cooks. The food wasn’t fancy, but ample and filling. Best of all was simply a moment of rest, as Hastings was realizing he wasn’t in as good a shape as some of the men working the sap. His shoulders ached, but he felt good being here. He wondered how Knapp and the others were doing back on the line, and if they had been rotated out for rest or not. In his new work here at the sap, Hastings was expected to work 16 hours, and for now he was assigned to the day shift. Every other week, the shifts were switched, and then he would face the diggings at night. He was thrust from his thoughts when he heard the unmistakable ‘woosh-hiss’ he had been warned of, and Sergeant Morris shouted, “Cover!”  Hastings became one of several bodies which dove into the dirt at the floor of the sap, the dreaded sound growing louder as the shell rolled down until suddenly the air split with a thunderous explosion and the ground shook beneath them. Hastings immediately began to feel dirt rain down upon him, and he covered his head as best he could with his arms for protection. He couldn’t at first believe how loud the blast had been, nor that the ramparts of the sap works could possibly remain intact. At last he slowly got up onto his knees and looked about, dirt and sand falling from his hair. The sound of the nearby Federal batteries could be heard plainly, shelling the enemy line ferociously as a corrective action for the attempt against the sap. Being closer than he was used to, Hastings found the sounds of arching shells a bit unnerving, but everyone else seemed happy enough. Wade stood up next to him and shook dirt from his shirtsleeves before helping Hastings to his feet.

“Don’t worry; our boys will keep any more of those ear-poppers from being rolled down at us for a bit. Back to our work,”  he said, playfully cuffing Hastings in the arm and resuming the task of filling his sack with soil. Overhead Federal artillery rounds sailed past like terrible dark phantoms, crashing down with a rumble like thunder.

*****

General Hickenlooper observed the work through his field glasses from the battery which bore his name, smiling to himself over the successes of his efforts. The sap had reached the outer ditch of the enemy fort, and all within schedule. The general lowered his glasses and waved over Major Lipton. “Major, what is our inventory for powder and fuse?” Major Lipton withdrew a small journal from his coat pocket, and consulted it briefly.

“Sir, with the bombardment that our batteries have been delivering, the artillery supply seems to be insufficient for our needs. However, I took the liberty to inquire with the Navy, and thanks to a lull in their action we can easily victual our needs from their stores.”

General Hickenlooper smiled and resumed the use of his field glasses. “Very good Major Lipton! The engineers have been conversing of this, and they are about due for a final answer as to exactly how much powder will be needed for the mine to serve its purpose. See to it, and report back.” Major Lipton saluted, and made his way to carry out his instructions.

*****

Digging by lamp light was troublesome, Hastings thought as he jolted his shoulder when the shovel stopped shorter than expected. It was his luck that he joined the sap work just as his crew switched to the night shift, but he wouldn’t complain. No one here complained over the work they did, they had volunteered for this duty. For Hastings, this was a tribute to his friend. Franklin had looked after him, helped him to overcome when all he wanted to do was run. Hastings pushed the shovel into the soil and knew his friend would be proud of him; he faced his fear squarely and chose not to allow it to rule his life anymore. He was about to trust the shovel forward once more, when Sergeant Morris shouted for everyone to take cover. Hastings dropped down, seeing the sergeant snatch up a smoking sphere before hurling it out and over the rampart where it exploded. With a sudden rush of awareness, Hastings realized the enemy had hurled a lucky grenade into the sap and the sergeant had acted to save their lives. The explosion echoed a moment, and roused the awareness of every soldier along the line. A star shell exploded overhead as the batteries sought a better view of the ground, bathing everything in a sudden flickering white light. When he started to rise up, a hand shot over to hold him in place, and looking over Hastings saw Wade shaking his head at him.

“Don’t move yet, not until they give us the all clear and Sergeant Morris tells us to go back to work. If them damn Rebels decide to try their luck at taking the sap, you don’t want to be in the way -- do you?” Hastings was confused, and most have looked it, because Wade went on in explanation.  “We don’t carry no weapons here,” he said in a loud whisper “so General Leggett’s boys back behind us covers from their trenches -- as do the guns from that battery up there. If ever the Rebels rush us, you best dig down! There will be a hailstorm of lead flying above us, and that’s no mistake!”

Sergeant Morris had been looking back towards the main line and the battery beyond, when he turned and called out that it was safe to resume their work. Hastings was tempted to ask what system must be in place to decide when it was safe to work or not, but their task awaited and no one seemed willing to wait. The illumination provided by the star shell faded, returning all to the faded yellow dimness of the oil lamps. When at last the time came for a break, Hastings’ arms and shoulders felt heavy like stone and his joints burned. There was hot food provided by grumbling cooks which seemed like a sumptuous banquet, though in truth it wasn’t any different fare than he’d normally had in the Army. Work, he thought to himself as he stuffed warm bread into his mouth, made even the most average foods splendid -- when allowed to enjoy them on a break. Wade sat across from him in the gallery, and opened up a letter which he fished from the pocket of his trousers.

“Wafs dat?” asked Hastings through his food stuffed mouth. Wade looked up once, brushed dirt from his chin, and smiled sadly.

“A letter from my wife; she left me you see, I guess I don’t really know why I keep it.”

Hastings stopped chewing and coughed, then swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure quite what to say, as Wade’s words had confounded him. The other man, looking jaundiced in the gentle flicked of the lamp light, frowned and lay his head back against the rampart wall.

“I’d find fault,” he continued, “if I didn’t understand how it came to this. We’re all just so far away! How can anyone expect things to remain as they left them?” Hastings just nodded, several other men nearby looked over and were watching Wade now. For his part, Wade just sighed as he looked over his letter with sad eyes before refolding and replacing it in his trouser pocket. Hastings resumed eating, but the rapidly cooling stew no longer seemed to carry the grandness it had before. This mood had spread, and a great many men who had been engaged in lively conversation now spoke quietly. Hastings was not married, nor even attached to anyone waiting for him back home beyond his parents and siblings. He had never before felt fortunate for this, until now. He looked over at Wade, who was now eating quietly. Another good reason to push hard and finally secure this cursed town, though Hastings to himself. It would be a solid step towards ending this war, and sending all of the men like Wade home again. He vowed to watch after Wade, and to keep him from trouble as best he could. Thoughts such as those he held were understandable, but to some they could be seen as counter to Army interests and a dangerous influence upon morale. Hastings took another spoonful of stew, chewing through a spongy chunk of gristle feeling sorrow and pity for his new friend.

When they returned to work, with only a few hours left of the shift, the diggers struck tenacious red clay mixed soil with their spades and picks. Measurements were taken, and with great excitement word went around that there could not be more than 150 feet before they would be ready to start the gallery for the mine’s main powder charge. Orders were given for all to observe as much silence as was possible, to ensure the best chance for Sergeant Morris to hear any enemy counter-mining of their position. As the sun began to rise and the 25th of June dawned, the sap had at long last reached its apex.

*****

When their relief came, no one wanted to go back to camp. Every man who had worked the sap knew this was the seminal moment for the mine, and so the lieutenant relented. Word had been sent ahead that the sap was ready for the powder, and in short order five stout wagons arrived full of 10 pound kegs of powder--each marked with the brand of the Navy. Hastings and Wade hefted one of these kegs down from the wagon; aware of just of much destructive energy was in their hands. Counting 21 more kegs beside their own, Hastings gave a low whistle for the awe of it all. Planks were laid down onto the floor of the sap, firming their path underfoot as each of the kegs was carried into the works. The first eight were directed by the gruff sergeant Morris to be placed at the extreme end of the sap, where the gallery had proceeded downward under the enemy lines. The remaining 14 would be arranged in the lateral galleries of the mine, a total of 2200 pounds of powder. Hastings and Wade stepped back and out of the way as the remainder of the eight kegs were settled in place, when suddenly Sergeant Morris held up a hand and said, “Quiet! Listen!”

All went still, and each of the men in that cramped tunnel strained to listen. At first, Hastings heard nothing, but then the hair stood up on the back of his neck. It was muffled, but he could hear digging, followed by a voice.

“That’s it boys! We got to be getting’ right close now!”

The Federals looked to one another, no one daring to move for a moment. Sergeant Morris indicated of to their left, and then held his finger to his lips to encourage silence. They made their way out of the tunnel, and the sergeant hurried off to report the enemy counter-mine. If they succeeded in tapping the Federal mine -- or breaking through from the Rebel tunnel -- all the work at the sap would be for nothing. Hastings knew too that if the Rebels did break through, they would surge into the Federal works and weaken the entire line. Shortly the sergeant returned with Lieutenant Russell, who went into the mine. He returned after several moments of tense silence, and conferred quietly with Morris. The lieutenant turned and left and the sergeant gathered them together.

“Alright boys, we need to work like we’ve not worked before. If those bastards tap our work, we’re done. The lieutenant will be sending some men from the line down shortly to keep an eye on the gallery, and we need to cap this mine. Let’s go.”

They went as one and gathered tools, half of their number making the trek back to where the removed soil had been deposited in sacks. As they prepared to work, armed soldiers arrived along with a naval lieutenant who was in charge of laying the double strand of safety fuse into the mine. He vanished into the tunnel before them, followed by a sergeant from the Pioneers carrying a large spool of fuse. After only a few moments, the pair marched out with the sergeant following the grim faced Navy man as he played out the parallel lines of fuse. As they continued on and away from them, Sergeant Morris ordered them to work quietly, and every man set to his task. Hasting moved to empty his heavy sack of earth in the slowly filling entrance to the tunnel when there was a sudden “FA-FOOM!” as an explosion erupted from somewhere ahead of the mine. Soil rained down from the roof of the tunnel, but held. Their armed guards had all thrown themselves down, and were asking after the source of the explosion when a fast moving “Woosh-Hiss” sound was heard and everyone else dropped. The artillery shell rolled from the enemy fort erupted with sharp violence, and dirt rained down on them.

“By GOD! What in hell was that!” shouted one of the soldiers brought up from the line with a look of terror. Sergeant Morris rose up, calling on the workers to resume their duty.

“They’re trying to prevent us proceeding lads! They know what we’re up to, but not exactly where, so we need to finish before their aim bets any better!” said Morris is a loud whisper, pushing men to their places. Another grenade went off to the right of the previous explosions, but aside from a slight cringe every man stayed on at their work. There was musket fire from behind them as the Federal lines began to do their best to buy them some breathing space; shortly came the “thump” sounds as the improvised wooden mortars opened up from further back along the sap. Hastings ran back to collect another load of soil, praying as he went that the mortar crews would aim carefully. If they dropped short and hit the mine, he doubted there would be enough of any of them to bury back home -- if at all.

*****

General Grant looked North and South of the battery “Hickenlooper”, feeling a sense of awe at the sight of columns of blue winding their way to take positions on either sight of the sap. Word had come the day before that work on the mine could be concluded by 3 PM on the 25th, and so the reserves had been called up. The batteries were firing at a leisurely pace, helping to cover the final work on the mine. The general called for his field glasses, and they were handed over by his aide. He chomped his cigar thoughtfully.

“The orders for support of the advance have been issued, and accepted?”

The colonel on his left nodded. “Yes general, I saw to it myself, Sir.”

General Grant resumed scanning the lines with his field glasses. Everything then was set, and everyone knew their role. God willing, the plan would run smoothly and all of his commanders would follow the plan. In the end, it often came down to adherence to the given commands, and simple timing. The general handed the field glasses back, drew his pocket watch. The smooth, cool metal of the casing made him think a moment of home and his darling wife. The watch had been a gift from her, a token of her love and unwavering trust in him. Even in the face of failures, she had stood by him -- her strength was his strength. He looked at the watch face, and cleared his throat as he replaced it in his vest pocket. The hour was two o’clock, which meant that the fuse was to be lit in a quarter of an hour. The fuse was cut for 45 minutes, and so the assault would begin after 3 PM. The guns of the battery barked, one after another discharging with echoing roars of smoke and belching fire. General Grant scanned the battlements of the enemy fort, noting movement of troops and materiel suggesting they were trying to limit the casualties as best they could along the section of line facing the mine. Well, though the general, the point wasn’t necessarily to kill enemy soldiers with the mine, but to gain entry and achieve purchase on the enemy fortifications. With good fortune, the enemy garrison would surrender once they realized that Vicksburg was indefensible. If not, then the Federals would have little choice but to show them the error of their ways.

*****

They had heaped soil over the opening to the mine, and then further reinforced the mound with heavy timbers roughly hewn and brought up for this express purpose. When at last all was done, they were drawn back to a place pf safety. Sergeant Morris waved to Lieutenant Russel as they passed him at the touch point for the fuse. Russel nodded in return, holding a pocket watch in one hand and the braided ends of the double fuse in the other. Excitement welled up in Hastings, and he stole a glance back as the man standing next to the lieutenant -- a sergeant-major he had never before seen--moved on a word from Russel and touched a smoldering wick to the fuses. The sudden hissing sound and jumping sparks gave surety to the endeavor, as the fuse ignited and slowly burned towards the powder charges. Hastings knew that in a short time, the terrible result of their labors would be seen and felt by all -- and perhaps today would be the last day before Vicksburg fell. They ran back up along the sap, until at last they reached the main lines where the reserves were being drawn up. Hastings cast an eye about, wondering if he might see Knapp and the others, but there were too many men and no faces he immediately knew. By this point, Lieutenant Russel and the unnamed sergeant-major joined them, moving to the front of the platoon sized column of men who had worked the sap. They were led up the hill towards Hickenlooper battery, where the sappers were drawn up into formation to the rear of the guns which were in furious operation. General Grant approached the lieutenant, followed by another general whom whispers in rank said was the fella for whom the battery was named. General Grant shook the hands of Russel, Morris and the sergeant-major. At last the bearded general turned to the formation and removed his hat. He looked them over a moment before replacing his hat and speaking in a strong, gravely voice.

“Gentlemen, I thought it appropriate that given that this sap was the result of your considerable labors, you ought to be afforded a good view when the mine discharges. I do not know if this plan will carry the city, but I do know that irrespective of outcome your efforts will certainly prove instrumental in the history of this action.” He took a pocket watch from his vest, and looked at it a moment before nodding to the assembled men on his way back to a spot along the parapet. Lieutenant Russel and the sergeant-major were invited along by General Hickenlooper, leaving Sergeant Morris with the formation. He ordered them to in-place rest, and made sure every man was well and not in need of anything. It was then for the first time since meeting him, that Hastings saw something more to the intensity and seriousness of Sergeant Morris. As all around them the guns roared and the muskets rattled, Sergeant Morris smiled as he shared quiet words with each man. Every other eye not engaged in the violent salvo was drawn over to where the fuses burned steadily closer to destruction-- but Sergeant Morris was focused on these men. He was more than the driving energy behind the work that soon would be blown to oblivious before them, but he had also been the heart. Hastings realized suddenly that Franklin had been a similar sort of man, and felt deep within him a pang of sorrow for his friend. Along the parapet, General Hickenlooper tapped his foot with nervous energy as he checked again the time.

“Ten minutes.” He said, trying to keep the excitement from his voice.

Knapp, Killmartin and Anderson sat quietly listening to the booming of artillery and musket fire further up the line as time ticked away. Word had gotten out that the mine would blow at three o’clock, and even though their unit was to remain where they were, everyone was on edge. Knapp wondered how Hastings was fairing, and hoped he was alright. The build-up for the rush into whatever hole the mine created in the enemy works was incredible to watch. Reserve units which had been taken off the rotation through the fortifications, had marched by most of the late morning as they headed to the staging areas near the “White House.”  Of course as soon as the enemy saw that, they began to let loose at every point along the lines, though now the firing had ceased everywhere but immediately opposite the sap works. Killmartin tore some cloth into a strip and drew his ram rod. He tied the strip over the bulbous end and ran the dry patch down his barrel a dozen times before removing it with a satisfied grunt.

“With this humidity, ye’s are wise to keep ahead of the foulin’ -- lest ye find yerself unable to fire when ye needs to!”

Anderson rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Killmartin tossed the blackened rag over the parapet, and wiped his hand on his trouser leg. Knapp reached into his breast pocket and drew out his watch. It was five minutes to three. He looked up towards where the sap was along the line, and watched the smoke and flash of fire as the guns and muskets continued to blaze away at one another.

“Where do you suppose Hasty is now?” asked Anderson suddenly, taking a look over the rampart before sitting down under cover.

“Faith! No where nears the sap I hope, what with that fuse burnin’!” said Killmartin, wiping away powder residue from the bore of his weapon with his pinky finger.

“Just listen to them cracking away at each other,” said Anderson with a frown, “I hope there’ll be someone left of our boys to even make a charge of the breach!” As Knapp was about to answer, he halted and turned back to look toward the North. All along the fortifications, other men where stopping and craning to look towards where the sap was. Not quite all at once, but quickly enough that it was startling, the noise of musketry and artillery began to cease. When at last the final cannon fired, an eerie and unnatural quiet settled around them. Knapp checked his watch once more, as the oppressive stillness continued. When he spoke, his voice seemed loud and out of place despite his trying to be quiet.

“Just over a minute to three o’clock.”

Hastings felt the nervous anticipation of the blast compounded ten-fold by the terrible stillness as the weapons of war went silent all around him. Everyone seemed to be watching and waiting for the explosion -- on both sides. For thirty days, the noise of war had been heard with regularity around the besieged heights of Vicksburg, and now there was a nothingness which seemed to go beyond silence. Hastings thought of his friends a moment, and then suddenly -- terribly -- the stillness ended in what started as a low rumble and then grew louder rapidly. As he watched, the high redoubt and its adjoining works rose into the air in a geyser of dirt and spouting flame before pulverized dirt began to cascade down in every direction. As though a spell had been broken, the explosion reignited the guns and muskets on both sides as the salvo erupted more violently than before. A great cry went up then from the massed soldiers below in the Federal lines, and a massive wave of blue washed forward through the still dissipating clouds of dust. The line rushed into and around the wide crater of the breach, surging towards the interior lines beyond. General Grant shouted at his men excitedly, and Hastings found himself cheering the others. His ears rang with a hot buzzing, tears welled in his eyes. As shells burst and smoke billowed like lingering phantoms, the blue mass charged forward -- eager and determined that they would see the fall of Gibraltar.

*****

July 6, 1863

General Hickenlooper set down his pen, and sighed. He looked out through the open door towards the siege works, which now were being remodeled to provide defensive positions for the Federals in the event of a rebel army showing up to take Vicksburg back again. He stared a long while at the expanded sap, thinking of that valiant but failed first attempt in June. The throngs of men had run head long into interior lines well supplied with cannon and men, and no cover upon leaving the crater created by the first mine. The 31st and 45th Illinois boys had given it their all, but in the end they were forced to settle for securing the crater of the breach, and using this area to continue the effort at sapping the enemy lines. In the end, the city had surrendered, but the work done in the sap had surely helped to expedite such a decision on the part of  the Rebel General Pemberton. Was it some divine message that the city had fallen on July the 4th? It was reported that that devil Lee had been truly beaten in Pennsylvania on the very same day, and speculation was still rife amongst the staff officers here as to what that would truly mean for the war given the simultaneous loss of Vicksburg to the enemy.  Hickenlooper stood, walking to the doorway to stand there a moment in the early July sun before stepping down into the battery he had been so proud of.  The fortifications were being dismantled by the men who had built and manned them, the guns having already been limbered and carted away. He returned several salutes and went to stand quietly over looking the trenches and the surrendered city of Vicksburg. The National Colors were flying proudly over the courthouse, and the sound of celebrating soldiers could be heard on the breeze. Brevet Brigadier-General Andrew Hickenlooper smiled. They have earned it, he thought to himself.

Within the Trenches of Gibraltar

Chewing the stem of his pipe, Brevet Brigadier-General Andrew Hickenlooper studied the map and the diagram drawn there. He breathed out a cloud of smoke, and looked up into the eyes of Generals Logan and  M.D. Leggett. Neither man looked happy, but they had at least given up complaining. That was fine with Hickenlooper; they could be unhappy -- provided they obeyed orders. He stood up and placed his hands on the table, watching the two men as they continued to study the map before them.

“Questions gentlemen?” asked Hickenlooper finally.

“This mark here, if I read it properly is…?” asked General Logan pointing to a red box drawn on the map as he was interrupted.

“The redan held by the veterans of the 3rd Louisiana,” answered Hickenlooper, pointing out a series of blue lines. “Your men are here, and General Leggett, your battalions are situated here.”

The pair nodded in turn, but the frowns did not cease. Hickenlooper was undaunted though, being in charge of a strong sense of no-nonsense grit. “Obviously this fort is a problem, being the most formidable in the entirety of the line. The strength, commanding position, and armament make this a priority -- and General Grant has made it clear to both myself and General McPherson that it must be dealt with.” He poked at the map with the stem of his pipe for affect, and crossed his arms as he gazed upon these two officers.

“Very well then,” answered Leggett with a resigned sigh, “what do you need of us?”

*****

General Hickenlooper extinguished the candle lamps before ushering Leggett and Logan out of the door and quietly into the growing night. They had to be very cautious so close to the 2nd Louisiana’s redan not to give away their presence with the unguarded light from a lantern, lest they loose their convenient meeting place. Hickenlooper looked back at the large white plantation house in the darkness, which the men called “The White House”. No one knew why the enemy garrison had left this building standing, but it was a useful addition for the Federals. They had discovered, though, how important heavy shades over the windows were at night and light discipline when out of doors. One of Hickenlooper’s own staff had taken a musket ball through his arm after a careless lighting of a cigar upon the porch one night, and so caution had to be maintained until the area was brought under full control. The Louisiana boys had jeered him from the dark, calling out, “Try smoking on that, Yank!” For now though, this portion of the line would be where their sap would start, hidden by a construction of wooden parapets to screen their movements from view. Tomorrow night, May 23rd, they would launch a diversionary attack upon the enemy pickets to cover the pioneer’s final selection of where to start the digging. If they could avoid detection, they might just be able to knock out that damn fort and make General Grant happy. The assault of that morning had been brutal and gained very little. General Hickenlooper moved quietly away from the house, following Logan and Leggett towards the officer’s billets and the promise of a warm cot.

*****

Hastings woke with a start, kicking Franklin accidentally. Franklin grunted, and sat up looking blearily at his friend.

“What is it? Is it our turn on the watch?” asked Franklin with a yawn.

“He was dreaming,” said Anderson from somewhere nearby in a loud whisper, “Go back to sleep, ’aint even ten yet I’d guess.

Franklin tried to calculate but gave up. Anderson said that all was well, and that it wasn’t time be up yet, but somehow he was awake. He looked at Hastings, but his friend was asleep again. With a rearrangement of his blanket, Franklin did his best to find a spot without too many lumps and drifted back to sleep. Looking back at them, Anderson shook his head and resumed his duty. Killmartin sat opposite him, staring hard into the gloom where somewhere an enemy awaited. He was tired, and his body ached from the shock of the near explosion he had been caught in earlier that day. It had been quite the surprise, as he had simply been taking canteens to the rear to refill them when a wild charge from the Texans had suddenly thrust him into harms way. A near miss with an enemy bayonet had left a hole in his coat sleeve, and he planned to mend that as soon as he came from the line. It had been a very near thing, but Killmartin had yet to give it much thought. He would come down from the high of being alive later, but for now he focused on staying alert. Anderson was watching him, as Knapp snored quietly from under his blanket.

“How you doing?” asked Anderson quietly.

“Fine, how should I be?” answered Killmartin tersely.

“Just asking, what with this mornings rough and tumble.” Killmartin looked at Anderson, but then returned to watching the darkness beyond their trench. Anderson got the message, and let it go. Scratching his head and pulling his cap on, Knapp stirred and sat up with a yawn.

“I think I must have found the biggest tree root to sleep on in all of Mississippi!” groaned Knapp as he stretched.

“I’m sure Ole’ Jeff Davis put it there just for you hisself, Gus!” grunted Killmartin shortly.

“Something rubbing you wrong?” asked Knapp staring at Killmartin. For a moment there was only silence before the Irishman shook his head and smiled feebly.

“Just tired, an’ a bit sore still.”

“You knock off then; I can’t sleep anymore anyway,” said Knapp shaking out his blanket and getting to his feet. “I’ll finish your watch.”

Killmartin said no more but found a place to lay out his gear, wrapping himself in his blanket and settling down quietly. Knapp watched him for a moment before draping his blanket over his shoulders and shuffling to the breastwork to peer across at the enemy lines. He looked to Anderson with a shift of his eyes, and spoke in a quiet hush. “How has it been across the way? Are they behaving themselves tonight?”

Anderson shrugged. “So far, though you must figure they are working in something. Nothing to see so much though; what good that is in this inky darkness I don’t know.” Knapp nodded in agreement just as there was a ‘thump’ from one of the artillery batteries down along the enemy line to their right. Immediately the sky exploded with sparks as a star illumination shell burst high overhead, throwing long shadows and lighting up the battlefield. The noise roused the others with a start, and soon they were gathered on the breastworks. A commotion of movement and the sudden eruption of musket fire brought each man alert.

“Look, down there along the north side! It’s an attack!” shouted Anderson pointing out dark silhouettes of men rushing towards the enemy picketts as fire erupted from the Confederate lines beyond. Knapp scanned along the enemy breastworks across from them, only to mark clearly the faces of the Texans staring curiously back. He watched them as slowly the light of the star shell faded and the sounds of sporadic firing ceased.

“It was a feint then,” said Killmartin lowering his musket but remaining along the breastwork. Knapp nodded. Franklin, who had wisely closed one eye to protect some ability to see once the star shell’s illumination faded, grunted. “Looks like it’s over; I don’t see anyone in the gap -- I think our guys must have gotten back again all right.”

“Be nice if they would let a man sleep!” growled Killmartin before he returned to his blanket without further word. Hastings watched him go, and decided simply to stay awake until his guard began. Franklin was tempted to return to whatever short time might be left of his chance to sleep, but decided instead to stick by his pard. The rest of the night passed peacefully, and as the orange and lavender of morning began to appear in the East, word spread that they would be relieved to be sent to the rear for hot food and some rest. This did a great deal for morale amongst the men, who had been on line since taking these same trenches the day before. Killmartin was better when he woke, and the frayed tensions of the day before were replaced with the jovial familiarity so common amongst them. When at last their replacements came forward to take up the line, men swapped what news and gossip they had to trade until the sergeants were forced to intervene and move them along.

As they ambled along over the wide, sunken lane of a road that was protected from enemy musketry by ramparts erected by the pioneers, Knap slung his musket and sipped from his canteen. Anderson and Killmartin were discussing the gossip regarding a sap that now was being attempted against the enemy line. The spot had been chosen and the engagement of operations begun by the cover of darkness, so that substantial progress was made in establishing works the enemy would not easily disrupt. “They got this rolling cover for them what do the diggin’,” said Killmartin with excitement “that helps guard from musket fire an’ the like!”

“Yeah, I heard it was slapped up rather clever too -- woven wicker with rolls of cotton overall,” answered Anderson, telling what he knew.

“Would that be strong enough to give much protection?” asked Franklin.

“If they were thick bales? I bet they might slow a ball down enough to serve and grant some protection,” put in Knapp, replacing the cork in his canteen.

“I want to see it!” said Killmartin excitedly.

Hastings frowned. “It’s not an exhibition Pat; you can’t just stroll by and take in the sights!”

“An’ why not? I plan to see it, an’ I will!” The sergeant ahead of them called back for quiet in the ranks, and so they stayed quiet the remainder of the way to the cook line.

******

Lowering his field glasses, Brigadier-General Hickenlooper scratched his beard and chuckled. The rebel officers must have been mad as hornets when they looked out this morning only to discover a well protected sap underway.  True, the Federals still had a good long way to dig before they could truly menace the rebel fortifications -- but if they had an engineer over there with any sense at all he would realize the real danger the sap was. Hickenlooper was pleased with their progress and the success of the night’s diversion.

“How’s the sap roller fairing?” Hickenlooper asked looking through the field glasses once more. Captain Peters shrugged beside him.

“Well enough Sir, at one point the wheels became stuck but we cleared it.” Hickenlooper looked at Peters, and then Lieutenant Russel who was standing behind him. Peters and Russel were of the 7th Missouri, both good men who seemed to grasp the importance of this manner well enough. Now if the weather would hold, and the rebels not surprise them with something unexpected, they might force surrender before July or August.

“Better have someone douse the bales Captain; if I were over there I would try to fire our roller,” said Hickenlooper after a moments thought.

“Yes Sir, I’ll see to it.”
“My compliments to those men who worked last night, they did very well. The crew working now was given the orders to deepen and widen the gap?”

“Yes General. They also are placing another row of gabions along the ramparts to ensure as much cover for operations as possible.” Hickenlooper nodded approvingly, and thanked the pair before dismissing them. His aide, Major Lipton, approached from where his orderly waited with the General’s horse.

“General, Colonel Hamlin reports they haven’t anything to suit our projected trajectory if the diggings progress as planned.”

Hickenlooper frowned and shook his head.  “If we can’t ensure our ordinance will detonate immediately behind the breastworks where it will do any good, then our force deterrent is greatly compromised.” The General swore and paced a moment, the major knowing better than to get in his way when in such a temper. After some moments, General Hickenlooper stopped pacing and stood staring at the enemy works. At last, he sighed and without turning, called Major Lipton to his side.

“Major, make it clear to the Colonel that we must come up with something. We are depending upon him -- if he has to commandeer another battery’s Coehorn mortars or steal them from the enemy, I don’t care! Is that understood?” The major nodded and saluted, heading back the way he came.


******

Warm food in their bellies, most everyone in the mess gave in to the urge to just lie about and rest. Not that they found true rest easy to obtain. Having been on the line for as long as they had, they were still keyed up to a level of awareness made keen by the experience in the trenches. The sensation of anticipation of attack, especially at night when one strained eyes and ears for enemy movement, ground down men like grain to the mill stone. Nervous energy sometimes translated to sudden bouts of wrestling, willingness to risk accumulated pay on dodgy games of chance, short words, and irritation with friends which could even result in out-right violence. For Knapp and his mess, they resorted to restless conversation first in their tents and later seated around a cook fire. Killmartin and Anderson paced and conversed quietly, before sneaking off to some task they did not wish to discuss with the others. Franklin resumed a sketch from memory of a particularly knarled old oak, while Hastings wrote and re-wrote a letter home. In time, their concerted attempts to resist sleep ensured they succumbed with abandon for most of the afternoon. With the sun moving towards early evening, Anderson and Killmartin returned having accomplished their goal, rousing Knapp and the others to describe the work going on at the sap. They had been able to wander rather close to the area before an astute sergeant noticed them and sent them packing.

“The real work is done on it at night,” explained Anderson “and word is the rebels are feeling the pressure!”

“I’m just glad it’s not us this time! After those canals, I think I could stand never to see a spade again!” commented Franklin with a grim chuckle. There was universal agreement on that, as each had vivid memories of one of their first duties when they had arrived before the city of Vicksburg. At the time, digging a canal to allow the Naval gunboats to bypass the enemy’s heavy riverside artillery seemed to make sense. By the end, plagued with malarial mosquitoes and back breaking work, the entire affair had been a nightmare -- which was abandoned without a shred of success. From the direction of the lines came an occasional snap of musket fire, but soon it would pass and conversations which had halted to listen would resume. How strange, though Knapp looking around at these men whom he thought of almost as relations, the give and take of this life. He was not a philosophical type by nature; Augustus Knapp rarely spent much time turning over events for hidden meaning. He thought of himself as a pragmatist, and had always done his best to meet life head on without a lot of fuss. Some seemed to think this equated to a stoutly courageous spirit, but he did not see himself so. Knapp simply accepted, and tried his best to stay calm and deal with what was what. Fear he knew, and many was the time Knapp had looked out across the deadly space to feel a weakness in his limbs and a dry mouth. He knew what it was to hesitate, and wish to be anywhere but where he was when the order came to advance. But at the end of the day, when it really came down to what mattered to him, he would remember what had to be done. He would think of Hastings’ fear (which was the worst kept secret in the mess) and feel a responsibility to his friend. In similar ways, he felt a need to do the same for the others too--if only to ensure that they never needed to be the first to take the step into that dread space before them. As the day wore on, and his friends debated the strategy of the diggings, Knapp found he was thankful for this day of rest. He was thankful for how fortunate he and those he knew had been so far in this adventure. He thought of his loved ones at home with a sudden surge of guilt, realizing he had not thought of them sooner. He cherished the thought of his family so far away from this place, but hoped at the same time that they did not find it so disturbingly easy to forget him as Knapp sometimes did them.

The next morning, news spread quickly along the company streets that a white flag had appeared from the enemy lines. Those who were new to this life may have allowed a glimmer of hope for surrender by the city, but Knapp suspected it would only signal a truce.

“An opportunity to collect up their dead” Knapp said as the mess sat chewing hard bread and coffee, “and sort their options that they might regroup.”

Killmartin, who had claimed for himself an expert status regarding the sap, shook his head. “Maybe Gus, but I’d wager them buggers is wantin’ a look about -- trying to figure better what our pioneers been up to!”

Franklin, ever the moderate voice within the mess, dunked his biscuit in his coffee and smiled. “I’d wager it’ll be both -- as allowing us the chance to recover our fallen would sweeten the deal.”

“Ensure them a chance at poking’ about to see our works!” said Killmartin, taking a deep swig of coffee. Knapp nodded and Anderson just grunted in agreement. It made sense of course, but it didn’t really matter. The siege would go on, and the only true hope Vicksburg had was a relief army showing up to threaten their flanks. This all might have happened long before now, had they not scattered the reinforcements so badly needed by General Pemberton at Raymond in early May and then again at the battle of Jackson. Those victories had forestalled relief being sent to Vicksburg, but everyone knew that General Johnston was out there reorganizing. This potential danger of an enemy relief force was debated again and again amongst the fireside enlisted generals, and promoted all manner of conversations for those with theories to advance. Some suggested that the danger of an enemy army showing up was a truly real and inevitable threat, given time. Others, that the losses for the enemy during the Big Black River campaign combined with those in the Eastern theatre made such a force unlikely. It was being suggested officially that the rebels were reeling, running out of materiel and recruits. While that might be so, thought Knapp to himself, this war was far from over. Sergeant Hilton wandered up the company street, calling out to them.

“Hey you lot, on your feet!” the sergeant said as he wiped his face with a kerchief. Hilton wasn’t a an old man, but this life had taken a toll on him. Living rough, and facing the daily machinations of army life did so to them all. Knapp wondered, looking at Hilton and seeing the changes in the man from when they first enlisted, if anyone at home would recognize them when they returned. The sergeant informed them they had been chosen to assist with the recovery of the dead, and encouraged them to find a rag to wear over their faces.

“Them boys there have been laying out for almost three days now, so they won’t be pretty,” Hilton added with a grimace as they ambled off to join the rest of second platoon for the detail. The next three hours were some of the least pleasant they had had in some time; a mix of sorrow for the dead and disgust over the state of their remains. Franklin watched Hastings closely; worried his friend’s nerves could ill afford such exposure. But Hastings was stalwart throughout, though he did not relish to the task. For all of them, the most immediate sense of discomfort had nothing at all to do with the assigned task, but was from the first unnerving footstep beyond the safety of their lines into the open space before the enemy fortifications. They had become used to thinking of this ground between the lines as certain death -- a place only to be entered in the desperation of a charge. Yet here they were, milling awkwardly near men who would soon return to their muskets and seek once more to kill them. Likely as not, some of these men in grey and butternut may well have been thinking the same thing about them. Such was war though, a constant challenge to logic and reason. For this moment, within arms length of the enemy, they could coexist and even assist one another because their task was seen as honorable. Franklin smiled at a scruffy bearded man in butternut when the other thanked him for helping to shift the stiff form of what had been a man unto the blanket they were using to carry the load away. I wonder how many times I may have taken aim at that man. Thought Franklin to himself, watching them move towards the rebel line. How many times might he have tried his best to shoot me from afar? How easy to ignore the humanity of your enemy when they are shapes in the distance; when the air hums with lead and the ground shakes with cannon fire. Hastings called to him, and Franklin returned to his work. He looked down at the blackened, bloated form Hastings was preparing to load and frowned. This was no longer a man, only the faintest shadow of the living, thinking, feeling being he had once been. They moved the body onto the planks they were using and hefted it up to carry it back towards the lines. Franklin grimaced at the smell, secretly comforted as they left the open to return to their trenches.

*****

Work had continued and progress had been made, but not without issue. The sap roller, the moveable shield which had served to cover the pioneers as they worked in the early stages of the digging, had been the focus of several attempts at destruction by the rebels. There had been many occasions where the enemy had succeeded in setting the wicker framing alight with heated shot, but the pioneers had always arrived in time to douse the flames. The night of the 9th of June, men along the lines were startled to see bright flames from near the sap. No one was sure how it had been affected, but somehow the roller had caught fire and soon engulfed completely. While there had been cheers from the 2nd Louisiana in the redoubt, the loss of the roller was ineffectual for the Federals. The sap had progressed far enough that the pioneers could do without it, though there was grumbling amongst the men detailed to clear away its wreckage. Brigadier-General Hickenlooper was in a good mood as he strolled with his staff doing inspection of the heavy guns which had been installed in a new fortified battery overlooking the section of the line near the sap. While the position of the guns was pleasing, it was the generous attachment of his own name to the battery which had truly inspired the general’s mood.

“Excellent position, I am very pleased gentlemen!” beamed Hickenlooper patting the breech of one of the large guns. Major Lipton, an astute judge of the general’s moods, stepped forward to deliver his report.

“General, Sir! When you have a moment, Colonel Hamlin has something he’d like to show you -- in regards to the issue of delivery of ordinance directly behind the enemy breastworks.”  Lipton saluted, and gestured to the general to accompany him. Managing a general felt much like dealing with his wife back home, though Major Lipton. The trick was to do your best to catch them in the right mood, and then always ensure that it felt to them that they were leading you when you were guiding them. Get it wrong and you’d hear about it -- loudly -- but get it right and life could be pretty pleasant. The general strode off in the lead, not sure where he was going until Major Lipton gently suggested where Colonel Hamlin could be found. Just below and to the rear of the battery, about 150 yards east in a scrubby field ending in a cane break they saw the colonel who waved to them. The general greeted the colonel, and was introduced to Captain Knox and a pair of enlisted artillerymen whom he largely ignored. General Hickenlooper returned their salutes, and his eyes fell upon a hollowed out log bound with a pair of iron bands mounted in a sand filled box. He frowned and shifted in place.

“Colonel, I am willing to be open minded, but I am not encouraged at first glance.” Hamlin returned a nervous smile, and looked to the captain and enlisted men in turn.

“General Hickenlooper, Sir, I know it may look a bit slap-dash, but I urge you to be patient. I have seen it tested, and it works. Captain Knox oversaw this project; I’ll allow him to explain.” The general turned on Knox, and the captain cheerfully took up the conversation.

“I cannot actually take full credit for this notion General, it was in fact the concept of privates Borland and Carter here. You see general, both men worked in a cooperage and so when the request for a mortar with the specific aspects--”

“Captain, I haven’t all day to discuss this.” Interrupted General Hickenlooper tersely. Knox looked stung, but apologized and resumed his report.

“Yes, Sir. As you know, we hadn’t any mortars capable of the requested use, so we have been creative. Borland and Carter reasoned that given wood with enough girth and flexibility, it would be possible to fashion a mortar from something like Gum wood. I have them permission to attempt it, and once reinforced with iron bands it worked supremely Sir.” General Hickenlooper stared at the captain a moment, and then squatted down to inspect the mortar. After some tense moments, he smiled.

“This, truly works then captain? The wood can handle the stress?”

“Yes General. Over time, the heat may begin to dry out the wood which could lead to splitting--but the gathered opinion is that as thick and green as the logs used are--such a failure would take a long while. Would you care for a demonstration?” The general stood, nodded and took several steps backward. Captain Knox motioned to the privates, who had been standing quietly all this time, and they made their way to gather powder and projectile from a caisson parked several feet away towards the line.

Major Lipton nudged Colonel Hamlin as they stood watching “Are you certain it won’t fail and simply kill the crew?” asked the major with a frown.

“It works, by God.” was the colonel’s only response. General Hickenlooper stepped closer to the wooden weapon, watching as Carter and Borland loaded the mortar and stood by for the order to fire.

“What is its effective range?” asked the general of no one in particular.

“About 50 yards general, and rarely beyond.” answered Carter strongly, showing clear pride in their creation. Hickenlooper grunted acceptance, talking directly to Carter at last.

“What is its weight, what’s it like to reposition?” Carter shook his head. “Lighter than she looks -- not any more troublesome than any Coehorn would be Sir.’

“So it’s easy enough then to move and reposition by a small crew?”

“Yes general, in a pinch two men could reposition but the standard four would have no trouble.” Seemingly satisfied, the general nodded. Carter and Borland placed an empty barrel within the weapons range, and then repositioned the piece to align with their target. Once they were satisfied, Borland fitted a short length of fuse into the touchhole and looked for permission to fire. Hickenlooper stepped back a pace, and nodded to them. Producing a Lucifer from his pocket, Borland lit the fuse with a hiss and he and Carter knelt to either side of the mortar. There was a sudden rushing sound as the charge caught and then a solid ‘wump’ as the mortar discharged in a cloud of smoke. The gathered men watched the relatively slow projectile rise, and then fall to imbed itself in the ground two feet to the left of the target. The general nodded, and turning to Carter and Borland shook each mans hand in turn.

“Well done gentlemen! Had that been a fused round that target would be splinters now! Excellent! It can take an explosive shell, yes?” Captain Knox stepped forward, nodding his head. “Yes general, six pound seems to be the best,” he answered as the general inspected the bore of the improvised mortar. Major Lipton sighed to himself, and smiled to Colonel Hamlin.

“I told you it works.” said Colonel Hamlin under his breath.

*****

June was beautiful back home, but in Mississippi and living in a trench opposite a determined enemy, it just didn’t feel the same. Franklin was lecturing anyone who would listen on the interesting new inspects he had come across, his zeal for the natural world proving infectious even with Killmartin -- who listened and then wanted to discuss the various species of louse he had removed from himself that morning. Overhead, the early June sky was clear and blue. Knapp made himself resume his regular observation across the divide to the enemy lines, even though he felt he couldn’t get quite enough of the richness of the sky above. Hastings wandered over and took a seat beside him with a tired grunt. Knapp smiled, turning to Hastings a moment before resuming his observation. As May had come to an end, there had been only sporadic attacks along the established lines -- but most of these felt half-hearted and uncommitted by the enemy. The Federals had used the time to expand on their holdings, all the while as the artillerists on either side seemed the only remaining committed combatants with their regular trading of shells. While the increasingly intense heat of the day was daunting, the positive effect was that the trenches began to fully dry out, and the rats -- which had started to prove a nuisance -- were seldom seen during the day. Hastings wiped his brow, and sighed heavily. Knapp poked him and chuckled.

“Starting to sound like an old man, Hastings!”

“You mean as old as you, Gus?” Hastings smiled.

Knapp chuckled. “We’re all old; this pleasure excursion we joined is making us so.”

“Well we ought to complain then, though I suppose it is for a good cause.” Hastings shrugged and leaned forward to retie the laces of his brogans.

“I suppose you are right. So, how was the sink? Has to be better than that old one -- near fell in last time I went!”

Hastings shook his head ruefully, perhaps imagining Knapp slipping into the horrors that the depths of an over-long used sink would hold. He sat up and nodded.

“It’s not bad. I think it was one of the Iowa companies that drew the detail, but from what I heard they got someone else to do the work. One of the nicer ones we’ve had though, I’d say.” Knapp smiled.

“Well, you know what that means then!”

“Of course! The siege will end abruptly and we’ll get marched off somewhere else less comfortable.” Hastings gave his friend a sardonic grin. Such was the nature of the soldier; if things got better there had to be something worse on the horizon. It was better that way perhaps, as it saved one from the up and down disappointment of army life -- or simply was the result of them. Knapp nodded, not truly one to believe in such a cause and effect surety of life, but practicing the communal rituals of soldier life all the same. He thought about all he would have to tell his wife about when he returned home, and then realized how little of it would make sense. You had to be there, he supposed, and live it everyday. Hastings poked him, and he realized he had not been listening.

“I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

Hastings gave him a cock-eyed grin. “What I said was--there is a new bunch of Minnesotians in camp. They started showing up a few days back but the fella I met at the sinks says the whole lot are in now.” Knapp was fully focused now, interested in the news.

“Who? Did this fellow know what regiment?”

Hastings nodded. “The Third, you know--them fellows that surrendered to old Forrest. Can you imagine that? Whole bunch taken prisoner, and by that dirty scoundrel Forrest too.” Hastings frowned, his own insecurities showing in his expression of overblown indignation. Knapp whistled and crossed his arms.

“From what I heard it was the officers that surrendered, and the men simply were bundled along against their will.”

“Their officers just gave up, and gave the men no choice? Seems to me the men could have chosen for themselves if it was against their notions.” Scowled Hastings as he worked to scratch some stubborn grim from his coat sleeve. Anderson wandered over and sat down beside them excitedly.

“You hear about the Third joining our division?!” He said, poking Hastings. Knapp nodded and stretched his stiff arms.

“Yeah, we were just talking about that. Hastings heard about it on his visit to the new sinks.” Anderson nodded and turned to Hastings.

“How were they Hasty?”

“Not bad, really pretty nice. They even sanded down the cross-logs, so there are no knots or splinters.” The three men smiled, and spoke briefly of a celebrated occasion when Killmartin had run afoul of some poor construction and required some very delicate assistance with a very large splinter. Hastings took a sip from his canteen and continued. “What do you think Anderson? Knapp says the Third’s officers surrendered on their own and the men were carried along against their will. I says it’s funny they just didn’t just fight on despite their officers. What do you say?”

Anderson looked thoughtful for a moment before answering. “I suppose if you want to consider it logically, it would depend on the situation. I mean did the officers sneak off and surrender when the battalion wasn’t surrounded but could have made a fight of it? Or, was the situation not so good to start with, and the officers surrendered realizing better what was coming than the men did?”

Hastings frowned. “Yes, but what is your opinion?”

“I was getting to that. From what I heard of the situation, they didn’t have a whole lot of choice in the end. True, their officers proved themselves gutless essentially, but then they all got sacked and new fellas have been brought in. Besides, some of them boys from the Third never got captured at all.”

“What’s that?” Interjected Knapp.

“One of their companies were on detached duty and missed the surrender. That lot kept fighting with the battalion they had been detached to until they were recalled to rejoin the rest of the regiment after their parole. I think it was C company, but I can’t be certain.” Anderson smiled, enjoying the rapt attention of the moment. Hasting shook his head.

“I wonder if there would be some tension between that lot and those that were captured?” mused Knapp.

“What I did hear is that they ended up fighting Indians back home. They picked up with Sibley, where our boys left off when they showed here. Not that it all matters I suppose, they’re stuck here now just like us.”

At that moment Killmartin shouted. “Something’s brewing!” Everyman moved to the breastwork, muskets brought up and were sighted. Killmartin pointed out to the center of the enemy line, as he called back for a sergeant.

“What the blazes am I looking for?” groused a man down the line. Anderson cocked his head towards Knapp.

“Do you see anything?” Knapp just shook his head and glanced to Killmartin who was waiting for Sergeant Hilton.

“Pat! What is it? We don’t see anything!” said Knapp in a loud whisper. Just as Killmartin was about to answer, Corporal Hoyt arrived wanting to know what the fuss was. Killmartin pointed out towards the center of the enemy line, every eye following trying to understand the nature of the alarm.
“Over there corporal, I saw one of them devils scrambling over like he was fixin’ at creeping out!” said Killmartin quietly. Hoyt stared hard for a moment, and then patted Killmartin’s shoulder.

“Well, I don’t see him now, but well done anyway. You men keep alert; if you see anything else sound the alarm. I’ll inform the sergeant.”  The corporal strode back down the line and vanished around the corner. As soon as he was gone, someone said loudly, “So what are we watching for exactly?”

“I saw ‘im I tell ye!” responded Killmartin defensively “Why don’t ye keep yer gob shut, an’ your eyes open?!”

“Yeah!? Come down here paddy and I’ll shut whatever I can fit my fist in!” shot back the voice from down the line. Killmartin grumbled loudly, but Franklin and Anderson kept him from seeking out the other man.

“Hey, Yanks!” came a voice from the enemy lines. Knapp and those on guard stood still, listening with some shock. “Yanks! Can you hear me over there?” Corporal Hoyt and Sergeant Hilton appeared around the bend of the trench about that time, halting near Killmartin with a serious look on their faces. Sergeant Hilton stepped forward past Franklin and Killmartin, and cupping his hand to his mouth shouted in return.

“Yes, we hear you!” There was silence for a few moments before the voice answered.

“Hey over there, sorry we gave you all a fright before! Louis had his hat blown over the wall here and scrambled after it without thinking. We ’aint coming, promise!”

There was a moment’s pause before suddenly the tension broke amongst the Federals and an explosion of laughter rippled through them. At first Corporal Hoyt shouted for calm, but Sergeant Hilton quieted and sent him back to his post. There was laughter from the enemy works as well, and several caps were thrust up into line of sight on the tips of ramrods. When they began to relax a bit, Hilton reminded them to stay alert but did not press the point. These men, sitting day after day facing their enemy; surviving boredom and the mad terror of the occasional attack or artillery barrage -- cold nights and scorching days -- needed release if they were to be kept from cracking. Sergeant Hilton smiled to himself and shook his head as laughter broke out once more behind him from the men. He chuckled to himself a moment, allowing for a little relief of his own tension before returning to the rigors of his duty.

*****

When word went around that the mail had arrived, a palatable sensation of excitement and anticipation could be felt in the air. The mail delivery was usually pretty good, provided they remained near their main supply lines. But for whatever reason it had been held up, so its arrival was an event. Anderson was pacing, eager for their relief to arrive so he could claim the newspapers he expected and the correspondence he hoped for.

“They’re taking their time getting up here!” grumbled Anderson kicking sand as he paced. Killmartin smirked. Knapp shook his head and called Anderson to come sit down before he wore holes in the soles of his brogans. As is the nature of such moments of impatience, as soon as Anderson sat down the relief arrived. Without another word, he shot to his feet and was on his way in pursuit of the post. When at last those relieved from the line had collected every precious letter, package and periodical due them by the dictates of postal fortune, the next calling was hot food. There were fewer pleasing pastimes for soldiers in the field that to be able to find a relaxing spot in the shade -- or at least with a breeze -- provided with hot food and something new to read. The novelty of newness never seemed to wear thin with them, the result of the many occasions of boredom and a voracious appetite for the distraction of print. Sprawled in the patchwork shade of a tall prickly shrub, Anderson kicked his feet lazily as he read aloud from the first of three back issues of Harpers Weekly. Killmartin lay upon his back nearby, covered in various crumbs and sound asleep. Franklin and Hastings sat poking through a package which Knapp had received from home, but shared with the mess.

“There’s still some of those sardines in here, do you mind if we have them?” asked Hastings as he fished a tin from the box and help it up for Knapp’s inspection. In response, Knapp shook his head and held up a mostly empty tin of his own.

“Not at all, I have had the lions-share of this one, and frankly I feel a little bilious. Help yourself, please. Besides, my wife said in her letter that this package was meant for all of us, and as such I am directed to share. I think I must have stressed too much in some past letter that we were starving or something for all the fuss she went to!”

Hastings smiled, and commenced to open the sardine tin, Franklin laughed at Knapp. “Why worry what your wife says Gus? She’d never know if you shared or not!”

Knapp just shook his head seriously. “She’d know, somehow that woman would know.” He smiled broadly and sighed. “I never could get away with anything around my wife.”

Anderson cleared his throat, and frowned. “You lot want to hear the foreign bureau reports, or not?”

Knapp looked chaste. “What sort of news is it?”

“Political strife” answered Anderson pausing as he read ahead “war on the horizon over some border dispute.”

“We gots enough of such ‘tings ere’ to be hearin’ more!” added Killmartin without opening his eyes and thoroughly surprising the mess, who thought him asleep. Anderson shrugged and resumed reading to himself. Hastings just smiled and hummed happily to himself as he sucked a sardine greedily into his mouth, offering the tin to Franklin.

“I think I’ve had enough.” said Franklin, shaking his head and patting his belly. Hastings shrugged and carried the remains to share with Anderson, while Franklin lay back and decided at last to attend to his own letters. He chose one at random, done in what appeared to be his sister’s hand -- though it could have been his mother’s. He opened the envelope with a gentle motion, feeling the true contentment of a full belly and the relative ease of relief in the rear of the lines. He unfolded the letter within, noting the date as having been nearly three and a half weeks previous. He allowed his mind to wonder briefly where a letter might languish for so long between posting and delivery, before returning back to reading. Within three lines he felt the care-free sensation crumble -- a sick sensation in his guts rising to replace it. Franklin reread the lines again, and then continued through the whole letter. The words of those lines stuck fast and refused to be ignored.

‘Father, having struggled some time with this illness, passed in the night…..’

His father had died three and a half weeks previously, and he hadn’t known. He had sent letters home during this time, directing thoughts and questions to his father about the siege here in Vicksburg. He had written home, directing words to a man who had been dead a week already when he had inscribed them to paper. The letter felt suddenly heavy in his hand, so that he set it into his lap. His father, a man whom he had often in recent years quarreled with over his choices in life and desires for vocation, had died after a long bout of illness. He would never have the chance now to find peace with his father, and that thought was finally what shattered his ability to hold himself together. Franklin stood, and ignoring Hastings calls for where he was going, wandered away with the letter clutched firmly in his fist. His father was dead -- had been dead for over a month, and there was nothing he could do about it. He thought of his mother, sisters and young brother who had lived with this knowledge for so long already. His brother could at least keep the farm with his sister’s help, but Franklin worried most for his mother who had never been an extraordinarily strong woman. He felt a rage at finding out so late, and guilt that it had taken so long. He hated the sensation of helplessness, and with a sudden awful awareness he felt physically for the first time the true distance he was from his family -- home -- and the life he had left behind. Looking about, Franklin realized that he had wandered near to the lines again, some ways north of his own battalion. In the short distance before him he could see the oddly intact plantation house which soldiers rather unimaginatively called “The White House”, and one of their batteries facing the enemy. Opening the letter, he read it straight through once more, tears welling up in his eyes at long last. He watched as a glittering tear fell slowly to vanish into the wool of his coat, feeling a rising frantic longing to be home. But before the second tear was to follow it, he was aware of another sound which his body knew and demanded action. With a suddenness that rolled over the Federal lines sparking wildfires of momentary terror, the rebel redoubt’s guns opened up in sheets of white hot aggression. Before he knew he was doing so, Franklin threw himself to the ground and rolled just as a screaming shell savaged the ground close by. He crawled away as pebbles and clods of soil pelted him, his only thought to seek the trench lines where he might find cover. Everywhere shells screamed like mad demons bent upon the ending of the world; horses shied and men shouted as they dashed for safety. Franklin could see the trenches not far from where the sap was located, and started that way as a sudden geyser of dirt erupted ahead of him as a shell exploded. He rose up, charging headlong towards the safety of the line, eyes squinting against the dust which rained down upon him. As he closed the space to his goal, the whine of a shell tore the air with violence. The explosion lifted and tossed him forward like feather in a hurricane, all sound muted as the sky rained stones and dirt. Amidst the dust and debris, the pages of a letter floated haphazardly to the floor of the Federal trenches. The guns of the battery Hickenlooper awoke at last, silencing the enemy salvo with equal ferocity. As the smoke cleared, there was silence again as each side tended to the wounded and cautiously resumed their places within the trenches of Gibraltar.

Overhead, a snowy egret flew in a sea of blue sky, seeking escape to the peace of a still pond.