Welcome to Fifth Minnesota Fiction!

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

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

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

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

A. Wade Jones





Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Mending Fences

She didn’t understand, and if he was honest with himself he almost didn’t care. No, that wasn’t quite true--he did care, but knew there was no way he could possibly have begun to explain his reasons for going back--at least not in any way that would make sense to Alice. As he ruminated over those reasons, he both realized that he wasn’t wholly sure he understood entirely either and that if he was ever going to get the kitchen garden fence mended he needed to focus on the task at hand. He shook the thumb which ached from the misplaced blow of the hammer, and stuck it into his mouth. The mingling taste of sweat--blood--and dirt reminded him of other places and experiences best left to lie as they were. He sat down upon a nearby stump and examined his wounds.

“You want Henry to come out and help you George?” called Alice from the house where he suspected she had been watching him.

“No Alice,” George said shaking his head. “I can handle the fence.” He wanted to do this himself--partially because he knew he could and part because he felt enough like a stranger here after being away for two years as it was. Henry, who was a robust and strong boy of seven, remembered his father certainly--but he was hardly the boy of five he had been when George had marched away with the 5th. George had left a shy and fairly quiet little boy that winter of 1862;  he had come home to a grown, adventurous and gregarious joke- and riddle-telling young man. George found it very hard to relate to Henry, and though he didn’t consciously try to avoid the boy, he found extended time with him alone only served to remind just how much had changed in the time he had been away at war. Resuming his work on the fence, George replaced the board that Alice had said the rabbits had been gnawing, and hammered the nails in place. He found himself wondering how so many boards had become loose on the fence to begin with, but put it from his mind since the work had to be done regardless. He went to his bucket of stones that Henry had collected for him and selected a good one to work down along the fence line to discourage critters trying to burrow under, and came up from his labor to Henry sitting watching him from the stump. He considered this boy, who had once been the little child he knew, for a moment before resuming his work.

“You’re quiet on your feet Henry--I’m impressed.” George said with genuine feelings of pride and a gentle pang of unease at the surprise.

“Was you that taught me, Pa--hunting after ruffed grouse with Uncle Charlie,” smiled the boy.

“You were so small then--,” said George with a smile as the memories came flooding back. It was the October before their world turned upside-down, and Alice had pressed four year old Henry on him so she might better tend to their daughters Lucy and Harriet. Ever the pair for trouble, the girls (seven and eleven respectively) had somehow disturbed a nest of hornets in the barn and been stung several times each. They would be fine, but were in need of some days rest. George looked at Henry, who climbed from his stump and proceeded to hand him another stone. Thinking of his girls brought a cold stone of feelings deep within him back to his awareness, for it was that December that both girls would catch a fever and pass on. He felt the feelings well up within him a moment, and succeeded in stuffing them back down by spending a little more time than need be in placing the stone.

“I remember that Uncle Charlie came up with a good use for me that day,” said Henry, taking up a board and passing it on to his father as he simply inserted himself into the chore of mending the fence. George smiled, and laughed. At first little Henry had cost them a pair of birds by simply being a typical four year old boy out on an adventure--but soon his Uncle had set him to flushing the birds for them on purpose.George shook his head as Henry held the cast off plank of scrap lumber in place so he could fix it.

“Yes, well, it’s a good thing for both of us that your mother never found out about that--or we’d damn well have hell to pay!” responded George with a chuckle, before realizing that his son was staring at him with an expression of horror and bemusement in equal parts.

“What?” George asked, oblivious.

“You cuss pretty good now Pa--I’m impressed!”

George frowned and shook his head. Embarrassed by the slip, he simply pushed on with the fence. Silence fell between them for a few moments before Henry suddenly started to giggle.

“The look on your face just then Pa--when you realized what you said. I got to thinking about how Mother would wash out your mouth if she heard you and it struck me as funny.” George smiled at his son, thinking about how much he reminded him of his own brother, Charlie.

“Soldiering changes a man Henry. I’ve had to watch my words sometimes since I’ve been home--but I’m glad that they tickled you so.”

When they had nearly finished their work, the pair sat back against the fence for a rest. Alice came along with something to drink for them both, and departed with a look of supreme satisfaction upon her face. George watched her go, and wondered sharply if he was doing right by her. His thoughts were interrupted by the touch of Henry’s finger on his right forearm, as he traced a long scar just visible where his shirt sleeves had been rolled up.

“What’s it like Pa?” the boy asked without looking up from the scar on his arm. “What’s the war like?”

“It’s not easy to explain, Henry.” Alice had asked him the same question when he had laid beside her that first night he had been home, in the bed where their children had been conceived and brought into the world. She had asked hesitantly, in a place that smelled of home--and a life which had begun to feel like a work of fiction he had simply invented to survive being a soldier. Yet that, too, was not the whole story he realized, as he thought of the men who lived and sometimes had died shoulder to shoulder with him. Henry was looking him in the eye, the intensity of a seven year old boy’s need to understand clear in his face. He needed to know the man who had once been his father but who had changed, since last they sat side by side. George swallowed hard, and took a breath; he realized for the first time that his son faced the same uncertainty that he himself had, when face-to-face with the man who had marched away two years before.

His voice cracked a little. “It’s scary sometimes Henry, I won’t lie to you.”

“Uncle Charlie used to make it sound like an adventure in his letters, remember, Pa?” George nodded, and smiled as he thought of his brother. Charlie had joined right off with the first call, but had encouraged him to stay with his family. George still recalled vividly how splendid Charlie looked, even if the battalion didn’t have the Union blue when they first marched away. He survived Bull Run, and indeed his every letter made the entire experience of being a soldier sound glamorous. He was killed at Antietam, not long before George joined himself--perhaps that had been the reason. Henry licked his lips, and the tenacity of his mother showed clearly in his drive to have the truth from his father. “It’s not an adventure though, truly, is it Pa?”

“It’s not, Henry. I think Uncle Charlie used to write what he did to spare us from the truth of his experiences.”

“Still,” added Henry poking his father gently in the side, “It can’t be all bad--you cuss real well now!” George laughed, and made Henry promise he wouldn’t tell his mother about that. The boy promised that he wouldn’t, and George took him at his word.

They talked in quiet tones, and George fed the curiosity of his son’s need to understand this other part of his father--but he always held back more than he told. Some things George simply did not wish to relive by speaking of them; others he thought would be impossible to even begin to put into words. They resumed their work, speaking on in quiet tones, and by early evening the kitchen garden fence had been mended--and George Scarrow no longer looked at his son and saw a stranger. They gathered up the tools and Henry helped his father store them away in the granary. Alice was calling them to supper, when Henry stopped his father and hugged him fiercely. For a moment George simply stood there as his son embraced him, but at last he wrapped his arms about the boy in return. After a moment Henry let loose and stepped away, but smiled and looked back at him.

“I understand why you are going back Pa--at least I think I do.”

George blinked, and studied his son a moment. “You do?”

Henry nodded with a serious look in his eye and then smiled before heading to the house for supper. George watched his son for a moment before following after him quietly. He ran his rough finger-tips along the fence as he made his way to the house, the scent of dinner beckoning him with a fragrance that made his belly growl. He caught sight of Alice through the window, and felt his heart skip a beat. When he came into the house, he took her into his arms and kissed her. Into her ear he whispered how beautiful she was, and how fortunate he was to be so blessed with a woman of such strength and grace. They spent that meal together in warm smiles and loving words-- and later standing together on the little hill where Lucy and Harriet lay looking over the small farm that had been their home.

*****

He could hear the bats in the eaves of the house chirping as the furry creatures roused themselves to hunt insects by starlight, and the sound was bitter-sweet. He knew that he had two weeks left of his furlough before he would have to head back to Snelling to sign his new enlistment papers. How long would he be away this time? Would this war ever come to an end? He had to go back, he owed it to Sully, Potter and the rest. He knew none of the others would fail to re-enlist so there was really no question of what he must do as well.

“Having trouble sleeping, George?” said Alice quietly beside him in the darkness.

“Thinking. Did I wake you?”

“No. I was just thinking about today. I don’t want you to go back--”

“Alice, we’ve been through this--”

“But I accept that you feel you must--” she interjected, “--so I will be strong, and not stand in your way.”

He reached out and took her hand in his own, and brought it to his lips. She rolled over to look him in the eye, the moonlight falling gently across her face. For a moment his heart was close to overflowing as he looked at her--this woman who had given so much for him. She had given birth to four beautiful children, only to lose the first at birth and two more of sickness. She had stood strong and cared for both the farm and their remaining child during his absence, and was prepared to do so again. He kissed her gently on the lips, and whispered his love as frankly as ever he had spoken in his life. She held his face in her hands, her blue eyes searching his.

“I have a confession George--I broke out the planks on the kitchen garden fence.” He blinked twice, seeing the real guilt on her face and started to laugh. She looked surprised a moment before playfully smacking him and telling him to be quiet. When he had found his composure he asked why she had felt the need to do such a thing. “I could see you and Henry needed something to do together, so that you might start talking.”

He smiled. “Well, you were right.”

“The pair of you are as alike as peas in a pod--”

“Thank you Alice.” She stopped as he spoke, and smiled triumphantly. She kissed him then and they snuggled close together. The moonlight shone down through the window, as the bats took wing from the eves of the house. In his portion of the loft, Henry smiled to himself and rolled to his side under the quilt.

Friday, July 6, 2012

Across a Short and Deadly Space

The sky overhead was blue, and the wind blew through the trees with the same rustle that it had before--yet Private James Simmons felt that they were different somehow. No. No that wasn’t quite right. The sky, the wind in the trees was the same--he was different. Stearns would simply tell him he was thinking too much, but Simmons thought that Stearns didn’t think enough sometimes. The blur of a mortar shell soared in an arc overhead suddenly, trailing smoke that told Simmons that this was an explosive shell. He ducked down and the shell came to earth some distance behind with a heavy thump, scattering brown and red soil over the huddled men in the trench. Henderson spat, having caught some dirt. Someone commented as he sputtered that he wouldn’t have eaten dirt if he didn’t feel the need to talk all the time. Henderson proceeded to complain loudly that he talked less than Anderson, to which Anderson simply shook his head and said nothing. Patrick Sterling, an aspiring author and writer for a small newspaper back home, would have pointed out the irony of the situation but the next explosive shell was closer and that silenced all conversation. Ears ringing, Simmons brushed the dirt from his shoulders and slowly uncurled in the trench. Stearns simply popped up like a sapling springing back after being held down, looking about in curiosity for what damage had been done.

“HA! You damn fools can’t hit nothin’!” Shouted Stearns across the field to where the enemy they had been engaged with for the last three days was entrenched. Corporal Brooks yelled for him to quit his noise, but Stearns--as usual--went right on. “You just wait ‘till we get over there, you are in for a serious thrashin’!” The only answer was a musket shot which splintered into one of the logs that had been thrown up over their positions as cover. While it was wide of Stearns, it made him duck back all the same and laughter drifted over from the enemy lines. Stearns swore a blue streak and was readying his Springfield to fire back, but Sergeant Hedley arrived with Corporal Brooks in tow and put a stop to that. The sergeant departed, but Brooks stared hard at Stearns for several moments before leaving. Simmons shook his head. Henderson frowned.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Stearns? You tryin’ to get shot through or somethin’? Or maybe you jus’ want to bring the hard case out of the corporal an’ see why men don’t cross Brooks?”

“Go eat some more dirt Henderson--keep out of my business!” shot back Stearns, but Henderson was a blacksmith by trade, and the large man soon pinned Stearns against the trench wall with the ease he would button his shirt.

“Dirt is it? You’ve no cause to speak so to me like that!” Simmons did his best to calm the situation, Anderson and Sterling stepping in as well as other men looked on. When at last Stearns was extricated from the meaty paws of Henderson, Simmons pushed his friend off along the trench, and settled him away a distance. Simmons waved in response to the hail of several he knew--Husby, Jones and Cox--and sat across from Stearns. All around them men were watchful but relaxed; they had become accustomed to the routine over the last three days. Second Platoon had been detailed to reconnoiter forward on the left oblique of the column, something they had done dozens of times before in their position as one of the first companies in line--but never before had they run into a situation like this. Less than a full day from the Army, they had run into a mixed group of rebels who had been halted for rest in the woods and taken them completely unawares. While the first few minutes had seen panic on the rebel side, they had reformed themselves in order and drew back some way through the woods to take position on a low but steep hill--a move that both saved and trapped them. The hill drew up against the fast running Fisher River, and beyond the soggy Campbell Swamps. The men had wanted to charge on, and give the rebels cold steel--but 2nd Lieutenant Bergdale had resisted. As the men hunkered down in the edge of the treeline, the lieutenant studied the enemy position through his field glasses and conferred with Sergeants Hedley and Cross. Meanwhile, the men grumbled as the enemy set to preparing for defense with what they had on hand. Some pointed out that the rebels had mortars, higher ground and  more men--and that waiting was dangerous folly. The sergeants pointed this out as well, but still they waited. When the men began to think they would never move, the call came to advance. Of course at this point the rebels had the low steep hill, and open ground before them. Hedley had argued loudly enough with the Lieutenant of the folly of trying to assault the enemy under the conditions that had been allowed to ferment. He was ignored, and the platoon was formed for the attack. They moved forward under fire, fortune alone protecting them from serious injury. Three times the Lieutenant tried the hill, until at last they had retreated back to the treeline and been given the command to dig in and prepare for defense. Lieutenant Bergadale had apologized to the platoon for their failure as a group when their trench had been prepared, but bad feelings remained. They had been very fortunate that the worst injury they had taken proved to be a few head and shoulder wounds--none of them serious--but the wound to their pride hurt the worst. When they had settled into their trench, the laughter and jeering from the enemy could hardly be ignored. Three days they had traded musketry with the enemy, and ducked the occasional mortar round which was slowly blasting apart the trees behind them. Simmons shook his head and sighed as he looked at his friend.

“You know better than to pick fights with Henderson.” Stearns frowned and laid his head back against the wall of the trench behind him.

“Don’t start mother, I have heard this before.” Simmons kicked Stearns brogan, resisting the urge to grab and shake him.

“Only because you never listen, damn you! You keep this up, and you’ll catch a bullet--do you want to end up in some field hospital waiting for one of them butcher’s apprentices to lessen you a leg or an arm? Hell, that’s the best you can expect if you end up in such straights!”

“Yes mother. I’m tired is all, you understand James? I’m tired.” Simmons nodded and took a pull from his canteen. He offered it to his friend, and Stearns took it with a nod. Simmons understood, but he wondered if Stearns meant that he was tired physically or simply of this situation--perhaps both. Henderson appeared behind them, a smirk on his face.

“We shouldn’t fight--,” the large man said holding out a hand to Stearns, --”Not least-wise when we share a tent. Sterling is all worried we’ll be throwing punches in our sleep when we get back to camp, and him bein’ in the middle he’s worried he’ll take the brunt of our aggression.” Simmons looked at Stearns to see if this peace offering might be the end of their squabble and was rewarded with a bright smile. Stearns took the offered hand and they laughed, bringing a sudden end to the tension. Together they made their way back to their places along the trench.

*****

The next morning, a rider arrived from the column and delivered a message to the Lieutenant’s bivouac. Though no one but the Lieutenant and the sergeants were privy to what the message contained, the men had developed a second sense towards the intentions of their officers and so a grim preparedness fell over their line. The day was bright, it was not quite yet eight, so the humidity was beginning to prick their awareness but had yet to truly manifest itself as they all knew it would. The clouds were long and wispy in the sky, reminding Simmons of cheesecloth.

“We’re going over, I am certain,” said Sterling, the energetic little man brushing his mop of hair back from his eyes.

“All signs do seem to suggest mischief brewing--yer right in that sure an’ certain,” Anderson commented, his blue eyes flicking to Sterling a moment before we resumed working the vent pick into the nipple of his musket. Simmons and Stearns checked one another’s cartridge boxes, reseating the charges within to ensure that they did not tangle or fall down beyond the reach of fingers in the thick of it. Henderson sat nearby, quietly twisting the wedding ring upon his thick finger.

“Ought to have had this done and over days ago!” commented Arnold who was sitting near Henderson. “Going over now is gonna be Hell--if you’ll excuse the phrase.”

“My wife was here she’d be cross about now! Madder than a wet hen!” laughed Theodore Bardwell. His brother Tracy sniggered loudly, and nodded. “Never seen a woman more proper with phrases--you better watch your mouth when we get out of this, Ted!”

“My wife never understands this whole affair--just wants me to come home,” said Henderson twisting his ring. “I can’t make her understand--I still love my country.” Simmons thought about that, and realized fully how he felt different. Looking about at these men, he knew why he was here. He had joined with patriotic fervor, eager to march away a soldier after being stopped by his mother when the first call had come. He wasn’t going to miss his chance to find adventure, and protect his country from the traitorous ‘Southern Rebellion’. It had been a rude awakening when he discovered what truly awaited him. He supposed that was true of all wars, throughout history.

“HA! Not my wife!” William Clark was saying from where we was checking the hasp on his bayonet. “I think my wife would sooner hear of my death than my dishonor by running or coming home before this thing is finished.” There were some grim chuckles, and Arnold suggested they ought to let Clark’s wife fight the rebs, which brought some genuine laughter. Simmons patted Stearns on the shoulder and pronounced his box ready before securing the flap closed. He looked about at these men, some of whom he knew in passing but others that had been complete strangers before the war, and smiled to himself. He was different. He had come to this fight wanting to find glory, find adventure--and all for himself. Now, he wanted to survive. Was the cause that he fought for any less important to him? Perhaps some, but perhaps a better way to describe it was that his cause had become mingled with a need to ensure that these men survived as well. He fought for them, even those he didn’t like all that much--and they did the same for him. Simmons knew in his bones that they would charge the hill today. He knew as any soldier comes to know what is coming; a raw and primal awareness of the world around you which only the snap-hiss of a bullet passing within inches of your immortality can endow. Stearns tapped him on the shoulder and pronounced his cartridge box in good order. Sergeant Hedley was shouting at them to load, and all at once all were alive with activity. Ramrods clanked as bullets were seated home upon their powder charges and hammers were cocked back to allow the positioning of percussion caps. The rebels knew what was coming as well, fellow soldiers who lived much the same lives as their own. A bullet hissed overhead, and everyone ducked. Soon they would become deaf to such sounds, and a madness would overtake them which would allow them to do their bloody work. How funny, Simmons thought for a moment as the call came to fix bayonets, that the men they were going to fight knew better than anyone what they felt in this moment. The drum rolled, and lines formed as the engagement began. The air grew thick with the bitter tang of musketry, but the sky overhead was blue, and the wind blew through the trees with the same rustle that it had before as Private James Simmons charged with his brothers across a short and deadly space.